Firefly to the north, lightning bug to the south
By whatever name, a June delight
Neither flies nor true bugs
Beetles, really
Bioluminescent beetles
Latin, Lampyridae from the Greek, lampein
To shine
And they do
Shine
A light
made possible by the mixing Of oxygen and luciferin
Flashing is their love language
Each species with its own rhythm
Beating out Come hither lover
Come hither
dusty feet beneath
hold a branch within stone’s throw
of sanctuary.
here to help me pass
not far now from willow salve
of your blank eyes low.
red lips melt the snow
silver daggers- rime tipped row
of her blushing know.
Sediment settles near the river’s end
building up, water slushes over.
Slowly people begin to set up and notice.
if, ever, in a quiet place
(quiet as the moon is quiet),
so dark and still,
–wide eyes, unseeing–
you ask the one question
we try to forget
and listen, as though an answer might actually come–
slamming into the earth
like an errant meteor–
in that very moment
you will remember me
I was there, too,
once upon a time–
offering a smile to a wolf,
who smiled back,
after a fashion
carrying old books,
musty and torn,
stacked in order,
large to small,
the little green one
–your favorite–
falling from the stack,
landing silently in the grass
just off the rugged path
you may hear voices
crossing over the glassy plain, but
understand who speaks
and who
does not
the question goes unanswered,
as it should be
the great black hole
at the center of our Milky Way turns,
closer and further,
just as you come and go
from me
Road Trip in a Honda with a Stuck Door
After Nazim Hikmet
Raul steers the old Honda
from Nashville to San Antonio.
We’re rolling by sign after sign
I’m sipping Nehi Grape, radio
high as it can go. I’m in
the passenger’s seat— half
thoughts, quick illuminated
daydreams, 20-minute roadside
jaunts. Which one?
Lynette’s Drive-in, home
of the quarter pound chili
dog—5 miles, exit 44
at Brownsville or Stuckey’s,
flavored popcorn, pecan log rolls
& fill ‘r up—15 miles, East Memphis
off-ramp. My mangled door
is stuck in lock mode but suddenly, I love
this! He maneuvers around
the grille & headlights, treats me
nice, like the prom date I never had
& prys it open with a screwdriver. I didn’t
want to go anyway; prom was for jocks, pep
clubbers & pom pomers. Oh how I loved
the 70s. I lie to my mom, say I’m going
to an overnight at Marsha Jean’s
& snake into the city on an express
line with my scraggly pod
of misfits—wearing fringe & hand
embroidered rainbows & peace
signs. We found an R
rated movie house that looked
the other way & in Jackson
Park I tongue kissed Willie, coiling
for an hour under a green
tartan blanket snagged
from Goodwill. I loved the taste
of rebellion & getting past first
base but now I’m past late stage
middle age & I have the wisdom
to see the need for frivolity
& rituals. Thirty years
later I changed my mind, a prom
date could have been nice. I would
have loved to dance with my arms
scizzoring the rose-lit
gymnasium air like sea
gulls to Psychedelic Shack. I’d wear
a pale yellow gardenia corsage & a long
strapless sheath my mother
would have conceived using her Singer
silk. It’s her sewing that yanks
my heart now. Mama, I’m sorry
I was so snotty. In a reverie
her hands begin to wrinkle & I fall
in love with her long scarlet
nails, perfectly
filed, though they are permanently
gone from sight. Can I make up for lost
or wasted time? Regardless, we should throw
proms for 60 year-olds, even older. If you’re listening
Mama—from Exit 44 or from Lynette’s
where you’re loving the split pea
soup with ham, buttering a biscuit—I forgive
you for the whiskey & I call our love whole.
Now Raul & I are on the Arkansas
side of Interstate 40, signs for Little
Rock & Texarkana popping up. We veer
off the I-40 to the back
roads. Oh how I love this! I didn’t
realize how much I needed to go
off course. We look for Johnny
Cash’s childhood home in Dyess, fish
for smallmouth bass in the Ozarks & I amble
my way to more forgiveness. I look up to grey
blue where like a rune like a pale
moon summons. A cumulonimbus swells.
Potatoes anchor territory,
hillypilly in the lighttight dark
Potatoes eschew reward,
hillypilly in the lighttight dark
Potatoes mix under gypsum-tremble rake,
hillypilly in the lighttight dark
Potatoes ascend and descend,
hillypilly in the lighttight dark
Some of you potatoes have modified dna,
somesame overnumerous nervousness
somesame overnumerous nervousness
somesame overnumerous nervousness
I like to see potatoes at their odd fullheight,
hillypilly in the lighttight dark
Memory’s
a mad curve-ball –
stitching off the fingers –
its lightning, sticky, lingers
We’re all bunting dingers
into these fields of play,
then rounding home –
or remembering the trying –
as if there’s any other way
#smallpoems
inspired by a roll of Taylor Mali’s Metaphor Dice
I keep with me a journal,
Nothing fancy,
Nothing special,
It serves as a safe place,
Away from judgemental and prying eyes,
In it I process my emotions,
Vent about ongoing events,
And catalogue my history,
It’s nothing much now,
Only a hundred pages or so,
Telling a small sliver of my life’s story,
Over time it’ll continue to grow,
Telling more and more of my story,
I look forward to the day my future self reads that journal,
Allowing me to peer into my distant past,
And seeing how far I have come
Masks are coming down
and people I’ve known for a year
look different now.
It was nice to know people by their eyes,
winking, crowfoot eyes, puffy eyes,
sad eyes, flashing, daring eyes.
And now the nose, self righteous
in its immobile ways, like a tent,
flaring with disgust, or with injustice,
on a hillside to be studied, or ignored,
a statue waiting to be judged.
Lips and teeth and smile?
I don’t want to show my mouth and teeth,
broken and crooked from poverty.
What if they were private,
like Victorian knees and ankles?
We could hide our mouths forever,
learn to speak through decorated cloth
like kites charging through the sky.
Dang these people anyway.
I know you think you’re cute,
all nose and eyes, and teeth,
but the pandemic isn’t over yet.
Put your masks back on.
