Streams of ragged serfs
surfing slabs of stone
towards the center stage
Overseers strike dissent
severing conspirators’ desires
in nodding reverence to Lord Mordred
Daedalus wears chains
altering intended planar spaces
on worn pages of his master blueprint
Carriages carry in enemies of the state
carrion overhead canvases tomorrow’s cornucopias
with feral foresters funneled in too
Let’s see those Saxon bastards after
our myopia as if we’d withstand
more cultural “attunement”
a.
Where are you
Did I let you go
Far off into the wind
Just to let you blow
As smoothly as the sails of a ship adrift
Fading away…
Like the light in your eyes
Your face so calm As smooth as stone
The room feels colder
As you depart
Leaving to me the memories
At heart
And I will be
As I have always been
Standing far away
Watching
Lost
Broken
Alone
When the car stops
in the field, I open
the door and get out.
There are no shoes
on my feet and the grass
is cold. I walk a ways,
knees brushing blades,
until I reach an American
Chestnut growing overhead.
The light winks down
at me through leaves
shifting in the wind.
Old friend
I say, palms pressed
to bark, chin raised.
It laughs and watches
as I slip down onto
knees at its base.
There is blue grass
and I pull it free
and braid it round
my wrists. I wriggle
my fingers into the dirt
until my nails are black.
I lift a handful,
crumbling and damp,
to my mouth and chew.
Clods and mycorrhizae
break between my teeth.
Minerals and organic matter
slide over my tongue.
Roots and richness
settle in my stomach.
I eat and eat and eat
until I can eat no more.
I look to the tree, mouth
smeared with soil
and send a single thread
down the roots that connect us
that twine around my legs.
See, we are the same
you and I
and I have missed you
The clouds may cover the stars but
Dear, they’re still there
They shine behind the darkness
Fight their way through
just to let you know,
You are not alone
Your shine will be dimmed by souls,
But never gone
It will be beaten, bruised, thrown away
But it is there, shining behind the clouds
The workshop writers are into dissection.
Eager surgeons, they cut and hack the body
of my poem without offering anesthesia.
Helmet-lit miners, they pickaxe verse
searching for gold nuggets,
the tabletop strewn with flesh and scree.
I remember a country porch and a garden view
where I sat with a yellow lined pad.
At the feeder, phoebes and blue jays scattered
sunflower seeds and millet onto my pages.
Groundhogs snuffled among my words
while the dog barked his point of view.
Deer snorts echoed through the lead of my pencil.
Sometimes the sun flickered ideas between the lines.
Now the workshop group is driving
my poem through the carwash,
brushing and soaping and waxing.
Trash collectors, they rake the leavings
and roll their bins out to the curb.
I wish they had given me a doggie bag instead
so I could nibble on the trimmings,
later, when my heart gets hungry.
By moonlight, I could gnaw the fatty bones.
This king-size bed is barely big enough to hold all our memories.
Beautiful brown walnut speaks of our commitment,
and it did give us a daughter and a son.
It cuddled us all while reading,
including the dog.
When the power went off in the ice storm,
this bed sheltered us together, keeping us warm.
King-size love was offered to us when the house seemed cold after the children left home.
Then we three, the two of us and this bed,
huddled together to keep the worries out and the love in.
After you were diagnosed, the bed became your close companion,
although it did not need to be so big anymore.
We sank down into that bed until you were gone.
Leaving the bed and me to grieve, and whisper hope for tomorrow.
Oh Facebook Group! My warning please take heed,
A man (I think) with height and weight and hair,
Was, down the walk, strolling with mod’rate speed.
Hold tight your purse, and with your life take care!
“Perhaps,” you say “A neighbor on his way,
To town, happily minding his bus’ness?
Or the mailman, say, daily comes this way.
Oh no, there is nothing here to witness.”
You Fool! This criminal’s on cam’ra, caught!
Nests and Rings see only the suspicious;
Gray shorts, blue shirt, he scopes out ev’ry house.
Those boots! That bag! Why dress so auspicious?
One quick phone call – the cops are on their way!
Oh can’t you see, that I have saved the day?
“I write, erase, rewrite / Erase again, and then / a poppy blooms.” – Katsushika Hokusai
I mow the backyard,
lulled by white noise. My mower
shreds my poor poppy.
My pharmacist turned
my poppies to pills my doctor
counts every month.
I keep a poppy
for a pet. I’m addicted
to my puppy.
I hate the poems I
write so I erase, rewrite,
and smoke opium.
Blooms named Leopold,
Harold, and Allan — the books
oh, so addictive.
Write, erase, rewrite,
Katsushika Hokusai,
again, and then, bloom.
No matter what you do
the song I sing for you
remains the same, partially
out of habit, partially
out of spite, but mostly
out of relevance, because
it’s not just the song that
remains the same but you,
encased in amber,
allowing life to entomb and
transform you into an artifact.
Maybe you did change
after all, maybe I’m the fool
on the other side of the glass
stagnant, expecting something
different, when the sign
above clearly reads,
“Visting hours are over.”
