Dacarbazine: A toxic, light sensitive powder
Pair with…
Uliginus: growing in swamps or muddy places
Season with…
Macrodontia: the condition of having abnormally large teeth
Carried in a…
Kago: a small basketwork palanquin strung from a pole each end of which rests on the shoulder of a bearer
Lovely new little bomblets
because dictionaries exist
& meanings change faster
than I can read.
The fence, overtaken,
ornamentals gone wild,
remnants of seeds
eaten by birds,
nuts stored by squirrels,
forgotten. Each year
I put up a good fight,
pull, prune and lop
but every year the enemy
is back, bigger and badder,
hanging tight with twisted
tentacles, choking
the chain link, laughing
at my feeble atempts
at control.
I hate to resort to chemical warfare
but maybe it’s time
for an old-fashioned round-up.
mayonnaise
Fields of Golden Trumpets
Herald the coming of spring
Yellow buds brave the cool winter breeze
Each petal welcomes the soft touch
Of the warm breath of spring
They sway to and frow
The Daffodil
The Jonquil
The Buttercup
A silent hello
A universal signal
Spring is here
She had an energy when she spoke.
and a glow to her eyes.
That made me feel alive,
in a moment where I could only see darkness.
How did she do it?
She served me a cup of tea,
on my final flight back to safety.
I don’t like who I am when I’m angry.
But I don’t like who anyone else is
when I’m angry either.
The exhaustion afterwards,
is it a reward
or a punishment?
I’ve had rage
that scares me
twice this month.
The harshness in my voice,
I’m afraid it will consume me
or become me.
I sacrificed
a perfectly good day
to my own fear and anger.
And I’m already starting
to carve up tomorrow.
panel one
ruffled zinnia petals of light orange
spider out among gathered bunch
with hues yellow, pink, red. their petals
tight, neat. but this peachy one,
free-wispy-light. petals that weigh
only a few grains, but sturdy.
panel three
a tyrian purple zinnia takes
center-hold. muted others close
behind. reds, violets. fringed in white.
unforgotten. more petals weighing
only a few grains, but sturdy all.
sturdy, weight of world taken on.
panel two
this middle panel stops us. thirteen
black-eyed-irises among petals,
among butterfly wings. eye-irises
that dance, that haunt. eyes open
to all. weightless. of familiar song–
story of lost but not forgotten.
renderings of collective grief, yet celebration
of life? we look into her black iris-eyes,
into our own, into high-resolution-with-firm-
resolution into forget-me-nots into
artist’s intention to heal
into inside
*Maria Magdalena Campos: Butterfly Eyes (for Breonna Taylor)
When I run out of things to say,
you’ll eat me.
To you, words are condiments,
like mustard.
You’re a silly army of hungry caterpillars
topping cross cake with cherry compote.
You’ll be food for the Eagle unless
you step away from the table.
This advice I offer
as your friend.
gives my mind space to breathe,
the meditation of shuffling,
the cards slick and sharp-edged
against my finger tips,
the acute focus on a simple thing
takes me back to childhood
sitting in a circle on the floor
knees touching, totally engrossed
in all that mattered–
the game in front of us.
