a semblance of feeling long gone
shining dimly in the warmth of morning sun
free-falling from the bleached white cliffside
the surf below begging to envelop her in waves
dunes and sea oats ache for finger-tipped brushes
white-hot to the touch and speckled with seashells
curiously resembling her wearied and worn heart
I had a dream
I am delighted to live where thoroughbreds roam
Raised on bluegrass and calcium-rich water
Mares running, foals frolicking, stallions alone
In their pastures unbridled, joyous, free
I am distraught to live where thoroughbreds race
Jockeys on their backs
Round and round on turf and poly and dirt
Blinkered, bridled, saddled, whipped
You look into each other’s eyes
in the ebb and flow of your wedding waltz.
Lifts throw your dress swirling into the air.
Dips fling legs and arms in opposite directions.
The room stops to watch, rapt
by your abandon. In your thrall, we start kissing
as we dance. Cameras cannot capture
your elation. We clap in unison.
The band plays “Sweet Caroline”
and “Wagon Wheel” and all break into song
circling you, sending their bodies akimbo
until the crunch of the final chords.
Was your heart spinning when you lay down
that night? Were you still singing along
to “Dancing Queen” Were you able to hear
the rain falling on the canvas of your cabin?
Billy and John fancied
themselves master fisherman
Their wives considered them
masters of nothing,
other than drinking beer
Billy and John would be
the first to say
it ain’t even fishing
without suds
So, Tuesday morning,
on the lake,
the snick of opening cans,
partly cloudy, chance of rain
Billy and John,
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,
no bites
They felt a tingle,
like static electricity,
a shadow fell over them
A perfectly circular,
perfectly silent UFO
hung in the air,
twenty feet above them
First time either of them
had dropped a can of beer
or been probed in
a bright, featureless room,
surrounded by the little ones,
while the tall one,
the one who looked
like an angry
praying mantis,
watched
Later that morning,
Billy and John,
the snick of opening cans,
feeling a bit disoriented
(too many beers?),
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,
still no bites
Their musical gifts are immeasurable.
Singing as naturally as birds in perfect pitch.
Fingers move across the fretboard with astonishing ease.
Bow and fiddle sing out far and wide.
The bass thumps in perfect time.
And I, a toad, sit among them, mandolin in hand,
Clearly where I don’t belong.
Remembering the chord changes is a challenge,
Improvising a solo, impossible.
Yet here I am.
They are angels, not just in voice, but in grace,
Treating me as though I am one of them,
Encouraging me to sing and to play
And cheering me on.
A bucket list
Kind of thing for me, a poser,
Performing on stage
Before an actual audience
With musicians who are the real deal.
I may not be a woman
Crinkled statements
green disappears leaving scarlet,
morning frost, cold moonlight.
What does the catfish carry
at muddy river bottom?
