The stone trough
before the pyramid
seems a place for offerings –
maize or cacao,
jade or obsidian.
But our Mayan guide tells us
the winner of the annual
games was beheaded there
as a blood sacrifice to the gods,
that his immediate entry into
heaven was an envied prize.
Our guide is perplexed
that back home, we elected
a president of boundless
greed, certain that this prize
is a nightly visit by the devil.
Life like an onion of old
You can defy the weather in a poem,
so pick a couple models. Brainstorm
all you can. Throw in a study session.
You can always breeze it: release
gentle and pretty.
Or better, believe it: tackle purpose,
take a political turn.
Start where you are! All levels welcome–
Break tornadoes from the get-go
or chain lightning into the
tender shoots of a trellised pea plant.
If you rain, surprise us: no average cats,
no predictable dogs allowed. In your
flood of verse, you can hail anything.
Be Storm’s hairdresser. Console her
about leveled neighboorhoods and
lost crops as you restore her Marvel look
and wonder if you’ll end up in Cerebro.
Be the chiropractor of the polar regions:
crack the ice shelves back into place until
white bears quadruple in population.
However you weather report, read
the work outloud, revise, sound it clear.
Keep a few solid facts in the broadcast.
my cousin lives in granny’s house now
trying to convince her to move the junk out of his garage
and into her new husband’s house
she says you can’t throw out photographs,
even when you have three copies apiece
my cousin is cleaning up the backyard
that granny let grow over
once papaw’s tomatoes decomposed,
we stopped visiting his grave,
and the old building crumbled
i tell him to set the tomato seeds back
in the far fence corner
where they used to grow red and plumped
he says the neighbors let their yard go,
now an oak tree shades it over
Pete and Fran kept the bushes trimmed,
cookies stocked, plenty of sun left
for thriving fruits and growing grandchildren
but you can walk in through the front door now,
he had a key made
and put granny’s coats up in the closet
She’s in charge of the cart.
Trail six steps behind
baby steps as if your feet are bound
but smoothly as if you’re at ease.
There’s a list. She has it.
Suggestions are presumptively insulting.
You’re not cooking the fucking meal.
Stay in your lane.
Neither pace ahead, nor lag behind.
Don’t toss items into the cart
that aren’t on the list.
It creates an imbalance in the universe.
If you’re given a mission
stick to the mission.
Mission creep will not be tolerated.
No freelancing on flavor, brand, or size.
After checkout, you can push the cart.
Pop the trunk, load it like a bagboy,
feel you’re doing something important.
\But don’t let it go to your head.
When I was very young and
‘bucked up’ – refusing to finish my
milk or eat my broccoli,
my fathers would say
“Come the revolution you will….”
-drink your milk (or)
-eat your vegetables (or)
-clean your room
“….and like it!”
I came to expect a revolution.
Dad was a career Air Force officer,
a graduate of VMI, a ‘ring banger’
I thought he had inside information
so I waited.
The late 60’s looked promising
especially when lauded by the Beatles
He was probably referring
to the personal revolution,
the shift in values that comes with age
when one grows to appreciate
a cold glass of milk, spinach,
and free room and board.
With the current insanity,
a real revolution seems more
possible everyday.
I will eat my vegetables and like it.
it’s interesting
the conflict
otherwise known as push and pull
what makes someone ecstatic
causes another turmoil
hired, fired
divorced, engaged
messaged, ghosted
perhaps it’s not always so extreme
but I see, day to day
that which brings one person joy
often annoys me or a colleague or some random bystander
beauty is in the eyes
not all beholders are gardeners
outcomes vary depending on perspective
wear
green and yellow to
couch a story
of beauty shining.
Listen
transfixed,
a receptacle
of
silence.
Leaf
out
like a child, slay
any
available
moment.
~ An erasure of Elizabeth Strout’s novel Tell Me Everything, pg. 324-5
What is it about creeks,
running flat and clear
that calms the mind
and fills the soul?
Where rivers are cultures
and streams are lifetimes
creeks are seasons
that shift and flow.
My first creek said, Come!
No need to knock or
wipe your feet. This
is our own place.
And during each new meet
like an eager love
it played with light
and shared its bed.
When winter came, it froze,
unable to speak,
only stare with
its frigid face.
I left it—no farewell.
My parents’ marriage
had flooded its
banks, thus altered,
requiring us to go
south, where the ocean
swallows rivers
that consume streams
that summon the creeks,
expecting lax service
from such shallow
quiet waters.
I now live in Midway
where the Lee’s Branch
nestles under
quarry grown trees.
When the world, as Wordsworth
said, is too much with
me, I visit
trusting its truth:
This is our time
and all is right
right now.
