Spells Relief
Temporary burning
stinging
sneezing or increased
nasal discharge
may occur
My dad helped us transplant
daylilies he’d been raising for years
into our front garden.
He said that they were good flowers
for brown-thumbed people,
that they’d take care of themselves
if set up right.
My wife and I eagerly awaited
the bloom of bulbs we had tended.
And waited. And waited
like impatient children as they
slowly gathered strength and pushed leaves out,
and grew stalks and buds
that opened into glorious colors.
The garden, a riot of fireworks,
each one popping open and withering
within a day,
each one thankful for its
time to shine.
their sake, our sake, your sake
fuck sake,
stop and smell the
shit stains
rather than the roses,
give a whim, fret, care,
damn about
you, we, me, she, her, he, him, they, them,
us
you son of father, mother, guardian, God, and all other forms of being you’ve forgotten, bitch
slapped in the face by a people who are
dog, cat, mouse, horse, pig, donkey, and elephant tired.
Fuck the injustice, bigotry, tyranny, patriarchy.
No dictators, rulers, emperors, kings.
how can I write subtly
in this fascist country
how can I write poetry
when even the obvious alludes the eyes?
There are pickers in the field today
No one with a five-string guitar
but pickers on a holy quest with black
buckets and borrowed clippers
Carrying memories of their grandmother’s
garden, or the garden they wished she had.
Kneeling among the zinnias, yarrow,
and bee balm
Stretching across the blooming aisles
of peach, and pink, and yellow blooms
Worshipping among flowers
demands nothing in return
no Hail Mary’s prayed on beads
of rosewood, silver, or glass
Just an Honesty Box —
all in good faith
Praise comes in the hummingbirds
flight, the bees serenade,
the lightening bugs taste for sweet
nectar – a Communion of small things.
on the advent of my death
the chaplain will read my name
to the sea in helwys hall
brimming with bright-eyed youths
yearning for the promise of tomorrow
as the summer breeze flits
through wide-open panes
she will likely pronounce it wrong
snagging on incorrectly stressed syllables
urged on by the sweltering heat
from bodies pressed too-tightly together
a faceless name read to a yawning crowd
who once sat in their place
grappling with her own mortality.
Dear Son,
Greetings and love from away.
Last night we ate ice cream for dinner,
For the second night in a row. Your father is worried
You might think your entire childhood a lie.
Our first ice cream cones came after walking through
A neighborhood of fantastical mushroom houses.
The second round of ice cream came after watching an impromptu parade
Of party barges, one with a paddlewheel,
Packed with (we think) separate wedding parties.
At least we hope the paddlewheel girls
Are nothing to do with the speedboat boys
As one of them fell overboard before they left the bay.
Don’t worry. He didn’t drown. He might not have even felt the cold.
The paddlewheel girls just danced happily endangering no one.
There was another bridal party on a catamaran but no one was dancing.
Give your girl our love and know you always have ours even if
We never let you have ice cream for supper, even on vacation.
Your loving parents
Untitled gray,
A monotomy of a day
Too gray,
A day whose
Newness — in its usually wee
Promising hours
And weather — kept stalling
within
Indefinite gray
Dim
Drabness yawning a refusal to change…
Until the darker gray of dusk
Wiped it away
In a heard, but by windows unseen,
Pouring rain.
