savior of agriculture
discerning devourer of winged pestilence
a symbol of vigilance
forthright eloquence
level temperance
you squawking squabbler
relentless laborer
golden pooper, truly a nourisher
the picture of nurture
and yet i cannot get
a single egg out of you
futile, flightless fowl
in lines for a green card
like starving strays,
scientists locked out of labs, stripped
of instruments to grieve dirty air and water,
in bus seats we’re gray-haired, tender-jointed,
disappearing from this world,
in line to chant “no more kings” and know
too many ignore danger,
in line for confession, ask forgiveness
for our country’s sins,
kneel in shame before the children
of Gaza, Iran and Ukraine,
I won’t take off
The stickers on my computer
Before turning it in
A collection of the past 2 years
Staring back at me.
I’ve found and delicately chosen
Finding just the perfect spot
They may chip away
And cover up
But underneath they’re not.
Just fossils from my time here
Preserving classes and events
Lets mine stick out
From the bunch of
Poorly bland laptops.
So I won’t take off
The stickers on my computer
Before turning it in
I’ll let them see another year
Once august begins again.
I’ve been writing lots of prose and missing
linebreaks, the way they have of making words
swagger and strut like runway models or
stagger like love-drunk college kids in clubs
that I couldn’t get into, too old and
plain and prosaic like a cloud shaped like
a cloud, cumulonimbus, hovering
above an outdoor wedding. Have a heart
the bride says to the sky, a form of poem,
a prayer to the winds that redirect us.
These are the days the lightning bugs
return— flash bright their sacred
language, silent
in humid summer dusks.
In a melody only seen,
they witness one another,
surrendering all senses as their soft
pale chartreuse lights swell.
Their rhythm in the hush— warm.
With faith, they transmit
hidden truths scrolled
across black skies,
and for fleeting
moments,
each becomes visible.
I caught myself
scanning for likes today,
swiping my life
up and down with a careless finger,
mindlessly pursuing the dopamine
of your good opinion.
It makes me feel all
thumbs down emoji,
all purple shirt and palm to face.
It makes my face blush
crayon yellow with a river of vomit
gushing green. It also
makes me face
the grinning-turd-pile irony
of the question with which I am
semi-consciously engaged—
what shall I write
to make you like my poem?
Here we have a spotted lanternfly,
one of the many blithely covering
Cincinnati in a vision of crimson.
They may strike you as a healthy
accessory to Kentucky’s cardinal,
but the vibrant swirl of their back
carries the visage of some demon,
whited-out eyes and ebony horns
extending into its top appendages.
They are not guests but invaders,
disrupting the native ecosystems
by spitting honeydew that, to us,
is a sweet gloss but to the grapes,
almonds, oaks, cherries, poplars
induces soot-like mold to claim
flora not yet marked for the end.
Their establishment in the city
paints the sky in warm shades,
flashes of ochre and vermilion.
But alluring as their wings are,
each is half of an autumn leaf,
half of a dying ray of a sunset,
decay arriving giddy and early.
To dispose of them, you must
search for their appearance in
all forms of grouphood at any
location in every stage of life.
Their rot is not wished away,
but accurately identified and
then limited in its exposure,
healed by strengthening the
flowers once made to wilt.
barely pink clouds at dawn
daisies smiling where you didn’t plant them
and phoebes’ love calls on endless loop.
June is zesty handfuls of currants
and the chatter-banter of nesting orioles
echoing over clover’s tatted tapestry.
June is yarrow’s ancient mysteries
intricate trellis-galaxies of clematis
and elderberries reaching from creek to sun.
June is sheets and pillowcases
wind-waving as sun journeys past
and a wildflower bouquet
sacred in my grandson’s grasp.
Time’s wings are what I clutch
willing their flight to cease.
