Posts for June 2, 2026 (page 9)

The prophet practiced neutrality as not to offend
Deliberate fence post ballet
arabesque, plié and parry
and he blended into the crowd
incognito and invisible

What he knew could only confuse the multitudes
multitudes content with TikTok or some small-screen distractions
multitudes content with the score of the game and participation as a passive spectator wearing a shirt or hat to proclaim we are alike and belong to this group or that
and the altar became a stage pleading for a new jet

The prophet practiced silent desperation
saying nothing at all
saying little to encourage thought
doing little to help or harm
amusing himself with the ability to not interfere again

Rivers ripple over smooth stones— 
a fluid dance, and I sway

with the rhythms
of its current, capture

the flow of the dewy air
until I play and leap

like the bluegrass
reeds, sing

like the spotted 
sandpipers, 

and root
back
into myself.

In the shower
thoughts of becoming  
lightning again

and teeth hurt, 
back sore. Where 
will wanting go 

when the body 
jams, stutters, sticks. 
I’m mourning already 

what’s lost because 
I know more is to follow 
little by little. Suds down 

a drain, mixed with bits 
of hair and burnt flesh, 
my wife saying speak up,

how can I help you when 
all I hear is crackle. 

wild battering storms
peace in madness forsaken
hold keep the dark ground

cold blood of battle
soldiers perishing in fear
brutality’s heirs

the stonecutter’s knife
sharp peals of women keening
wraiths joining the dead

rueful divine hearts
strive to earn absolution
bring out the builders

the gift of green fields
shimmering inconstant peace
our gracious fortune

The kitchen here is the size of a closet and smells like tuna fish. 
I am standing, slicing a meaty tomato and 
chunks of mozzarella from my hand like a greek grandmother, 
tearing fresh basil, fragrant and
dumping olive oil with balsamic out of a repurposed skin cream container.
I am trying to make the best of this life.
I am dropping and giving the grey walls a sun salutation,
flowing languidly on the woven rug I bought for a pop of color.
I am covering the window in plants with self watering pots.
Have to keep something alive here.
I am panicking about them dying.
I am writing on my calendar: Thursday Night Live, Trivia!, Poetry Group.
And another week is going by in which I
do not attend,
but I walked here this morning,
breathing, face up.
I read quietly at my desk for an hour,
I ate a tomato, to keep this place from eating me. 

I came to the pond to write this poem,
but an angry little wasp protested.

She appeared in a dream before morn and noon,
her graceful hands cupping my eyes and pulling me back down.

I materialized in the midst of a grand celebration
with paper slips flittering all about the air, falling like snow

I caught his face in this otherwise faceless congregation,
a man I haven’t dreamt about in a long, long time.

And, presumptuous as I might be,
this was but a fleeting projection of the resting mind.

I’m married to Heidi,
he told me.

He did not teleport to my side like dream logic often states,
but spoke the words directly into my head like a ghost. 

And dear Heidi, it seemed, manifested as
my nemesis in every sense of the word. 

I admit I never saw her face.
Even so, I believed I already knew what she looked like.

Her eyes probably held secrets hidden within the depths of time,
her hair probably grew past her middle back and didn’t frizz when she brushed it,

Her smile probably blinded people with its brightness, 
and they probably praised her for it,

Her mind was probably revolutionary and boundless,
and her nails were probably long and unchewed,

She probably liked a lot of different foods,
and she probably wrote sonnets that brought tears to the eyes of every beholder.

Hell, she probably even farted glitter,
knowing her. 

And yet, that was the funniest part.
I did not know Heidi. 

I knew the envy that festered in my belly and whispered in my ears,
urging me to be rid of her entirely. 

I ran from the pond’s gazebo 
when that little wasp begun charging full force at me.

The Flower Garden from Howl’s Moving Castle narrated the chase
and the sun reflected off of the hair that had fully frizzed when I brushed it.

I thought of lunch as I ran home,
and of the three things I would actually eat. 

I thought of how I hadn’t smiled with my teeth
in my brother’s engagement party photo the other day. 

And as I disappeared from the gaze of summer’s little rage machine,
I lamented.

How I would have loved to see Heidi’s face behind me
in the water’s reflection.

Perhaps,
she would’ve looked a whole lot like me.

dehydrator makes

crime scene of thawed berries on

my d

       r

       i

       p

    p

i

             n

                        g         f 
                                        l
                                                       o
                                                   o
                                                                                                  r 
                         

Fate and Destiny wrapped in obscurity
beneath such troubled stone
where wisdom once trod sure in maturity
they wrestle for the throne

In the well of dreams
there your dragons lie

Citations:
*Victorovich, Schekinov Alexey. “Vortigern meets Merlin.” World History Encyclopedia, 23 May 2017, https://www.worldhistory.org/image/6697/vortigern-meets-merlin/.

*https://ztevetevans.wordpress.com/2017/07/05/the-prophecy-of-merlin-the-two-dragons/

The Feminine Divine:  A Love Letter to Laverne by Marianne Peel

             -for Laverne Zabielski of Lexington, KY:  fabric artist, poet, activist, feminist  

She stands unhunched over her cauldron
at the chime of midnight.
Not a stewpot of eye of newt,
or tail of toad.
Hers is a brew
of dandelion wine
and blistered berries,
of bruised boysenberries
and salvaged milkweed.
A temptation of palettes
spun from the opening
of a restless umbrella.
She can see the rhododendrons
blossoming in your stomach,
the ficas tree fermenting in your esophagus,       
the cabbages flowering in your cataracts.
She drapes livers and lungs
on the walls and rooftops.
The house as body.
The house as a place
where we hang our sweat-rimmed hats,
our dripping overcoats,
the slick skin of our flesh. 
Hers is a laundry of elegance.
A clothesline of silks
waltzing between marigolds and gladiolas.
Here, slide into this pulp of oranges,
this pith of a shawl.
Come,
unveil your layered life,
this textured act of power
wrapped around your shoulders. 
Listen,                                                                           
and if your place your ear
atop the shimmering shibori dye
you will hear your own desires
bursting like a Kentucky harbinger of spring. 
Let the not quiet
roar.     

I saw upon the treacherous winter seas
the glint of manmade day from lonely tower.
Pillar of light that warns of treachery,
guide this, our ship, from natures vengeful power

I man the helm and point our lady straight,
the lighthouse carefully kept on starboard side.
No cargo on this ship, my only freight
my love, the dearest to my heart, my bride.

Her trusting gaze gives comfort to my heart
as thunderous waves come bearing salty death.
we are rebuffed, the run once more to start.
That glinting lighthouse beam alone soothes breath

The tower, a hope in which I place my trust
or else we’ll be as rotting wood and rust.