Poetry in Letters: From the Next American Civil War / Vol. 1 pg 3. – Accidental Haikus
Bury Their Hearts in Bacon Grease
They ransacked Wal-Mart
not for veggies, beans, or fruit
only eggs, bacon
sweat is the word of the day
pulling weeds in all their abundance
clearing the road bank of poison hemlock
moving bales of hay to the garden
makes me as sodden as the air
in this season of endless showers,
it’s a salty soaking with a relief factor
of low hanging clouds
that might pour forth
at any moment
and
the knowledge that throughout
the day there is the cool pool
of recent rain water
collected in the fifty gallon tank
under the eave of the barn
The tiny frogs bellowed
instinctively.
The salamander paused.
The mosquito assessed
possibility.
I, the stranger, had returned.
The rock that welcomed
my resting
was clean and waiting.
The brightness
of darting chipmunks dimmed,
the dragonfly buzzing suspended,
as my notes began
to wail.
The birds (there were many),
the chickadees,
the sparrows,
the robins,
and …me…
a visitor to a singing
tribe
meant for observation.
How we sang together,
back and forth
as my brokenness called
in great,
bellowing,
thrusting notes
that spun gold
around nature’s sopranic rhythms.
Here,
I am only a visitor with bare feet
and a cracker pack in my pocket.
They are only creatures with wildness untamed.
We are only sharing communion when our church is closed.
open heart to suffering rooted
in extremism and narrow-mindedness
open heart to awareness of suffering
rooted in extremism and narrow-mindedness
commit to non-attachment to views, even my own
see guiding principles as ways to nurture
tolerance, insight, empathy
instead of beliefs to justify engaging in harm
comprehend many facets of fanaticism
result of seeing all in polarity
unwise and prejudicial in attitude
practice myself to see with open-mindedness
view existence holistically
to change intolerance and aggression
in myself and all beings
I am sorry that my new washer and dryer
were delivered before 6:30 a.m.
I hope the banging and doors opening and closing
did not wake you up.
I am sorry that I bleep my locks
and bang my trash bin lids after 10.
I am sorry that I do not often mow my lawn,
that my back yard looks like a jungle.
I am sorry that I don’t feel safe
posting a Black Lives Matter sign
or flying a Pride flag.
I am sorry that I don’t see you often
because I love my air conditioning.
I am sorry that I do not know your name,
even after three years of living here.
You stopped wearing yours, too.
I didn’t notice when
– close contact with your hands is a thing of the past
if I had to guess
it was probably when you punched the refrigerator in November
broke your hand
and received my eye-rolling disdain on overdrive
for several weeks.
In the residual images that will solidify into our archived history
those few months last fall will give the illusion
of the implosion that brought us down.
But the decomposition started so long ago
each passing year adding crumbling dust at our feet;
When the time came
barely a tremor
led to total collapse.
Just like everything else
I’ll probably never know if you meant to
leave it off
or if it simply vanished into your drawer and out of your mind
just as my own hand has been bare for weeks now
I’m sure
it’s all the same to you.
Make of me a bridge spanning
white noise machine waves
toward the charging makeup mirror
on the dressing table, illuminated
green like the end of Daisy’s dock.
You stalk, securing the perimeter,
nightstand to pillow, back across
to the bed’s ledge to warn
your elderly brother off your turf,
compulsively repeating the circuit
as many rounds as it takes
for him to hop onto the dresser or
saunter off into another dark room for now.
I settle into a curve on my side,
pillows between my arms and knees
another covering my torso and hip
lest they be exposed to the conditioned air
and back claws when next you
spring from the floor, scale pillow mountain
and plop your heavy form,
you pear-shaped fuzzy bean bag,
strategically behind my knees
so I am pinned and cannot disturb
your throne while you bathe.
The hardest of workers dash about, landing
from time to time on the aerial runway lit up
in salmons, whites, lemony peach, violets,
carmine rose, scarlet, bright purples and pinks—
one upon a tequila lime. Their seeded path
strewn in a sensible fashion winds ‘round
a small lily-pad-filled pond and a petite white house
where inhabitants sit and watch and welcome them in—
a spark of iridescence swoops in to say hello,
but the rest of us are so very still.
