Oppressive heat
taxes my body.
By noon, I am
In my house hiding.

The day stretches         arching cat
and silk spreading the seeds of trees,
swishing and swirling,
a spiral galaxy tattooed on a shoulder,
not quite in the middle.
Stone walk—a pink bloom,
the thirst of the burning sun
that ever pulls us back to the Earth.
Mostly, it’s all ghosts &
a wake of vultures
in my head
        the stars the dirt the rivers. In the wind,
eyes always alert. The vulture heart.
Boulders turn to hills turn to mountains turn to
the limestone ridges near home–
tulip poplar, goldenrod,
all the imperfect roots of our family tree.
In a poem a river writes its story
on the wind reaching
falling leaves …until a sound, a song, a scent—
        it has already begun,
        bigger than any old story.
The cat leaps onto the sill to listen
        & everyone surrenders.
The train slices twilight.
Give thanks as you go.

Composed with lines by Sylvia Ahrens, Jules Unsel, Katelyn Donley Weldon, Kris Gillis, Fanny Hubert-Salmon, Roberta Schultz, Deanna Mascle, Alissa Sammarco, Samantha Renee Ratcliffe, Gaby Bedetti, Kevin Nance, Ellen Austin-Li, Pat Owen, Phillip Corley, Shaun Turner, Eric Scott Stevens, Jim Lally, Nancy Jentsch, Carole Johnston, Linda Freudenberger, Greg Friedman, Mike Wilson, Bill Brymer, Linda Bryant Davis, Pam Campbell, and Arwen C.
 

Ain’t nobody,

When my toddler grandson, Quinn,
lines up his tiny wooden cars and buses,

he drops a red stop sign
in front. They have to park, he says,

holding them still. He pauses,
thinks, then reaches deep

into his toy chest to find
wooden train tracks. He snaps

the pieces together, aligning
the wheels to their grooves.

Now they can go, he whispers,
pushing them forward into the room—

clearing a path
for both of us.

Heat beats on sun bleached sidewalks. Vines and bougainvillea, purple-fuchsia-yellow, twine over tall white conch houses and shotgun shacks. In the air, a bouquet of marijuana and sea salt piques the senses. Distant sounds of waves and djembe drums, staccato syncopation, smooth meditative, lull the brain into the rhythm that is Key West. I meander up and down streets looking for a place to live. Don’t need much. All I own is a backpack containing cut off jeans, a blue work shirt with sleeves ripped out, a notebook, some pens and my copy of Be Here Now by Ram Dass. I am living this book. All I want to do is be the heat and write. I find a “for rent” sign in front of a  white row house on Duval Street across from Big Mamma’s Music Club and rent it. There’s a kitchen table, two chairs and a loft bed made from a shrimp boat door. I drop my back pack in a corner, sit down on the floor and write a story about Jesus juggling oranges on Malory pier at sunset, and a poem about Duval Street. A warm peace falls over me. There is no place else I wish to be, nothing else I wish to be doing.

gratitude
for simple plesures
colors blend
like melting crayons
on a wine bottle

Drones have one
job in the hive:

to mate
then to die

No   I’m no drone
& this is no farewell note

but I wonder    did I had
one job which is done

He is remembered
I did that

I went to his grave
& wrote his poems

Now he lives
as much as a boy

can live in a
pulp paper heaven

Now me
What comes next

in my
post-drone world
 

I once was a tapestry of belief

Fortified by parables and good faith

Woven by my bloodline

Made up of rules and rituals

When I noticed a flaw in my picture

Something no one else portrayed

That’s when I first felt fear

You spotted my mistake, my rebellion

You cut my thread with hate

Vitriol and disgust because of my truest self

And you undid me

Stitch by stitch

I’ve spent years rebuilding myself

I am now a tapestry of joy

Fortified by tenacity and pride

Woven by the fingers of people who care for me

Made up of laughter and love

But every time I see you

I start to unravel

All over again

Even the coyote and badger
        can find common ground
            if we come together as one
                  world peace could prevail
                        and possibly hatred done
                            and perhaps, yes perhaps

                                                A new path begun!

As the sun awakes
Celestial alarm clock
So, sadly, do I

I wait for 8 bam.
Everything else is in place.
I’m likely to win,
Or maybe somebody has
8 bams sitting in her rack.
 
Do the 8 bams lurk
in the wall hidden from sight?
Quietly, calmly
I take my turns and discard
cracks, dots, winds and dragons too.  

A joker can’t help.
The 8 bam is for a pair.
I sit and fidget.
Who has it? The broken wall?
Such an allusive 8 bam