A girl named Charlie
A boy named Shelly
A dog named Pepper
A cat with no claws
A park with wooden benches
A birdbath tipped on its side
A lawn grown over the pedestal
A robin red breast in the rain
A murder of crows ascend
A black wing blocks the sky
When your retirement strategy includes overdose
before 70, making enemies
of your next-of-kin, and general chaos slinging
the party beach really is the best place for you,
a high tide of excess
leaving behind remnants of a life remembered
and foregone
How many times I watched
you cast your spell, weaving
a web shimmering with desire.
Intriguing, inticing, seducing
until there was a step on the
silken thread of the net you cast.
Suddenly, you would pounce,
surrounding, overwhelming,
sucking your victim dry.
I protected myself by walling
off my heart, surrounded by a
deep moat of smoldering hate.
Avoiding your snare by hiding
in front of you under a sheath
of armor too thick to pierce
I saw you raise an axe to
shatter me but you never
brought down the blade.
When I saw your shrunken body
body helpless in the hospital bed
I couldn’t believe it was you.
Only after you were gone,
when I was safe from you,
did I see your loneliness,
your sorrow, your anguish
staining the walls that were
still moist with your tears.
Yes. I will proudly say I’m that guy.
The one you curse
from behind your tinted glass fortress,
pounding your horn
like it’ll bend time.
Entitled, to say the least.
I drive the speed limit.
Maybe five over if I’m feeling adventurous.
And to you, that makes me the villain.
An inconvenience to your self-centered day.
But let’s talk about villains.
Burning rubber, you fly past me.
20 over, at least.
Who needs radar to read reckless?
Following so close behind me,
I can count your nose hairs in my rearview.
As if breathing down my neck
is going to make me risk my life,
for a head start
to your joyless destination.
Why is the world in such a rush?
To shave three minutes off a grocery run?
To get to…
Never mind.
I’ll finish my thought
when I meet you at the red light
you raced to first.
Considering yourself a safe driver
in total control over your vehicle.
Your attempt to justify says,
“I’ve never been in a car accident before.”
That doesn’t make you safe.
That makes you lucky.
Though, luck runs out.
Two million gone every year.
A soul erased every 30 seconds.
By someone who thought
just like you.
Hot pavement doesn’t bargain.
You’re not just “in a hurry.”
You’re the reason someone’s
child never came home.
You’re the vacant seat in the dining room,
the scream inside sirens,
the ghost behind statistics.
I won’t pretend I’m perfect.
I have been in accidents.
I have been lucky.
Blessed, if you will.
I’ve learned, adjusted.
That’s why I sit on high alert.
Hands steady, posture relaxed.
I don’t drive like a maniac
I’m not escaping my own impatience.
Better to be at peace than on edge.
No degree in rocket science required.
Just common sense.
Don’t drive like the road
owes you something.
It doesn’t.
It never has.
Privileges abused and safety at risk,
The speed limit is a life limit,
and your foot’s on the cord.
Visitors
Before the furnace imploded
and ducts sent smoke
up and out into the rooms,
twelve deer came to graze,
but left after two days.
A turkey hen came the next day,
circled the house twice, and then
disappeared in the forest.
Two rabbits, dancing the rabbit dance,
one hopping over the other the way
my father and brother did in a Dayton,
Tennessee club, clearing the floor amid
clapping and cheers.
Grandpa Jones came over to our table,
amazed that anyone still knew that old
folk dance.
Some warmer weather a rat snake
came out of the garage,
scattering grey squirrels ahead of it.
A bobcat came and looked through
three large, ground to roof windows,
and starred at me. I wished it would
return, but it hasn’t.
When warmer wether prevailed,
one humming bird gathered nectar
from the roses.
I put up two feeders.
Soon there were six more hummers,
fighting like children.
We thought a simple life,
a small cabin after months in
a canvas tent, heating with
cedar wood during the burst
of winter cold
would somehow change the world
to create peace.
We thought a down to earth
spill of sweet well water
located behind the wisteria
and dry stacked stone fence
would keep us drenched in grace
and pull the arc of justice
to wash away sins.
We thought planting and harvesting
our own food and
cultivating herbs, free roam
chickens and caring
for the land
would sustain us indefinitely
and nourish our childrens spirits.
We thought each day, a
healing carousel of change and
community
propelled by perpetual beliefs in
motion aligned with the earth’s spin
would save us from the dark
recesses of injustice.
I wasn’t certain about much
three years ago
I was spreading my freshly developed wings
jumping off anything remotely high
puffing out my chest with every landing
I knew who I thought I was
the rest of the world did not concern me
I was certain I could make it work in my accord
I was certain that certainty was not a concern for me
so ready to fly
I’ve kept my head above water since then
swimming in the waves Icarus died in
every now and then I catch a glimpse
from a heightened view
every once in a while
my wings will spread
but they are asking me to jump from higher cliffs now
and I cannot tell if the water will save me
still young enough for confidence
now old enough to fear
There is strength in waking.
Simplicity in the idea of the act,
but insurmountable in execution;
taking every ounce of you
to escape slumber’s alluring song.
Stretch, push, claw, open
as a cat in the midst of waking
just to cozy up again
and fall back into the rhythm
of her song,
for it is so much easier
to listen and drift away
than to awake
to the uncertain promises
of miser reality.
underneath the crust of spring.
I reckon years ago somebody
lost it, swatting at some bee
sipping at the tight, bright button
of a zinnia just before it bloomed.
Popped it right off.
Then every spring turning
the mulch to tender it all up
for lilies, cosmos, coreopsis,
that button folded down and down,
halfway to China,
that’s what we would say,
digging in our mother’s garden,
longing for adventure as she
was longing for a kind of beauty
in our buttoned-up backyard.
And now this button in my own,
its color worn away to dirt.
Still, I like to picture her,
whoever she might be,
gloved hands like mine upon a trowel.
Maybe in the autumn, planting bulbs
for spring, her old waxed jacket
fraying at the hem, and now
I’ve lost a button, too, she’ll say,
to no one in particular.
Here it is, I answer.
