A whipped dog, Head down, Eyes, lowered, Ears back, Haunches drawn Dreams the wolf-- Sharp weapons of tooth and claw, Armor of hide and fur, Heart of a free, wild warrior. A dream of the lone wolf, Who may find comfort Here or there For a season. Then moves onward alone Before what will come As the whipped dog knows, Always, always does.
Category: emotion
Words in the Electronic Ages
What we know of words upon a page Read, learned over again until sated In the richness found. Then turn to the electronic blue haze Where even words resonate, echoing fade. For the sweetest lies, a believer craves. Then scrolling over plastic flowers dancing, The words of a lover’s refrain found Written once too often In wooing others On the same blank cards With pictures of bears. The words like Cheap plated jewelry’s shine Turn black in the bitterness On the day some thought Something pure, pristine was born. Then, finally, is it known the words Of the poetic, the romantic Are but rhetoric and lies Written and said More than once But promised For one. The gravity, the gravity A black hole.
SMOKE THE CRAVING
I debate:
Should I buy
That pack of cigarettes?
God knows I want too.
The store clerk
Stares at me
As if I’ve lost my mind.
I nearly answer—
Yes, I have and other things too.
Please, God.
I just want to feel the smoke
Rush through my lungs.
Skimming, skipping, speeding
The way pictures crash the dam of my heart.
I am flooded.
I’d rather be flooded with waves of nicotine.
Yes, it’d be a blessing to drown in nicotine.
Reveling in the stench of smoke
Would help dull this taste of bitterness,
Would dull this craving for a sweetness
I can no longer have.
And why not?
What’s it all matter now?
A slow roll kind of Catholic suicide.
How long could it take?
I mean, really, at this stage?
“Ma’am, can I help you with somethin’ else?”
Says the clerk behind the counter.
I am still standing there,
The crazy lady,
Trying to wring the water out
Of the water bottle I just bought.
“No, thank you,” as I walk away.
So, no slow roll Catholic suicide.
At least, starting not today.
But this patch of bitter taste,
This patch of craving for a sweetness,
Are sewn with double stitched seams
On the underside
Of my skin.
Window Shopping
Oh, do so pardon me,
Window shopping only, dear.
No temptation to try it on for size
in some strange dressing room,
to look in the mirror to see
exactly how it fits.
No touch of whimsy
to impulse buy
only to return,
and God forbid,
pay any re-stocking fee.
I may appreciate the look.
I may so enjoy
reading the product description,
but no,
no thank you, my dear.
Please, no trial samples
to increase the clutter
I’ve collected over years.
You see, love,
it’s like in Ecclesiastes,
there is a time to buy
and a time to leave it on the rack.
Yes, sweetie,
I know it’s on sale,
but the return policy
is too exhausting with disclaimers
to know if it’s worth the risk
of finding a good fit.
So, for now, my sweat pea,
let me just peruse
the clearance stacks
and perhaps read
the product contents
out of simple curiosity.
Perhaps, one day,
though, I doubt it,
my dear,
I’ll find something
that strikes my fancy,
take it from the rack
to the fitting room,
try it on for size,
and find a good enough fit
to buy.
Two Trees
In the woods,
two trees stand,
equally rooted
firmly in the ground.
Yet, as if deciding
it a curse of solitude
to try and touch a Sky
who never reached back,
one turned
to touch the other,
leaning its trunk
against its forest mate’s.
And so, I found them,
standing as lovers,
one resting upon the other,
limbs entwined in embrace.
I turned,
wishing not to disturb
what I’d found there,
and walked down the trail.
In the Songs of Birds
When I was three,
My mother taught me to read,
And words
Became playthings and playmates
As I sat in the back of the restaurant
Watching her work her dream to death.
Later, as I grew,
Family losses piled, heaped
Weighty upon the shoulders of a nine-year-old.
Words became
Escape, shelter, survival,
A path out of destruction.
And so, words stayed
For more years than I’d care to say.
But now here,
Waking mornings,
Hearing birdsong,
Or in early evening,
The warm sun blanketing
My skin as I fill the birdfeeders,
I hear words in the songs of birds.
Silly though it may seem,
The cardinals have much to say,
“It’s cheaper here. It’s cheaper here.”
To “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”
The mockingbirds chatter away
Announcements of “She’s here, she’s here, she’s here.”
And I’m not sure which bird continually asks,
“Wanna see, wanna see, wanna see a receipt?”
All the while, the Blue Jays squawk away,
Warning all the others,
“Stay away! Stay away!”
Then in the chittering of the squirrels,
I hear the demand,
“Where’s the food? Where’s the food?
You let the food run out! How dare you?”
As they scurry away,
Pretending, at least, to be afraid of me.
Among all the noise and chatter
All the words of birds and squirrels
One word, never felt before now,
I feel move within my chest,
Peace.
The Prodigal
Motherhood erased
The caesarean scar, the only trace,
A testament to what once was,
It holds a degree of lingering numbness
After these twenty years:
Nerves that cannot reconnect
To a self without motherhood.
Yes, a touch of numbness
As the child with her mother’s face
Turns away, rejecting the truth teller,
Rejecting the baptism of love, of name, of tears.
Let the child walk away.
Perhaps in losing her way,
She will find the path back,
A way to recognize being found
In the reflection of her own face.
Falconry
A screeching hawk climbs overhead,
Gliding, swooping in pursuit,
Her flight a perfect merger
Of beauty, purpose, and skill.
If only, if only
I could capture such a hawk
Train and bend
That beauty and skill
To do the bidding of my will.
Sent forth from my hand
In a powerful surge of wings,
Pummeling air,
Finding the perfect draught of air
To glide upon,
Turning, searching for prey,
Then sighting her trophy, her prize,
Sweeping down, a beat of wings,
A shift of body,
Talons extended,
What seems a pause,
A slowing,
Talons snatching,
Squeezing, sinking into a snake’s skin,
Wings beat, once, twice,
A cry as she lifts her body
And her limp prize,
Upon the air to glide,
Turning homeward,
The purity of her purpose,
A dance upon the air,
Done.
If only, if only
From my hand could fly
Such beautiful purity of purpose.
Rest
Black white color dreams
Waking in the in-between
Of the heat and chill
Stillness of a soul’s rest
Within the petals of the blessed
As on a windless sun hot day
A softness of grace finally felt
Two Hours
Two hours waiting
Two hours till death walks
Across your domain, your Eden
The longest two hours now
Will be the shortest two hours
After
After you no longer chase squirrels
Or kill snakes to lay as trophies at my feet
I will hold you as you
Dream and drift away
Wrapped in your blanket,
The one you’ve had since a pup.
After you are gone
Taken from my arms
Both of us limp
You will dream
Of running and running
For the joy of it,
Of chasing and catching
The geese you love to swim after,
Of digging and ridding
Your yard of moles,
Dream my friend, my companion,
My comforter, my furry kid
Dream as only angels can
Until we meet again
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 