Sappy green canopies and umbrellas and a roof. Lush, sturdy pine branches with stick walls. Little big homes made of twigs, mud, hair. New babies tucked into siblings' warmth. Gray Mom reappears with three acorns and a fluffy, speckled off-white mushroom. Tail the size of her body, rising high in alert. The barred owl screams. Mom's ears perk. She wraps up with her kits until the sun. Safe. Above them the crows, Ma and four hatchlings. She flies away from the nest, then comes back, then flies away, then comes back. Earth's worm. Scream scream scream eat it. More. They, too, tuck themselves in for the night. Setting sun. Under Mom's wide black feather blanket. Away from the owls and the rain and the chill. Until the morning sun. In a tall pine close but far, owl's nest. The downy fledgling watches Mom fly and waits for the flimsy, soft mouse or the floppy graying lizard. All through the night. With the sun. and the waking lids and the morning dew and Earth's yawn. It comes. Not breeze or flutter of birds, but crashing and clanking and foreign yelling. Yellow machines aim at the houses made of twigs and sticks and branches and trunks. Work boots and fat tires, lunch boxes and canteens of coffee. Raspy yelling and Marlboro smoke. Chainsaws and ripped, dull blue jeans. Sappy bleeding horizontal trees. Settling, blinding dust. Owl flies, crow flies. Squirrel grabs her favorite and, in vain runs. Down down down the tall pine, grabbing with her sharp claws at the crispy bark while her little dangles between her teeth.
I took this poem of mine, one of my favorites actually, and made it into a pose poem:
Miss Geller’s Barbados crown circles the other girl’s face, yet blonde, while she bakes. Cod with Ritz. And she watches the dolphins with their accidental grins wave in the waves with their virtual arms and hands at her curious gaze while they suck fish bones from their pebble teeth. The ocean is one and many, while it shows its black at night, sometimes. With its billions of workers who in their grain bodies soften with their grit, the contents of its cupboards. And it sighs at the oohs and ahhs that it hears while the not-noticed is seen once again. Plain gray rocks and little black teeth, broken shells or miniature trees. Chunks of glass, Budweiser. They rub their thumb on the edge, and feel it in their chests, and if the blood does not come, they call the brown compressed sand, that became smooth by its relatives, sea glass. Repeat it. Sea glass. Natures unnatural art. As they walk with their heads down. Hunching to find the treasure or, the fantasy message, in a bottle of ale. The breaths are deeper. Deepest. Loud, full breathing, slow. Long outs. Longer ins, keep some. Lungs’ delight. And the skin somewhat smoother than yesterday, toes and shoulders turn brown under the pink Coppertone and squarish freckles. Roaring hushes the thoughts of what is next and what was before. Wavy steps slow as the end appears. Boat-tailed Grackles wait to take it. Seeds of the sun’s flower, black and oiled like their windy feathers. And the leftovers are gently grabbed by the one-footed gull with her perfectly pedicured toes. Her soft feathers just white flow as she looks into your eyes to see where the next toss will aim, or to know your blues. And she gracefully dangles in the air, singing like a squawking angel, needing no sympathy as she takes turns with her new old friends. The fuzzy, savage cats, smash their young faces on their mate’s as they beg and exist in their fatness of black stripes on brown fur, flicking tails and kneading toes. Dancing for their food, deli turkey or leftover salmon. Their song is like the water’s while the purring and roaring dance and the humans fall for their massive blinking and their hypnotic petition. The velvet deer in the beaten trees twitching her wavy ears hiding in the crooked sharpness living in the death. Waiting for her turn to dine. After the cherub cats and the fliers and swimmers and the ones with the money or the prehistoric glow of the celebrity bird. If I only had a silver fish to drop into your impressive gullet. As you glide by with your russet friends with the same tattered plumage. Not even a side-glance. Maybe you’re praying for your vanishing kind.Continue reading “Topsail. Day 332.”
As he sat in his black truck.
Pale face, white hair, dark ball cap,
he cried the stuttering kind.
Then, said to me,Continue reading “Single Moms and Saws. Day 131.”
There is no cure
for deadline stress
like Munchos and Crush.
On my way home. A general buck.
He’s a lone Tom,
down the hill.
With swinging swag,
he’s hopeful still.
This is one I revise each year during November. It’s a sweet, fun little story about a man named Warren and a weekday meal, the perfect story to read on the days between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Enjoy.
(Tomorrow, something new.)
His fluorescent orange hat was menacing against the warm yellows and browns that autumn offered the eye as he hunted for his Thanksgiving feast. Rules never mattered to Warren, and he just loved baby turkey meat. His shotgun rested heavily on his fat-cushioned shoulder as he waited for a chance to shoot it. The tall man walked carefully and tried not to create a cacophony of cracking with the crispy twigs, Mother Nature’s warning. Off to Warren’s side, Tom sang a ballad to his ladies, and produced a feathered rainbow of tans and browns, grabbing Warren’s attention. Using only the balls of his feet, he turned his boots like the Black Swan. They made a little crunch on the tiny pebbles as he progressed towards the flock. His yellowed eyes saw them in the sunny field, dust bathing in the sand and familiarity. He maneuvered his lazy body their way, catching drool on the corner of his ashy lips. He must have stepped on a dry stick that blew his cover because the bony birds sped to the woods and over the shallow brook. They mimicked mannequins and stayed the color of the forest, then spread amongst the downed trees and dancing orange tape. Warren jumped over the brook and his size fourteen boot caught on a willow root, disrupting its drink. He landed hard on his right foot and knew instantly it was broken. He heard his gun crack as it fell from his reach, and watched the filtered water carry it close to its sand. Instantly, the feathered figurines began making their way towards him, smirking and slowly tilting their heads like tiny velociraptors. Back and forth. Back and forth. They were accompanied by friends who brought friends. Their lemon-sized heads swayed to the left. Then to the right, in perfect syncopation with The Blues on a cloudy Monday. The downy babies jumped on him first as he shooed them away with his meaty hand. They plucked at his orange vest with their sharp beaks, removing the down. The wild poultry snickered, and more friends came along. A female came from behind and chomped on his ear, rolling her beady eyes and shaking her head until half of it was in her mouth. She tilted back and quaked until it slid down to nourish her, then reapplied her red lipstick. Another Tom showed up with his girlfriend and the Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. They drank white zinfandel and choked down green bean casserole with extra dry onions while they continued to nibble on him. They made their way through his too-tight LL Bean vest and portly white belly, seeking out his intestines to make a nice sage gravy.
Click here: 543
I wrote this poem on a plane a few years ago when I was flying to North Carolina from Massachusetts to visit Tyler. I compare the two states, the two places I love. They both tear me apart with their memories and people. I revised this poem a little to post today which is actually tomorrow because I am writing this on Wednesday.
“Today” I will be or I am in Washington, D.C. celebrating Veterans Day with many special folks and Baylee. My deep breaths are going to get me through, and many tissues, I am sure.Continue reading “CLNC Revision. Day 65.”
Poetry is my favorite writing form. Maybe it’s because the first time a publisher ever said yes was for one of my poems put into a copy of Hypertrophic Literary Press called “Dear Annie, I Kissed Another Man.” Also, poetry is therapy because a writer may choose to rhyme or not, and it is a free and freeing way of writing. Some are intimidated by poetry, understandably so, but it is not as complicated as most believe. Lyrics are poetry and most of us sing along to them. Greeting cards, nursery rhymes, and even silly limericks are poetry. I suppose it doesn’t matter why I love it, but that I just do.Continue reading “Will Pay With Eggs. Day 59.”
Continue reading “Purple. Day 46.”
Revision in writing is what offers color to a piece, no matter the genre. I am forever editing and revising old works, and today have decided to paint a poem I wrote for a chapbook I put together a year ago, and the color I used is grape.