ODE TO SURVIVAL
First published by Crosswinds Poetry Journal
The old woman smiles
with a mouth full of filled teeth
and thoughts of a dusty will
while she chatters about people forgotten
and tire swings-- She is the oak tree
that stands between the edge
of a conservation zone and electric wires,
a stubborn woman with a cantankerous tongue
and accusatory glare. Her skeleton aches
as she stretches over wires and a gale blows,
arguing in coarse gray and green.
She is weak and strong from age
but inflexible, arthritic,
making her scream at the wind
as it rends leaves from her limbs.
Her trunk is bent, but it defies gravity,
forcing a permanent view of the ground,
forcing her to follow people
from the top of her eyes.
The tree’s burlwood remains out of reach,
protected by her crusty bark
and from those who want
to throw a rope over, and hold it
while they rev their saw.
MORE PUBLISHED POEMS
SOLO PERFORMANCE
First Published in DASH Literary Journal
He starts low,
a barely audible baritone
tuned to the beat of the train.
His words blend with the alcohol in his blood,
creating octaves of suspense as the volume of his aria increases,
enticing passengers to look up from their phones.
His inebriation level rises
and falls with his scales
as he drinks from the heart of the score.
Then the passenger launches into a full arioso.
His voice fills the car, building its crescendo,
reverberating off faces perplexed by the contradictions
of power and tattered threads, of quality and poverty.
Italian echoes between walls of doubt,
and cascades off the steel sides.
He holds his note-- strong-- insistent-- a perfect D sharp.
I nudge my friend.
“I know this voice. Charles sang opera as he cleaned
my parent’s house.”
Odd. Why is he in this city?
I sigh.
I never asked him what he sang-- or where he learned it.
His voice was deep but hesitant.
The glory of opera was concealed
within his cheese sandwiches.
Charles’ song subsides into a whisper as we near a stop.
He accepts the inevitable diminuendo.
Humming his eulogy, he rises and trudges down the aisle,
the gait of a man disappointed,
mourning the inadequacy of his life.
There is no applause.
I KNOW WHAT I SAW
First Published in Literary Hatchet
Once upon a time may be an apt beginning—
for non-believers.
Maybe I could say it was a dark and stormy night—
but it was not stormy.
The night was clear, a new moon night.
Darkness held our hands.
We were hunting for a campground—
after 9:00pm.
Instead of toasting marshmallows,
or reading the best book ever,
or sleeping,
we were still in the car.
Sleeping would have been preferable to
Not Knowing.
A night search teases campers
with yawns, with grumbling stomachs,
with signs of campgrounds thirty miles back.
Oh yes, we saw that sign.
The billboard stood out when our headlights illuminated it,
and it was not a cheap, home-made sign with missedpellings.
The real sign told us of a campground up ahead,
and we heard that announcement because this was
a silent car full of family.
The Cascades loom over their prey,
waiting to pounce,
hungry for Lost Travelers.
People get lost, disappear, die on dark nights of cascades.
Call me Miss Melodrama. I know what I saw.
My brother no longer tells people about him:
his dark hair and slim physique, his height—the size of him!
People look skeptical when they hear the story.
But this is not a story. No. This is an accurate account.
An account not to be investigated, hunted down, or turned into a mystery on a chic channel.
Besides, this happened fifty years ago.
An anniversary. A milestone.
When lost in the Cascades on a new moon night,
drive slowly.
Keep your eyes open.
Don’t be afraid unless you stop but that won’t matter
because you won’t be able to see him if you turn back
it won’t do any good to chorally whisper
“What was that?”
It won’t help to turn around in a group double-take
he will be gone—
swallowed by Dark’s instincts.
Remember that holding your breath is not going to remove the memory of
that new moon night
the dark
the woods ready to grab you
the presence of Sasquatch.
RESIDENTIAL REALITY
First Published in The Raven's Perch
Our ride takes us by her white clapboards and blue shutters.
Red oaks and yellow maples frame the property.
A swing set sits in the side yard.
It was the fun house to visit,
but now it is encircled by a withering garden.
On our return, I see her peek out the window.
Her scarf, speckled with reds and purples,
is camouflaged by a kaleidoscope of fall leaves.
While he continues his tour in the Middle East,
their four girls play in the yard,
and a For Sale sign beckons.
OBLIVIOUS
First Published in The Raven's Perch
The electricity went out—
winter dusk sat in line,
but I still lit a candle for effect.
The dog and I settled on the sofa to wait.
I heard a large truck drive by, but
we had nested on our cozy couch.
We didn’t look out the window.
I turned a page in my book.
People were talking loudly on my country road,
but I ignored them.
Odd that anyone would be strolling by
with dark encroaching on their path.
The dog’s warm body, curled up beside me,
prevented me from rising. He didn’t bark.
I heard loud noises.
Perhaps a tree went down in the storm.
I started a new chapter in the book,
engrossed in another Hieronymus puzzle, filling my mind
with a satisfying appetizer to a black-out meal of pb&j.
My mind drifted to the noise outside,
but the dog turned over, exposing his plump belly.
I gently rubbed his fur and took a sip of tea.
I heard more trucks outside, then the lights turned back on,
and I knew my sojourn into another drama was over.
Turning around, I looked out the window
and watched the parade slowly exit—
an ambulance, a police car, a utility truck.
THE VISITOR
First Published in Literary Hatchet
Sea salt lingers on her lips as she strolls up the beach.
She picks her way through the path mined
with sharp spikes of seagrass.
Balancing her towel and book and drink,
she hops along hot stones placed as a walkway,
mentally playing hopscotch
to mask the pain on her feet.
She notices a stranger’s car in the driveway.
She frowns as she opens the cellar door
with its 10 x 10” window coated in residue
from last week’s storm.
Her nose wrinkles at the dank darkness,
musty with the salt air of its
forbidden underbelly—
the cellar is a living organism,
hiding rusty nails that grasp at feet,
and storm-battered boards
that whisper their stories of sordid abandonment.
A mouse
scurries between cracks in the cinder blocks.
The ocean breeze answers with a sigh.
The shower room next to the door
beckons with painted block walls
of purple blowfish, orange sharks and yellow jellyfish
with their goggle-enlarged eyes
that stare at all who enter.
Though she helped her father
give the creatures life through art,
they still mock her, laugh at her, stare at her.
She surveys the cinder block room for unwanted creatures,
then hangs her towel by the door.
The shower’s stream gently washes sticky sand
off her arms and legs.
She squeezes out of her pink bikini,
baring her childhood youthfulness,
rolling the suit down her legs,
rinsing sand from its folds.
She hums a Disney tune
while she builds the soap’s lather,
gaily gliding up to the high notes,
bellowing the chorus,
stumbling over unlearned passages,
oblivious of her visitor.
The spider weaves its way out of a corner.
He breathes in the moisture,
hungry for some of her exuberance,
hungry for an early supper,
then skitters silently into the darkness of the cellar
and waits.
Delayed Duty
First Published by Literary Hatchet
He was smirking, head erect
when he stepped onto the familiar route.
The blades sounded like a knife
on a honing tool – metal on metal,
a sharp swish swish swish in the cold air.
No engine broke the spell
as he clutched the wooden handle.
Perhaps he wished he was Braveheart
who attacked the foe, slashing invaders in two–
or Attila the Hun who raised the sword of Ares,
(even if it wasn’t) or Crazy Horse
who charged on his steed,
counting coup to the future.
No. The young man did not attack nor charge,
did not shout a rally cry,
yet he strutted across the grounds,
defining a world under his control,
when he was ready not before.
Fulfilling an order given months previously,
this teen was alone in his self-appointed task
as he marched in boots anticipating ice,
attacking an enemy that melted at his touch,
for it was February
and this boy decided to mow snow.
Thoughts from behind the window
First Published by Literary Hatchet
I sit at my desk and gaze out the window
while glass defines who I am.
I see branches move in the wind,
watch rabbits feed on clover
and watch Brandon Leake* perform.
We both write poetry
and strive for excellence
and maybe we both harbor self-doubt.
I want to speak up, to shout with a voice
that thunders, shakes, creates an earthquake,
a speaker with a cause. I want my words
to make others cry, my actions
to proceed thunderous applause,
my poetry to inspire and enlighten.
My heart beats, beats, beats a drum,
but makes no sound as I hide from battle.
Then a hawk coasts over my yard,
lands on a wide branch.
Two songbirds chirp warnings,
but a third lands late, a mistake.
Am I the third bird, ignorant-- late?
Then off he flies, the hawk in his wake and both
disappear behind a pine
while I contemplate survival.
I am inspired by a black poet
who perches on his own limb and sings words
I hear but cannot wear. I cannot be him,
cannot know how it feels to wear his skin,
to leave his home each day and wonder
if white will shake his hand and call him brother
or if white will silence him,
so I sit at my desk and remain mute.
*Brandon Leake was a spoken word poet on America‘s Got Talent.
Slug Rave
First published by The Raven's Perch
A simple invertebrate is he
who on his woodland branch he parks
no hands to hold a cup of tea
no arms to raise, no humor sparks
No wings have you that lift and glide
no mane, no cloven feet, no snout
yet linked to Arion, your pride,
a foil for your meager route
Unlike the snail who hefts his home
unlike an ant who hauls much freight
your burden light you rarely roam
remaining where your meal awaits
Perhaps you know the age of trees
or how you found your rotting stick
your silence mocks the windblown leaves
whose vibrant voice commands and whips
You’ve donned your subtle pinstripe coat
the tux above, white shirt for feet
but there’s no fans to hear you quote
your metered dithyrambic beat
So raise your mug to those who wait
to toast a creature’s simple tale
this Arion Hortensis lives his fate
a slug on nature’s humblest scale.
Apples
First published by The Raven's Perch
A knife cuts into the apple, invades
the core and releases seeds, littering
the counter as they break from their shells.
The meat is white, but a large bruise taints
perfection. The rejected apple remains
on the counter, where time will do more damage,
like the bad apple who stared out the window,
drawing on the desk. Sweet sixteen
looked at me, eyed me up and down.
Your dress is ugly. She smirked and glared
while thank you sunk in, but sarcasm failed
to erase the doodle. The girl turned
toward her classmates, then added a footnote--
Why did you buy that sack? She exited
to the office, one seed in the wind.
I smoothed my dress and turned to the others,
but they were distracted, a couple hunched
over phones. The rest of the peck was turning.
Pecking Order
First Published in The Raven’s Perch
Plump black birds land on wires overhead
the pecking order established
and line up with military precision
eight inches apart. Facing east
they keep feathers groomed,
ready for long distance flight.
One bird pretends to belong.
Her neighbor leans in, Beat it.
The small bird remains rigid
mimicking those above and down the line.
The boss shifts toward her,
leans in again. Hey. I said beat it.
She shifts an inch away from him,
brave to ignore pressure
to stand her ground despite long odds.
I think of my daughter.
When a hatchling just out of college,
she landed on a plush wire
and watched the birds peck and perform.
Peers expected her to measure up
but had no patience to teach skills
as they solidified their flight
up the ladder.
The battle for position continues on the wire.
The bully persists. He creeps closer,
a body width between them now,
and he touches her, a Weinstein moment.
She shivers, shrinking with disgust and anger.
Then she flits up, floats down,
lands on a lower wire with less sun
and obstructed views
but safe from harassment.
The tormentor spreads his wings, a boast,
still aware of the lesser bird’s presence.
He sets himself back in formation
and waits for departure time.
The smaller bird considers her options.