Feather

Feather

It found me,
though the bird had flown.
A feather,
on a red door matt.

It could have rode in
on a sock or shoe,
or maybe by
the wind's invitation.

Now sacred words,
adrift, out of place,
unnoticed,
by the passers.

Upside-down Tree

Upside-down Tree

It's roots reached clouds,
confusing birds, that thought at first
to fly down instead of up.
Cats waited under leaves,
fat cats with feather beds.

The moon rolled its face over.
A boy wanted to climb, but
his head was in the dirt.
He kept pushing but couldn't get higher.

A dog sniffed a branch,
jumped over limbs and pissed on leaves.
A man with a chainsaw
cut it up, without much problem.

Stuffed Monkey

Stuffed Monkey

Put him in the stuffed monkey,
hug him, wish him real.
Slide a finger under his red suspenders
talk about the jungle and his white tennis shoes.
Tell him he has kind eyes, attractive hands and a strong grip.

Set him on top a stack of books; let him see pictures
of angels and scaffolds, places to work, places to pretend,
tree houses and tea parties in Washington DC.
Remember home, love nature, never let go.
Birds sing like church bells in the sound.

Dream the river, remember a star that never moves;
collect a golden fish; follow the ropes; drift deep
into darkness, hoot of owl, eyes of moonlight watch.
Wounded ears spit fireflies, writing cursive scream
of wonder spun to quantum delirium.

Count your heroes as they jump fences into gunfire.
Kiss the monkey and wash the soiled sheets.

The Cellar

The Cellar

The hum that coasters on the wind
rolled off into a distant day
below what might have been a tree
rooted round the cellar walls.
The silver bars that kept roots sound
held the walls from falling down.
They wrapped like limbs of octopus
hugged tight to claim a treasure chest.

Beyond the stairs of rotted branch,
down which I never missed a step,
the night-one called me there to see,
block walls that formed a cave beneath
- beneath the sea.
and there she stood, a little girl
dressed in Sunday school attire,
with nothing there except her eyes
and a door that opened on - into the sea.

My fingers chilled like cycled ring
frozen on a crooked limb,
a cold that crept like spider webs
and tingled at my finger tips.
A wrenched call belched from the pipes;
the belly of a motor moaned.
It tried to speak in children's song
that lit a pergola scene, where ...
soldiers marched onto the shore,
each with a canvas on his back
that kept in time, the beat of sound
in paint of pergola light.

Upon return, I marched cross bones
that marked the path to follow home
back to the cellar neith the tree
where last I'd seen the little girl.
The walls were lined with jars of rocks
and golden fish with glittery fins.
Her footprints lead into the sea
beneath rock beds and broken bow
where tentacles of circles hugged
eternity - until the vessel creaked.

Ken

Ken

I went shopping for a husband,
one that understands the right way,
how to appreciate life, share responsibilities,
and respect each others dreams and passions.
I want a guy I can write poetry about.
I told my daughter the plan,
and she wanted to come along.
We ended up at Toy's R Us,
searching shelves for the right Ken.
I didn't remember them looking so young;
these guys look like teenagers.
The only one I found that looked my age was Spock,
attractive with his salt and pepper hair.
He was even on the sale table.
I wondered why nobody bought him.
"I don't know," I told my daughter.
"He changes the whole idea.
I'm looking for a normal guy.
Maybe if I dress him in Ken clothes,
something summery, shorts, T-shirt,
sun glasses, and I'll need a hat to cover his ears.
He might just work," I told her.
I carried him around awhile,
imagining what it would be like
to take him everywhere I go.
"I don't know; people will recognize him,
I can't write poetry about this guy,
it just won't be normal."
I decided to come home and search the Internet.
Maybe an old G.I Joe would be more my style.
I couldn't find anything better than Spock.
Even the old G.I Joes look too young;
I've aged, but the dolls haven't.
I considered bleaching and dying his hair grey.
Heck, now-a-days with all the plastic surgery,
who can tell the difference?
But, would I like a guy that spent his money
on plastic surgery?
We're having trouble just meeting the bills this month.
He looks great, but what about me,
working my ass off, so he can ride around in my purse
never pay for a meal, flaunting his perfect plastic image.
I'll have to strap him to the lawn mower,
and guide him around to even get the lawn mowed.
Grrrr.... I don't think so,
I'll be waiting weeks on this guy.
Our yard will look like crap.
My neighbor will think I'm stupid, his wife will be laughing at me.
I'll be dreaming of burying him up to his perfect face,
mowing him over... he'll bring out the worst in me.
Hell, that's not good poetry.

Hidden in the Sound

Hidden in the Sound
~
I walked backward for a mile
a torn smile floated down.
Leaves waved like
playful children before they laugh.
~
The cut began to bleed.
I stared astonished at the miracle
oozing through my clothes.
I saw the pain, couldn’t speak,
~
placed my hand over it
to hold it in, hide it,
tried to disappear, held my breath,
couldn’t think, couldn’t feel.
~
They were already - watching,
waiting. Camouflaged vultures
hidden in the sound to
nurse the pain like starving piglets.
~
My soul screamed,
but the sound was occupied
by those already understanding
what it was about.

W for War

W for War

I saw it coming;
It oozed from the computer,
W for war.
I saw it in the paintings,
blood, interrogations.
It hadn’t changed.
I saw it spilling over,
creeping under the door
like a blob,
a full theater on the edge,
the producer being eaten
in grotesque natures.
It made babies of grown adults
then crucified them.
I saw it falling in the drawings,
a dusty rain,
mommies clean away,
ashes of another generation.
The seeds were planted,
sprouting in head phones,
and songs for the broken hearted.
Where do we go from here?
Patriotic courage waves
colors of a universal flag.