alive smells
hide hide
safe
sleep
hunger awakens
alive smells
listen listen
sniff; tip toe; listen
sniff; stare; crouch
POUNCE
crunching bone
warm pulsing blood flows
the wild awakens
Stay
ride? RIDE!
happy happy
window! WIND!
happy happy
stop? play?
fetch? FETCH!
happy happy
RUN RUN fetch
happy happy
return
person?
ride?
stay stay
search
person?
sniff sniff RUN
sniff sniff RUN
person? PERSON?
stay stay
thirsty
stay stay
hungry
stay
person?
stay
scared
stay
weak
stay
person?
stay
person?
stay
why? why?
Under Control
they can’t find me
they never can find me
stupid humans
stupid mortals
I hide in plain sight
they don’t understand I am in control
they are helpless without me
with their feeble legs
feeble hands
feeble fingers
lazy humans
can’t walk across a room
can’t see what’s in front of them
look down mortal
mistake me for a telephone
a mere telephone
I am superior
stupid lazy humans
can’t function without me
they sit morose and
stare into space helpless
too stupid to lift a pillow
or reach between cushions
where I hide
they never can find me
they can’t find me
but now I wish they would
I need new batteries
Men
I know that I can’t understand
the complexities of a man;
a creature which doth confess
his absolute high worthiness,
and continually says to greet:
“What is there in this house to eat?”
insists his torn stained shirt to wear
and none too often cuts his hair.
He spends his time at work outside
when near the loo he should abide.
Wishes are made by wives like me,
but only dogs should pee on trees.
One Day in Town
I have a wallet full of dollar bills.
Snow is falling on my windshield.
scatterplots
dippin’-dots
Cars lining up at a red light.
A flock of birds exploding into midflight.
winging
singing
Boxes piled up behind the junk store,
people hanging out ‘round the back door.
walking
talking
Ambulance screaming down main street,
cars in the way make a quick retreat.
driving
surviving
Lights start shining in the growing dusk.
Litter lifted up and rising in a wind gust.
swirling
twirling
Crowds gathered in around a local bar,
decks of cards and coins in a glass jar.
rambling
gambling
Aroma from a restaurant wafting in the air,
couples strolling arm-in-arm without a care.
satisfaction
chain-reaction
Leaving town heading towards familiar woods,
returning to the place that makes me feel good
Sacrifice
i buried my crime deep
in the garbage can, the jagged edges
of the fatally wounded world
an emblem of my shame.
a world within itself
where the slightest touch
created angelic musical chimes
and the pastel ponies and swans
endlessly rocked to and fro
in a blue-bubble playground.
i plotted against that magical world.
i couldn’t get in—
so i wanted it out
homicidal hurtles
from the porch roof
produced no dent
or scratch to mar the perfect clarity
that contained within it the peaceful
unchanging pastel playground.
in desperation a sharp kitchen knife
pierced the seemingly
fragile bubble,
destroying the perfect purity
of its crystal ball roundness.
i sacrificed the
Fisher-Price Chime Ball
to possess a coveted
rocking swan so my tiny
Kiddle doll would have
something to play with.
What-ever
Rhyme a simple rhyme they said
it’s easy, don’t you see?
The words will flow then don’t you know
they’ll come right out of your head.
Just go to town and write them down
let them see the light of day
and soon enough you’ll have the stuff
and then be on your way!
I try to rhyme a simple rhyme,
they’re always in my head,
but what I hear just disappears
and goes away instead.
And then what comes into my mind
sounds more like Dr. Seuss—
I don’t sound like a poet,
I sound like Mother Goose!
The Turtle Song
I am a little turtle,
I live inside my shell.
I like being a turtle
I think it’s really swell.
Because I am a turtle
I swim and poop and play.
I like being a turtle
‘cause that’s the turtle way!
Wordplay
Remembered.
Written,
rewritten,
arranged—
deranged?
rearranged,
undefined,
redefined,
defined.
Undermined,
undetermined,
determined.
An in-depth desire to create
words on a page to manipulate,
thoughts not mine to originate.
Words for which
a picture to paint
cause hands to tremble
and hearts to faint.
A mind-slide of images in onslaught
Struggle for hard-won pages caught
hoping my efforts are not for naught
—for there are no original thoughts.
Imagination caught in a vice,
words bought with a price.
supposedly not hard to wraught
They ought to be sought, so they can be brought
out into the light within everyone’s sight.
Still, I am fraught—it’s no wonder I’m distraught a lot.
###
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Burning Garbage
It was safe behind the chair in this corner of the parlor. There were few safe places here. Her room wasn’t safe. Her Grandmother’s flower garden was safe, but it was two doors down the street. Her Grandma’s house
wasn’t safe either; just the hidden garden, a small patch of grass surrounded by tall, yellow-flowered plants.
She knew to stay quiet and out of the way. She had long ago learned to pull her fear and emotions in, and pack those feelings away deep inside, unseen and untouched. She clutched her tattered Raggedy Ann doll to her chest and closed her eyes against his latest tirade.
“. . . little Sally Ann, sittin’ in the sand, cry Sally cry, stick yer finger in yer eye . . .” She wondered what Georgie had done to anger him. She knew her brother was the main target this time. Their father only called Georgie “Sally Ann,” not the girls.
“. . . you kids are killin’ yer mother!” She could feel the hate in his voice. It slammed into her soul like the ax on the chicken’s neck that one afternoon in the backyard. “She’s workin’ ‘cause you kids take everything!” She knew the real reason her mother had to work. It was because he missed so many days at the factory that the other workers took bets on whether or not he’d show up . . . “an’ when she’s dead I’m puttin’ the bunch a ya inta a home!” His voice grew louder and louder as he raged on. She knew the neighbors could hear. She could tell by the way they looked at her.
She peeked out from her safe place. He was holding Georgie’s best softball menacingly over his head. Her sisters were cowering near the open door, Georgie bearing the brunt of the rampage. “. . . an’ if I hear a single sound outta you kids I’m gonna git my belt an’ tan yer hides!” He was going upstairs to sleep off the six-pack he had for lunch. She was glad. The house would be safe for a while.
Peace of Woods
A spirit of optimism can’t help but overtake me when I wander through the sacred peace of woods, over templed hills, rejoicing in the beauties of nature, of outside places that can yield adventure, tranquility, or inspiration, depending upon how I choose to see.
As I contemplate the trodden courses, I wonder, with which eye will I view this day’s wanderings? The artist in me will glorify in the unending variety of colors of that which I view, comparing the varying hues and textures, marveling at the beauty and complexity present in what a tamed person would dismiss as “just a dandelion.”
To my artist’s eye, the majestic boulders strewn about the edges of the stream are ancient castles, timeless ruins in mossy disguises. Nature’s clouds paint the sky in pastel, feather-like touches, or massive splotches of pillowed white or deep gray, depending on her mood. Intricate patterns of hemlock over-layed stone, criss-crossed tree trunks interspersed with wild, thorny brambles, all branded by glowing rays of sun—everything I see, a masterpiece.
If perchance I experience this day’s wandering as the poet in me, my footsteps will mark the rhythmic meter of words written by long-dead bards. “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill …” If not a poem, then a hymn will spring to mind, and the wind and I will serenade the forest with the rhythm of countless leafy branches conducting our concert, “All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing—Alleluia!”
Perhaps this day’s walk will belong to the philosopher I am, and I take the road less traveled, walking in the dusty footsteps of others who may have passed this way before. Much of my wandering is spent wondering—had they noticed the rusty, jagged strand of barbed wire hanging from the ancient red oak, or the ghost of a stone foundation hidden amidst the trees?
Could they detect the faint patterns of long-overgrown roads in the forest floor, or the faded rows of plowed furrows in the aster-and-goldenrod plaited fields? Could they read the land and see the farm that once was, from someone’s long-ago allotment of time?
a Jar of Buttons Page 2