For the Birds

Jelly the Alleycat must’ve killed that old gray Junco.

No blood (but that’s her style), just feathers from the initial surprise.

I let myself be baffled until L. found the skeleton behind the garage.


 

dirge for a fallen junco

sparrows and finches
search the grass
salvaging soft
under-feathers

sifting slate pinions
for snowy down
which laid aground
through a mild winter

the feathers
disappear
morphing one-by-one
into wild violets

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Thoughts Upon Waking, Part 2

in a cedar closet
deep inside pockets
there is space
unexplored
time forgot

i have not
worn this
jacket in
awhile
nor thrust
chilled april
fingers
into its
quilted
fascia

here lies
everything
believed
to be lost!

sleek encased
cosmetic tubes
and scraps of thought
long enfolded

New Ways to Hurt

My old neighbors were super cool and allowed me to walk around my yard in various stages of disheveled, emotional despair without commenting.  When the house was put up for sale, and my pup went to stay with my parents, their Shih-Tzu hung out with me.   Lucy is an angel.  She would show up when I needed her most and would let me carry her.  She calmed my heart.  Enough time has passed for me to thank her, to set the stage with an appropriate context.  This is For Lucy.


for lucy

dear poetry editor,

have you ever argued
on top of a school bus?

he says something hurtful
so you shout your truth back
a resonant display
of one word on delay

BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!
lucy
runs across the lawn
weaves around the wheels
pleading come back down

you descend, hold her paws
talk through work you
submitted for publication
8 months before a response!

blessed is the unknown
far from mundane truth
and new ways to hurt

poems attached for your consideration

PS – rejections are just e-mails now?
no fancy letterhead or anything?
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Make Something Meaningful

I’ve been crazy busy since 3/13.   My main focus has been managing hardware and software vendors, so that my company’s employees can work from home to help stop the spread of COVID-19.

My routines are weird.  I’ve been slacking on transcribing the images and words of my subconscious.  I keep lying to myself and saying “I’ll remember in the morning.”   I sleep in.  I roll into my sleazy 70s den which serves as a home office.  I work. I am grateful to work! I do puzzles. I watch trash TV.  I bake.  I sleep.  I try my damndest to breathe, create, an make something meaningful.

If you are looking to be uplifted in a time of uncertainty, if you are an artist looking for a method to connect with other creators, if you want to smile: please check out MakeSomethingMeaningful.Org.

Chris Zielski, the amazing artist of Copperleaf Studios, has given the world a lovely virtual space for celebrating creativity in this weird time.

Make art and weird words.  Eat carbs.  Help others.  Make something meaningful!

I’ll have new poems posting weekly again, starting tomorrow!

 

Heatstroke

men logging lumber
left lapses of the forest
white birches edging new fields,
square scars backfilled by queen anne’s lace

the sun beats down
our hatless heads
burning the scalp skin
exposed by clockwise whorls

the bled sap simmers
in scents of sawdust
until the crows call
white hot from the spared treetops

A Good Wife

a self portrait in fog

leave the
light on
keep
the home
fires burning

for
who?
with
what
fuel?

what
matters
is how
i land on
my feet

loosen
the hold
of this
old
identity

the antithesis
of hunger
stabs
my
abdomen

i know
the
word
for it,
now

how to
differentiate
aches of
grief,
desire

how those
twin
pains
feed
each other

indifferent
syllables
slipping
into
bed

i remain
a slim
devotee
to my
words

Cold Thin Angles of Partial Truth

my shoulders
icily protrude
from
patchwork
folds of
sedative
slumber

my hands
run across
bare arms
to feel
i am real
and exist
without you

thin as glass
all rib cage
and thigh gap
angularly
etched by
frost lines
and lost time

i was soft once
and played
my lines
so smooth
nobody knew
i was
dying