a husky playing in the snow his fur collects small crystal balls his face a smile, his eyes aglow his spirit howls with wolves – he calls to falcons soaring on the jet stream to pine shards glowing yellow-green to snowflakes falling through a sunbeam to ice quails preening to a sheen I hear him howl that wild old song and I decide to sing along.
Month: November 2019
rain raises
musing in a room, choosing drawnback maroon curtain the window opens onto an empty suburb street. a flash! a burst! a spark! the monsoon is certain! I stare at my pen for a heart, for a beat. I throw it down. no more sword! face uncloaked! I run out onto the asphalt, plain clothes within another breath I am soaked from my youth-thick hair to my flip-flop toes. I raise my face, naked palms to the rain the rain raises me – raises me again.
thrift store frames
clattering through the thrift store frames I feel like I’m invading someone’s home I wish that I could sense the names of all lost faces smiling through the chrome: a father and a child’s birthday cake a lady older than the willow tree a crayon Jesus standing on a lake a cross-stitched kitten sleeping on a knee. and fingerprints – who has run through these? the dust guards frames as well as any knight I pick a few: plastic blacks, mahoganies and take them to the clerk who spies the night. the faces of the lost vanish like a bruise wrapped up in tape and last week’s news.
the trees are bones
The trees are bones With lyrics written in the canyons of their bark I open tombs And plant the trees inside beside their hearts. The shiny seed, As black as predatory eyes Bursts into green As quick as flesh to dirt and truth to lies.
the ants are part of the truth
I count the treads of my boot in the mud I drop to my knees and the mud’s on my jeans She who walks past this point will muse Of the forest gods that slipped past my screens. Who do I worship here? The birds trill “SKREEEEEEE!” on an opal sky A dog howls off by the skyrise line The ants make no sound as they scurry by My hands are blue with the winter’s sheen. I think of the ants on a warship. The ocean is out; She never looks real Her plastic-wrap surface, her crests too slow. She’s nothing like forest – a tangible soap That washes away the mud from my soul. As long as I breathe, I can’t touch the curtain That separates me from the truths I seek But here in the woods, I know for certain That even the ants hear the prayers of the weak. And the ants are part of the truth.
sandstone angel
who cares that this trail runs over a sewer line? the autumn leaves still pave the earth in umber; the river giggles and delights the birds. the pine grows once like grass, and once like prehistoric ferns. the sandstone angel statue never leaves her slumber her dress outstretched, a napping place for feral cats. this trail transforms the bush into a shrine and sunlight into haze so rich it burns.
balladrael 