Poems

I SHOW NOTHING                       

 

I say nothing.

And they say

Come and sit with us.

They say they have some new things

They say they wish to show me

To show us

All of us.

They wish nothing

But to show these things.

 

I show nothing.

And they say

Come and sit with us.

We are planning

Something extraordinary

Something special

For all of you.

 

I see their eyes.

I see their eyes and

How they look.

How they feel

Is in their eyes.

 

I’m not feeling

Especially well this morning.

I say nothing. I show nothing.

 

I show nothing.

 

      For painting: no new friends   by Corinne Forrester

 

 

Shh! (Tandem Kayak & Alligator Nest) 

       

Paddling, searching for birds in the sky—glancing down, see first just one liquid eye.

Backward can save us—that’s what paddles are for—this Mommy looks like a dinosaur.

          Puncturating dentition needs just a little shove,

          Hacksaws forensic odontologists could love.

          Mechanized propulsion, like a barge-and-tow,

          Baking death rolls for breakfast. Setting on Low.

Mommy alligator’s look-alike is a log—her alligator-snack looks a bit like our dog.

Any creature fooled, that day is his last—Mommy alligator’s amazing surprise is, she’s fast.

          Her antediluvian corrugated luggage skin,

          Mouth frozen in Joker’s despair-filled grin,

          Low-flexed limbs unsuitable for huggage,

          Appendged onto her submarine tuggage.

Dinosaur descendents turned out quick & feathery—alligator does eggs in traditional leathery.

If you see glaring teeth & your fear never fades—the place to avoid is the Everglades.

          She guards seventy eggs for sixty-five days

          Oxidation incubates at eighty-six degrees.

          Miniature gators will hatch one-by-one,

          When a few survive, evolution has won.

Floating & boating, adventuring forth—to feel safe and serene, Let’s try paddling up North!

Keep in mind her favorite direction is South–trust me, you’ll remember the alligator’s mouth.

           Deep inside the vegetative decomposing nest

            Her leather-smooth eggs gestate best.

            Within a brain reptilian, like some servo-drive

            On autopilot, rumbles something like her Love.

Painting: Lurking   by Wendell Graham

 

KITE STRING                                               

 

The Kite string tied to my backbone

Runs through my heart

Out my chest piercing easily all

Muscle of bone.

 

And it tugs up

Tugs

Always up

And out

And away.

 

And the little boy

Already looks away

And follows.

 

And the blond brother

Watching

He’ll follow too.

 

And one is a teacher

Building futures

And one a builder

Teaching me.

 

Both

Always teaching me.

Painting: Yesterday Is So Far Away by Ron Gallo

 

 

IN HER ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS OF TIME

 

In her illuminated manuscripts of time

Leap her thoughts-prayers-wonderings.

 

Her heart leaps for the little one

Perhaps it was a struggle

Perhaps it was all a struggle

The finding

The timing

The temperatures

The not not-knowing.

 

Or perhaps a shock

The shock of wondering

The shock of waiting

The shock of counting

The shock of wondering-why.

 

But now is the now

This is the when

The how is coming

The knowing

The knowing

The knowing.

 

         Painting: The Mystic by Catherine Lucas

 

I already know all the tricks

I already know all the tricks to do for a treat so you dont really have to say them one at a time its so much faster if you just let me run through all of them and get it over with anyone walking on a public sidewalk is on their way to play with me yeah I like to roll in stuff that smells but its got to smell good not sure how they do it but raccoon poop smells really really good

stella lives in a house next door shes a lab but thats okay the best game in the world is chasing stella it only takes stella 0.3 seconds to scoot under the fence and into my yard if I can see her hear her or smell her I know stella wants to play chase there are two good shows on window t-v the squirrel show is the best and the songbird hour is good too the other shows are all pretty boring if you throw up some of your food its no big deal it still tastes good

meat is the best chicken is the best meat except turkey turkey is even better really theyre all good all the meats are good sure I know there’s a box of dog treats in the bottom cabinet but I don’t make a big deal out of it tissues used tissues in a waste basket why would anyone ever throw those away they’re so good

the only thing better than a ball is a ball that is in your mouth if he stands up from a chair hes probably heading outside to play ball with me if he forgets I remind him its always good to be in the same room with people if youre in that room then be right next to them and if youre next to them then the best is leaning on them he likes to sit on the couch with his legs out and his feet on the coffee table and if you lay on his legs and tuck your nose between his knees its just about perfect

once you poop in the yard you should scratch some of the grass around so it flies in the air just to make a bigger deal out of it and sticks those cant be allowed to just wallow around all over the place youve got to show them whos boss

never been a big fan of a bath and don’t get me started on   the   vet

      For painting: Regan Image I   by Rick Plasters

 

 

Your Dark Hair Drew Me           

 

Your dark hair drew me

Your dark hair like Scheherazade’s

Do you know Scheherazade?

Do you know her stories

Scheherazade wove stories in her night

Under pain of death

Yet her own heart was light

So I think she knew

Don’t you think she knew?

 

That there is only one day

Every day is the one day

That we all see one day

One day that could be the last

 

As long as it isn’t the last

Then we spend it

We spend it not knowing if it’s the last

Until it is.

 

We spend it on songs

On stories

On love

On hate

And terror.

We spend it on what strikes us,

Something always strikes us from above

Doesn’t it?

 

Here you are

Spending it,

Here!

 

Painting:  Conversations (02)    by: Martin Dunn

 

 

MY MOTHER LEFT US PUZZLES                       

 

My mother left us

Puzzles.

 

My mother died on Feb 5

And I wasn’t there.

My brother had to do the deeds

They weren’t much

Mostly to stand I think

In her garage

And wonder.

 

She was almost ninety

Just two months shy.

Born the same day as Audrey Hepburn

Who’d died in ’93.

 

You go through her things

Together

And she’d left us crosswords.

In a brown paper sack.

They were all Sunday Tribune,

Half-finished though some were complete.

But she knew we liked the other puzzles

The ones she skipped.

 

We’ve been working them.

It’s been a year.

They are written in her pencil.

We’re trying our best

To work through them.

 

Painting:  Leaves of Time  by Brooke Anderson

 

 

 

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