A little glimpse into my heart. Your comments are welcome at the link below. The other link below (NaPoWriMo 2022) will take you to the 30 poems I wrote for National Poetry Month's a poem a day challenge.
they come to us every day,
flitting and flapping, singing and winging
in constant endless streams of commotion
their numbers growing each morning
vexingly exponentially like the warning of
the algebraic certainty of the federal debt
they never rest
their exclamation-point tails signaling
squirrels, crows, hovering lovers
and a single rose blooming on a distant asteroid.
So here we stay
our what-ifs piling around our ears
with the insistent incessant persistent coming of the wrens of regret
My brother warned me
It - The Blob -
-shiny gloppy sticky jelly monster-
lived and breathed and oozed
behind my sofa,
just a second’s slime
away from my tiny bed.
Night after night
I cowered under cotton covers
and waited
-chest tight, eyes wide, breath slight-
for the moment I knew with
every quivering inch of my skinny spindly self
would come,
and slime would ooze out and consume me,
limb by 5-year-old limb
in excruciating slow motion.
Now I laugh fondly at my little girl gullibility
But
When a slash of moon disturbs my dreams I carefully avoid the sofa.
Fussy curls,
Sleek silky bob,
Petite, statuesque,
Brunette, blonde,
She was everywhere,
That girl my mother glorified
Why can’t you be more like her?
Church-bred girls beguiled her -
-smiling Doris Day and Donna Reed
dolls gliding in uncomplicated shoes
with starched manners
and puffed sleeved voices.
She never noticed the soiled lips,
the crumpled tissues stuffing the bras,
or worse, the girl behind the script.
No bigger than a wish,
He is neither jewel nor light
nor gleaming sun.
He is nothing but silent flight.
His dainty wings
span no more than an elfing’s hand.
Yet their fairy size
cannot keep your
soul from finding flight
whenever he alights.
His silent breath has no flute,
he sings without lilt or tune.
He will not rouse you from your bed
unless your eye spies the sun-bred
shine of his breast - not black, nor brown,
nor sleeping blue, just pink - no other hue.
Succumb. Love will fill the fissure between
your bones and soul - beneath this wish and need
to drink it deeply, swimming veins with bright
impossible fish that tickle toes, and
nibble fears and tears, now swept clean away
beneath the weedy currents of mistrust and lust
that doused and drowned a simple longing
for belonging. So, succumb. Set yourself
ablaze with phosphorescent waves of heart,
Or better yet, breathe a volcanic spume
of flame, red and bold as coursing blood.
Embrace the hot chaos, powerful and true.
Now hush. Love, invited outlasts a storm.
Breathe glow and gleam of embers, ever warm.
Wispy fading thinning hair
(I’ll dye it purple, I don’t care)
A sloppy nose like an overblown rose
(but it’s still prettier than my toes)
Frayed linen skin - all thin and baggy-
(do I sound just a wee bit haggy?)
creaking knees that sing off-key
(I actually enjoy their harmony)
My shoulders slump, my tummy’s round
(blithely festooned and colorfully crowned)
Yet I’m quite fond of my gnomish cast I am happily truly myself at last
Music blooms beside and between us
A surround of sound, a constant refrain -
the river’s gurgle, the brook’s blue burble
the slipping dripping splish of rain,
and black basso hush only mountains sustain.
French verbs lilting, Hawaiian lips sighing,
German nouns quilting, Shona crying.
Crows speak angst in raucous chorus, winging
to sweeten the tweets of robin’s decrying.
Be still, just listen - the hush, the sibilance, the ringing embrace - a wild heart’s singing,
I
The creek hums
with the sun’s tongue
singing to me, entranced on its banks,
by the lazily lapping,
licking and splashing trills
of light atop the bubbles and burbles.
Treble notes that never permeate
the shadowy depths.
II
Betsy’s wand of a tail wags in rhythm -
A metronome lashing and flashing
to and for, conducting,
as she places her paws in delicate pauses
between the rippling pebble notes.
Dipping and sipping
and snapping at twinkles of minnows
III
Jan brings bread and glinting string.
Crooning and lilting in my ear,
“Shhh, if we’re very still,
We just might catch an electric eel.”
IV
We hush, the three of us.
Slipping and swaying,
Listing and listening
to the glisten and gurgle,
Till suddenly we are awash in giggles
Watching the string dance and wiggle.
V
Betsy leaps, splashes into my lap,
Slapping her tail, spraying sprinkles
in a tuneful croon of light.
We hoot and we warble, singing and
Ringing out to Mary and Doug,
To Leslie and Jae. to join us,
this sunny day, in merry boisterous chorus.
We brought you home-
You were just a wee sprout,
proud and newly grown.
Smaller that the baby
blueberry bush outside your window
We rooted you deep in the loam and dust of us.
We fed you on niblets of story and sunlight
And watched your spirit unfurl,
Curled and bold like blueberry leaves in early spring.
We waited for that first fruit -
That sweet tang of your tongue on words
ripening beneath soft petals of love.
You would thrive, we knew,
like the blueberry bush
we planted when you arrived, rooted deep in the loam and dust of us.
Spindrift clouds. The air breathes mossy and sweet. Some come with
fly-away eyes, others have pinpricks reflecting night. Their hair snaps
with static or sings with silk. Magic unfiltered. Robust smiles. Flared fingers.
Their lips sealed with secrets. The scent is unfelt - of whimsy, maybe.
A mess of pine bark, night-blooming jasmine, portulaca pollen and
octopus ink, I think. Of course, with underlying musk
of book dust. Their limbs are gangly or soft, hips slim and fat and more.
The sap rises in the dandelions to greet them, and the buttercups spread to meet them. Daylight blooms sweet when the witches come.