Black
Noir feels opaque
in a nocturnal sort of way,
shadow takes a step
the lamppost talks to nobody
alone with the night.
The Fall
Gracefully leaf swan
twilight and unfolding
you wither age,
green becomes
yellow and
settles
upon this ground,
a white page of mirrors
reflecting the dew
it all steeps in letters.
The erosion decays the sun’s face
and the hours pass ghosts.
The Raven returns to nest fences
the smell of a rustic cedar mist
lingers like the whispering grass.
Hillbilly Rhetoric
Came home running,
Harboring cruel ideas
And states of mind,
Miscegenation
In his back pocket,
Ill informed
The bottom line,
He came home stumping,
Nurturing idleness
and unemployed,
Pushing guilt
And playing the victim.
Came home humming.
Humming tunes of hatred,
Singing songs he didn’t know,
The meaning of words,
Nouns,
Verbs,
Adjectives and adverbs
That destroy,
Destroy populations,
Misconstrue and stunt Relations,
Conflict
Remaining generations.
But he didn’t know better,
His mamma raised him up
This way,
He came home running
Caught a jigger by it’s toe.
BREATH
If the tree between buildings breathed
Animosity among its leaves.
If skin color were different kinds of air.
If photosynthesis contracted itself
Through song. Why does the mudslide cover
That river and not the one nearby?
How does a fish breathe on land
And a human underwater?
In the exchange of gases, what is a tree?
BEFORE TOO MANY BREATHS
When I walk outside my tenement on Lamon Avenue,
The first breath of air heavy with the cleanliness of camping,
The wet of the living, the rabbit smell spinning across the lawn,
The song heavy robins, a breeze through my hair like flights—everything
Content and perfect in this part of the world.
AFTER THE MOON FILLS ITSELF WITH MILK
the lightning bug tree
in the middle of the grove
the sand break
in the middle of the river
the blackened angel cloud
in the middle of the noon sky
the stone and red leaf,
the driftwood and oyster puddle
the cold rain of winter,
a brown bear waking to the snow
a track along the ice
in the middle of the storm
December, the drought ending,
rain washed trees bleeding their color
and one quarried house
at the edge of the great swamp of snow
Nonreciprocal Altruism
Think uncommon.
Reflect on the eternal.
Find the favor returned?
Tit for tat?
Timeless stares the unwary down,
reveals none of its hoary secrets;
irrelevance disguised as epiphany,
irreverence cloaked as compassion-
crocodile tears for the human condition.
Forever lies in wait, finds fools suffered gladly
with its wiles employed solely for the purpose
of seducing the previously sane into prophesy
as a self serving and largely propagational
maneuver.
Truth is clutched to an ancient bosom reluctant
to part with anything of genuine merit,
often confused with wisdom when properly ignored
by children of common knowledge while
ass-biting prophets into lunacy.
A particle of revelation occasionally tossed out
becomes a juicy quote destined to make or break
a species more enamored of pretty words
than of sanity desperately needed for true
survival.
Tit for tat?
Find the favor returned?
Reflect on the eternal.
Think uncommon.
— Bibelot
- "CHIRPEE" -
AM/PM
…to our balcony
alights three, blue Sialia
Family clearly sailed
Melaleuca
to sable through to perch the palm
feeder, she of he
& he, to Me squawks
that Song like to a Piper
soft alee, tips the
seedtreat scup, revels
aperch the orphaned Fichus
and glee Songs her Mate!
Giddy as Gilligan
with your every step
you walk on
everyone I have
loved like they
were nothing
but rose petals
on the floor
of a hotel suite
with each thing
you say
you speak
over the
hurtful words
repeating
inside me
like a movie
showing in
an empty
theatre
and with
each peck
on my lips
you give
the big
kiss off
to the
cast of
castaways
who have
been stranded
on my Island
goodbye
you Gingers
and Mary Anns
I have been
rescued
by a face
pretty enough
to sail a thousand
ships
The Way
You don’t listen
to common sense
you don’t go by
the map
you don’t read
instructions
and you don’t
care for advice
you want to
do things
your way
and who can
blame you
after all
you are God!
Just Crazy
It really
smarts
when smart
people
get stumped
and it’s
pretty unfair
when pretty
people get
bent out of
shape
and when
someone
with drive
is driven insane
and when
an organized
mind
gets all
messed up
and one
who seeks
answers
is questioned
and if
a questionable
character
isn’t frisked
or a frisky type
is sedated
and
a socialite
left alone
and a loner
escorted to
a party
while a major
player is
given a
minor role
and a
minor drinks
too many tequilas
well, these
are the times
that one
must
step back
to get a bigger
picture
of this little
planet
Forget Columbus
everything would be so
much easier if the
earth were flat
then nightly it
could just be
flipped over
like a pancake
and sunset would
be sweet maple syrup
pouring darkness
and each morning
we’d open our
eyes like eggs
sunny side up
in a
two sided
world
wars
would be
a coin toss
heads
or tails
we both
would win
Inner Child
you got a lousy rainbow
so what
sure as bad weather
there will be another
and your chariot
busted down
and never swung
low to carry you home
stop hanging on
to threads
leading to kites
in lightning clouds
you didn’t
discover eccentricity
nobody your age
should still be pulling
a red wagon
filled with flyaway weeds
dandelion dreams
stop trying to be
the Pied Piper
of the Peter Pan principal
as dragons
drag you down
through dungeons
of despair
when will
you grow
up and discover
that tree growing
in Brooklyn
and that
secret Garden
State highway
to adulthood
where like
Robin Hood
you can steal
from the richness
of your childhood
to give to
your poor
attempt at
maturity
It's not you
it’s not you
it’s me
and my
pre-conceived
notions
built on
fables and flicks
and urban
legends
told to me
over campfires
and cocoa
so don’t blame
yourself
I came here with
tunnel of love
vision
filled with
my father’s ideals
and my mother’s
idea of
what is good for me
and what’s bad
for my heart, health
and soul
I trust in
these inner
voices
to gauge
my outer vision
in my quest
for absolute
perfection
and that’s
why I am still
single at
forty seven
Lady Wen-Chi Has to Decide
Kidnapped from my father’s house,
forced to marry a Mongol chieftain
and bear his barbarian children,
I lived in tents, searched for food,
cooked over outdoor fires.
Now, fifteen years later, I’ve been ransomed.
Shall I saddle up, retrace the route
across steppes, rivers, deserts and mountains,
back across the Great Wall
to the home and parents I’ve longed for,
my books, parchment and settled life,
or remain with children I bore,
nursed, sang to, taught to walk—-
these children pulling at my clothes,
begging me not to leave?
Note: Lady Wen-Chi was born in China about 178 C.E.. At age 12, she was kidnapped by a Mongolian group called Hsiung-nu, taken to Inner Mongolia and forced to marry a tribal leader. When she first got pregnant, she wanted to commit suicide, but she found when her baby was born, she bonded with the child quickly. Fifteen years after her capture, she was ransomed, and did return to China. She expressed in poetry the pain of leaving her children behind, saying “I was grieved then by coming away, And now I hate returning.”
London Cathedral
St. Pancras Station—
a cathedral dedicated
to railway travel
dwarfs the ancient church
whose graveyard
it desecrated
in devotion to new gods
of the new age
Jim Daniels’ Poem
Upon reading “Skywriting” by Jim Daniels
I don’t know why
I liked that darn poem
which showed up
on my computer screen
or was it in the book
I picked up off the display
in the bookstore?
Or maybe I really didn’t like it.
It teases with possibilities
that might have happened,
skywriting or a helicopter
dropping dozens of balloons
or was it heaps of red roses?
And it had a pitiful ending,
love that didn’t last.
Yet I sat there - or was I standing?
I read all twenty three-line stanzas
then I sobbed - or was it just a sigh?
My Real Name
Mother didn’t know
when she named me
that Wilda means
“the wild one.”
Maybe that’s why
she said, “don’t go
out of the yard,”
and was surprised
when I wandered off
across a weedy field
toward town, chilled
my toes in ripples
of the forbidden creek,
climbed to the flimsy top
of the locust tree.
By the time I went
half-continent away
to college, I was tired
of what I’d been called
as a child, chose
my new nickname,Wendy.
Honest, I didn’t know
its ancient denotation:
“the wanderer.”
Now it’s my daughters
telling me go this far
and no farther. “Surely
you didn’t climb the pyramid
at Chichen Itza.
You might have fallen
down crumbling steps.”
“No! You’re not going
to Ghana next spring!
Really, Mother!”
Jaguar Night
Moths orbit hissing lanterns.
Wing shadows dance across your face.
Outside the tent mid darkening
woods, the jaguar’s luminous eyes
pierce the night seeking tapir, fish,
unwary bird, whatever prey
will fill his sleek belly. Moonlight
filters faintly onto paw prints
as we push the tent door aside.
Dare to hike in this eerie light
to the gnarled tree where hunters placed
ten jaguar skulls, eye sockets black,
grim teeth poised. Watch for one
golden dappled coat, one leap
from high branch to forest floor,
those unrelenting claws at work.
Those carved jaguar shapes protected
Mayan temples, tombs and thrones.
Ancient Aztecs sacrificed still-beating
human hearts at jaguar-headed altars.
A lantern flickers. Will you come?