habit forming

He has taken to worry
not something in his wheelhouse
never had a care in the world
It was always my occupation
until I gave worry up for Lent
and forgot to pick it back up

So now he has become a list maker
and a fine print reader
and a washer of hands singing
an extra verse for good measure

I am happily ensconced in his newly acquired habit
as the worry lines behind his mask
accentuate his beautiful blue eyes

translation

I read translations of poetry, books
written in a language I do not understand
which become books of poetry
in my language, I do not understand

I wish I spoke another language.
All I have is this cursive inked stained
language, spoken to my dead parents
and brother when I read prayers and psalms
of a dead king in translation.

I do speak a bit of wildness, river song
and maybe old catfish dialect that no longer
is in fashion or wanted or needed.
But there are times when we sit together,
the small brown sparrows and I

and we can communicate in sign language,
no feeding the birds or stop
look and listen

fortuna

shaded by years of childhood
and myths telling and laughter filling
in blanks I have come to possess
after a lifetime of living these
moments never to hold them close
again losing father then mother then
brother and the certainty of losses
to come I wonder at what life had in
store after all after all
that I had focused instead of
following the trail left
by inclination and desire
the bread crumbs from tables where
I wished to sit and sate
my appetites of word and syntax
and color fortuna

flicker

KODAK Digital Still Camera

KODAK Digital Still Camera

flames flicker still
behind my eyes
though the coals have gone soft
and gray
I rub two lives together
looking for smoke
to rise

burning it down
after building it up
you would think it would get
tiresome
but since I have nothing else to do
I draw plans for the next life
gathering sticks and stones
that will break my bones
and start again

the smell of burnt hair
rises like a halo around my head
I wonder what
my mugshot will look like
smoldering looks
as I give rise to that phoenix
once again

tick

it is quiet
not quiet like completely silent
there are sounds of finches, a robin,
cooing doves, the rain

but quiet
away from cities and busyness and traffic
where I can hear my soul ticking like a tiny
alarm clock

the kind you used to see
sitting on the desk of your favorite aunt
or teacher
or your grandmothers vanity

I listen to that faint tick
and wonder if I have done enough
in my time
to bring peace
before the mechanism justs runs down

there are 36 righteous men in the world
holding our places to heaven
their foot in the door
keeping it wedged open
so we can slide in
no matter whether we listened to the
ticking
and did our best
to find quiet
and peace in this fraught world

panting at the door

Night of the Cold Moon

the door was ajar
open to the night
and its calls
and untraceable
sounds, rustling in the wind
wildness panting at the door

the masks they wear
loud mouths painted
and eyes covered
shielded from glare of sun
and moon
unselfconscious in their fury
wildness panting at the door

more than anything
wandering in the dark
they are what I fear

Spring, in the year of….

close up of leaf

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

be still
my heart flutters and
I wonder if I have forgotten my medication

my heart flutters
like a small butterfly wafting
against the cool morning breeze

there are no symptoms
of anything other than Spring
just Spring and all that goes with it

my heart flutters
Spring in the year of the plague

the sincerity of light

May sunrise

the sincerity of light
as the sun moves
from its morning to afternoon shade
its good natured
as nature most times can be
resting easy on the shoulders of old oaks
and old women
gently easing chilled worries and tender buds
from winters long ill-ease

its the goodfaith
of spring sunlight
as it sometimes hides behind gray clouds
or buildings, dark and shuttered,
the faith that its light will shine out
even if its in the face
of the April egg moon

And you can see in its earnestness
in the warmth of setting
blazes
scarlet and gold
gold enough to hold in your hand
to hold tightly in your hand
until the next mornings light