....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
|
_______________________________________________________ White Tiger The beast hid well the lethal moment down inside the brilliant eyes, biding years of hoops and flames he knew in the center of his brain there'd be a day when "Hut! Hut!" meant the crepy, powdered neck was his and fangs like sliver moons would sink like knives in the throat of the stunned one who believed that he was loved. There is nothing quite as dangerous as the heart obedient and tamed: it bolts like sinners at opportunity, leaps at death for the happy thrill of it, by any other name it is anomaly- but it's real as the twitching magician on the floor. Never underestimate the will of a thing held down. What We Choose I hear the drone, the high insect whine of sweeper next door. Margaret is neatening her porch in the glow of the spotlight beacon, tidying the indoor/outdoor carpet so the needles from my pine will not be tracked inside on her Dupont one hundred percent nylon, faux Berber rug. I shrug. We work at what we choose: my work is words and Margaret's, something harder to define. I think it's keeping decay at bay one little speck of dust at a time, but to tell you the truth, I don't know which work says "We live, live live", and which one says "we die". I think they both do something desperately. Stone Truth It's hard to face the fact that deep down, I'm a coward, shaking in my shoes, unable to give even marginal comfort. When I'm needed most, I have the tensile strength of soft aluminum, twisted into nightmares that I take to you so you can understand what's on the inside of my skin. You don't know what they mean, but still you pat me. I crawl back off to cave to count my bones- make sure they are all there, convinced that you have one that sings to you, I cannot help but feel there's something ......................................................................missing. Another Day The old westerns have showdowns: an appointed time, close ups of the town clock, two beaded foreheads- fixed eyes that stare at fate. My own clock on my nightstand, pearl gray light at the window shade- morning again. Dew beads grass, I rise reluctant but resolute; nothing now between me and the day, countdown of the next twenty four just started. Party Of One I don't cook. Clean as little as possible. Phone turned off, just one who's close to me- children, grown distant- they are the holiday cards. A job viewed as nothing more than a way to pay the creditors- coworkers kept at elbow length- birthdays, gossip as indistinct as a Monet. Peripheral color; never focus. I live close to the vest, careful of encroachment- I watch for the approach of strangers in the distance so I can close the gates... it's taken a lifetime to get here. Possibilities Of Paper New notebook on my nightstand; gray- spiral looped at top, big golden wire so I can flip from thought to thought, pour parts of my insides in there, fresh paper every time. Poems lined in blue, keeping everything straight- I am a crack recorder. Nothing like the look of a new notebook to make me think I may, afterall have something left to say. Before Dawn, Eighth Day The calm of a cat's back before the ripple up wave of noticing the smallest change of air across the fur- that smooth quiet is my soul o lord, contemplating day, dark before your disturbance on the surface of the waters whereupon every manner of thing can be created new, and each day now the eighth one of creation. Those Were The Days Remember when firemen were the men who coaxed the cats down from the trees, jimmied toes out of bathtub drains and stood in clots of cars collecting money for the crippled kids? Those were the days before the strong and quiet rubber booted servants became gladiators- icons, martyrs, Supermen. America wasn't exactly made of innocents but didn't we all still feel like little kids back then? Pretty Harbinger Big old crow waddles like a fat man strolling on the grass, his head turns this way, that- spit shined feathers winking in the startling sun and every one says look at me, I am the daylight death just passed you by- I take my time. House Blown Down Big beast wind knock knocks the clapboard siding, shakes his tambourine. It's seance time and some old rage is stirring out there. Knuckles large as boulders rap the roof and soon a battering ram will find me small and crouched, a baby praying that the monster doesn't really want to eat me. To be anything but five again when wind whips up Old Testament mad and hungry, I just know it wants my innocence, a thing I do not have. A thing it's taken long ago. At least, it felt like wind that blew the former house down. On To Page 25 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
|