poem 68

Littlecity 

V.

we never forget love swirlin’ under stardust

swaying west in spins defying knowledge  

fueling decades of dreams we hold and burnish

like great-granny’s tiny spoon collection

began when her young man sent her one

during the war he never spoke of once he came home

never explaining how he got it or nothin’ 

about the brightly enameled castle on real gold plate

except how the castle looked in the moonlight

reminding him of Molly and their last night

curled together under a ratty wool blanket

in his dad’s old blue pickup top of buckthorn ridge

and how remembering lovin’ and talkin’ and cudlin’

in her arms got him home alive even if nothing else

hid inside him made sense no more

to keep on living he somehow found and bought Molly

another teeny gold enameled spoon every april

every year a different picture but always springtime

until he dropped dead filling in on the green chain

two days before he turned seventy

poem 67

debris jam

letters refuse

unwords writhe

broken piles

serifs caught

on ligatures

no smooth

fusing no

colors sounding

nothing

poem 66

online orchestra

my dear students

my dear colleagues

final project

penultimate—the moment before

you are in that moment 

you are that moment 

moment where practice before

where the instant of performance hovers 

we are always penultimate

always more works to learn

more performances to be played

alone     now             together     someday

for a few more moments 

we share time in late april

poem 65

Littlecity

IV.

our town—a muddy mix remembered and forgotten

seven generations long and we all forget when we fall in love

the ravages of skinhate losin' all meaning for a moment

in april in may in october when it seems love colors us equal

our children reflectin’ pools of our love and our hate

more mixed than not yet the lines remain between distant relations

held captive by what no longer holds meaning given meaning

in alcohol meth ridden weedy backyards backforties in pickup

beds where love consummated too soon too young so very

beautiful under oaks filtering starlight and dawn when we rush

home to crawl through double sash wooden windows peeling paint

poem 64

Littlecity

III.

morning sun pours yellow through

Café’s sixteensquare singlepane windows

worn wood mulleins pattern greening hope

as late april arcs and stretches across pineplank tables

young wives—some fresh and some already wore down

with furrows digging in for the long haul—

they laugh at the silence of their grimy working men

for whom silence is enough after mill racket

who tuck their raw oily sap soiled hands too coarse

for their wives’ tender still pink cheeks into pockets

with more sawdust than bucks and stop at the Longhorn

for one beer that somehow morphs into six or eight

they stay late are lonely are confused by their shiny wives

confused about the shattered wives they broke

angry at the computerized new trucks they can’t afford

telling each other how they love their old ford or chevy

or dodge or jeep held together with balin’ wire twisted 

busted knuckles bloody—their bright lives going dark

gone

poem 63

Littlecity

II.

young folks from outta town

with means [whatever that is]

bought a failing coffee shop

called it Café and started sellin’

organic lattes and chai and avocado toast

with bread from the bakery ran

out of a knothole kind of space

and lemon squares with drizzle

locals surprised to like such oddities

most days come drink plain dripped

black coffee and chew the fat

they order a fancy coffee and toast

to celebrate birthdays new jobs a baby

or whatever there is to cheer about

and to grieve together cause it’s easier

than grievin’ alone

poem 62

Littlecity

I.

busted town

held up by the casino

new fire trucks

new ambulances

new medical clinic

new dental chairs

new psych help and yet

empty store fronts wait openin'

wait boomdays surely comin'

the Lumberjack so long closed

its windows so lonely they weep threads

from abandoned hand-tatted lace

scratched chipped white plates

saucers flatware pots pans pitchers

coffee cups lined up wanting

hardware store shuttered

twisting greying lumber

crushes rotting stickers outback

...

For Thursday April 8th

poem 61

how fine this rising day

yet unexplored 

full of night's blue chill

poem 60

verdant foxtails rip skyward
knowing within without doubt
that dire drought parches its way east
pushing whispy damp mare tails
too high for rain to fall
too high to wetten whistles
they know seedtails must germinate
and swell and burst full and fertile
and dry and fly and fall widespread
like the coming secretive fires refusal
to reveal searing conflagrations ahead

poem 59

this day i fell into awareness knowing holding realizing

a year of biscuit baking already slipped past

and only as i whisked almond and hazelnut and barley flours

with more cinnamon and nutmeg and raisins than seems decent

the quick flipping fork clicking on the metal bowl ringing anniversary 

closing the music studio the first batch of biscuits and disbelief

the first deaths already numbers behind the eyes dying on screen

boring jagged memory holes in my heart in millions of hearts 

this day honey bees return to tiny purple maple flowers 

and hummers to the red and white salvia 

and peas stretch a row of promises in green pods

like our broken hearts our voices made silent our dashed dreams

our loses and brokenness hope coalesces in breathdaring whispers

poem 58

tiny rose slept all summer as if dead

with stubborn dull twigs and stillborn thorns

but autumn cloaked her stiffness in red going green

on winter solstice she birthed a single white furl

somehow she refuses wilting and welcomes the new

year’s somnolent sub-freezing days and cracking nights

she embraces the icy sun’s slowly stretching yellow lights

poem 57

what’s the use of hiding

ubiquitous things beneath

wealthy sodden privilege

torn grey selves in a ragtag

coat of colors           [o joseph]

[what we despise we sell]

[our jealousies sated]

[enslaving only to find]

[ourselves enslaved guilty]

[hide it all away]

[as if by denial we are innocent]

toss all things on a cracked

creaking pine table

discover what lies

beneath that’s the bind

and rub isn’t it          [o mother mary]

                                [grant us mercy]

                                [behind locked white]

[doors dusky roses writhe]

[petals falling sweet crows]

[forgive our deceit]

[our grievous faults]

plundering hard red burns

softing blue intent away

what no longer asks

grieving questions

no longer cares       [o jason]

                                [give us a myth]

                                [a winged ram’s golden fleece]

                                [to cover our nakedness]

                                [give power and authority]

[ignore our sins]

[our murderous greed]

children and children's children

of fallen sweet crows

churning wings singed strong  

panoramic calling 

calling justice home

poem 56

i was once a girl alone

walking freezing dark streets

avoiding the broken men

crouching and coughing

by the cracking creek

unable to outstrip

myself

poem 55

Regret

Sometimes the long line knocks,
shoves aside the dusty boot holding
down the threshold barring the door,
where the other dusty boot scuffles acrid
stale billows—thought left behind—rolls
between wobbly, oddbodkin knees shaking  
with demands thought better of and set carefully aside.
...
 
REVISION

Regret

Sometimes the long line knocks on my barred door,
shoving aside the dusty boot holding down the threshold,
while the other old boot scuffles acrid stale billows
that roll between wobbly, oddbodkin knees with demands
thought better of and carefully set aside.



(Thanks to Bev Lyon for the great revision ideas.)