Scooting on a breeze,
Of every puff of errant air,
This feathered engine
Rides the atmosphere,
Delights in flights
To utilize its gear.
Piercing through its silent soar
With needle screeches,
Sharp cat cries, thrown before.
It loops and swoops
With smug ease in aeronautics,
Disdainful of earthbound men,
It hangs, nailed
Sing a song of whimsy
Baked in a sigh
Smiling slightly to itself
Thoughts like powdered butterflies
Sail through mild depression
Avoiding flakes of nervous shakes
Which promulgate confession.
If I hum or gently strum
The strings of light psychosis,
Subconscious things with hairy wings
Can initiate a stressful itch
Leading to thrombosis.
So never praise those thoughtless days
When sex and spiced salami
Fulfilled all yeas and doubtful nays
Through fate and fascination
To dreams of honey, pots of money
And excess of origami.
My rabbit has a passion
To chew upon my shoes.
The straps are castellated.
The tips are not good news.
My sheets have ragged edges
And bite holes in the middle.
The tips have cutout wedges
And she likes to fiddle
With eyeglasses on the table.
She flings them in the air
As far as she is able.
She leaps into my lap
With a heavy flop
Demanding that I pet her
And bites me if I stop.
“Here!” my older son had said,
And thumped the plastic bag on the bed.
Inside I saw the brown-red thing.
Small – rabbit sized.
Carefully I washed away the blood,
Dropped sugar milk into his mouth.
He lived with me one summer through,
A muskrat, slapping with webbed feet
Along the hallway floor.
Nosing back behind my books
Playing, like a kid, at secret passageways.
In the yard, he paddled in a water basin,
Gnawed bananas, raw fish and clams.
He returned my gentleness in equal measure.
Autumn, influenza took him off.
Why do these extra human crossings strike so deep?
It is, perhaps, that mute eye
Behind the closing door
That would, like me,
Prefer a moment more.
The consequence of Wednesdays
Parented by Tuesdays
Enchained in turn by Thursdays
That parse our times and lives
Assigns the rigid order
To package star events
That nestle in our minds
And join to make us whole.
Birthdays and deathdays
Stand resolutely planted
In foundations of our soul,
The anchors of the scaffold of our thought.
From these string ropes of continuity,
Hang bright colors out of gay events
Suspend black rags of tragedy
So that we run, along these lines,
The finger of our memory
To say,”Thus it was, and how.” And wonder why.
Over morning coffee, our ruminations push
And shake the rigid past, the bottom line
That says who we were and are and why it came that way
Because one scalpel minute, one fractured second
Of one assassin day.
This round plate
Sits on my kitchen shelf
Staring with its broad red rim
And bright central floral eye.
I have kept a bed in five nations,
Seen the sun arise at odd times.
I must probe with blind fingers
Into memory to feel origins.
Birthdays at age two and six and eight
Saw my mother pedestal my cakes
On this very plate.
It gives me history.
One glance, one touch
Confers personal mythology
When I am made young again
To endow the world with glow
Of golden morning sun
So a normal day will go
With all the joy of baskets of ripe oranges,
When sound will crash through moments
Like clean fresh water splashing
Over mountain rocks that clack
And tumble into chasms to a cataract,
Then shall I know time has been reborn,
Mind will yawn and shake itself awake.
Then will sharp eyes snare the small industry of ants
Who bear breadcrumbs in triumph
To succor busy fellows in necessary labor.
Each small bird will be marked in eagerness
And hopeful gaze for offering as I walk by.
The multitudes of leaves will strike silent lightnings
Of jagged blue sky as loving winds ruffle their green.
And I will know the goodness and the wealth
Of this, my Earth, who made me.