Rain
Insane, the rain
washing down
my window.
Insanity of raindrops
mixing, matching,
their Van Gogh
rainbow colors,
no artist’s eye
to select them,
just a false ear,
tin drum
to their sound.
They blur blossoms,
twist tree and bush,
water censers now
those branch ends
bending beneath
water’s weight.
Unseen, the island now,
nor visible the bay
beneath cloud blankets
wrapping them away.
Sun Worship
Worship the sun
as it rises over the hills
from whence cometh
its golden glory.
Trees and their forest,
forces older by far
than this Christian god,
walk in darkness
until touched by the sun.
Worship the sun ropes
that tie you to your daily work,
rejoice in your bondage,
for no man kills
to glorify the sun.
Sun, my father and my mother,
sunshine that floods my spirit
and enlightens my world,
here, before sunrise,
I raise my voice in a song
praising you, and your strength,
the life you give, the death
you will one day bring.
Mysterious Mist
Mysterious mist,
how I have missed you
wrapping and unwrapping
your gifts of seashore and sand.
So delicate, your will o’the wisp touch,
your fingers dampening my curls,
a delicacy of delight your butterfly kiss
laid upon forehead and cheek.
A distorting mirror in a circus
or a sideshow at the fair,
you twist things round your little fingers,
complicating our simple lives,
shape-changing them with dreams
and visions conjured from thin air.
Now you are here again, in my garden.
I welcome your presence among the trees,
your spirit enveloping the bees’ balm,
your crowning gift, soft-toned cone-flowers
where Monarch butterflies drift and reign.
Battle Axe
A battle axe, the children call her,
grim-faced, ageing, wrinkles
bone-deep scarring her skin,
a grimaced frown, much practiced,
worn like a fencing mask to keep
the world’s sharp teeth at a distance.
Over her shoulder, the mail-pouch
slung like a Viking’s shield,
swung to keep stray dogs at bay.
At her hip, mace and pepper,
twin guns in separate holsters, ready
for Rotty, cross-breed, and Pit Bull.
Wrapped in her coat of mail,
her eyes aflame, trigger finger twitching,
ever on the lookout for that one wild dog
to run the gauntlet of her gaze
and launch its all-out, mad dog attack.
Comment: I was disappointed with my earlier version(s) of this poem, entitled Mail Lady, and wanted a stronger, more forceful set of images that hinted at the perils of dog attacks on mail (and fe-mail [sic]) workers. This is the result.
Mail Lady
She walks past me, eyes cast down,
her warrior eyes unwilling to run
the gauntlet of my challenging gaze.
A battle axe, the children call her,
grim-faced, ageing, wrinkles
bone-deep sculpting her skin,
a grimaced frown, much practiced,
worn like a fencing mask to keep
the world’s sharp blades at a distance.
Over her shoulder, the mail-pouch
slung like a berserker’s shield,
brimful of letters,
bills in all probability,
yet exact contents unknown
until thumb or paper-knife
slits the envelope to reveal
the sanctity of its secrets.
Secrets: what secrets
does she carry inside her skin:
hope and joy or sorrow and tears?
She walks past me,
wrapped her in her coat of mail,
staring at the ground beneath her feet..
When she looks up,
a feral ferocity burns in her eyes.
I cannot match the fierceness of her gaze.
Photos
After eight years of retirement
I still have most of my books.
I keep them in the basement,
where no lights shine on the shelves.
Every day, when I come down to read,
I find more books than the day before.
I think they copulate in the dark.
At night, when I turn the lights off,
I can hear them all chattering,
and clattering away. At first, I thought
they were faking it, like human beings.
Now I am not so sure. What are they doing
as they lie there beneath their covers?
Books, a generic term:
I fear the dictionaries are worst,
lining things up in alphabetical order.
Then I wonder about the mysteries,
the philosophies, the religious tracts
that are hell-bent on controlling others,
but are notorious for not controlling themselves.
Whatever are they up to, I wonder,
as they rustle their pages and mutter
to each other on their shelves.
I have a collection of art books
with pictures of unclothed statues ,
not to mention real, naked people.
I am afraid to look at the photos.
Two Dogs and a Deer
(Cherry, Hanna, Jasper, and Lucinda)
Two dogs and a deer:
the deer, heart in mouth,
bounding away from the lawn
seeking cover in the trees.
The gold dog bounding too,
a rocking-horse bounce,
from back to front, lurching,
falling behind the black dog,
the latter, smooth as a train.
The enemy having fled,
shoulder to shoulder they return,
across the green grass of the field,
the victors, side by side, panting,
sides heaving, triumphant, grinning.
What heartbreak as these memories
fade and fall behind. Long may they
linger in my dreaming mind.
Disinformation
I reach for a life raft
and
find only an apple
bobbing in a barrel.
Now I must grasp it
firmly,
like a stinging nettle,
not with my hands,
but blindfold,
and
with my teeth.
When I feel its fangs
I sense the snake
beneath the skin
and know some one
has slipped a serpent
into the I feel lucky dip.
Mont Blanc
(for Chuck Bowie)
“But what is that stick-like thing
between notebooks and mouse?”
“That stick-thing by my mouse,
as you so elegantly phrase it,
is my Mont Blanc fountain pen.
It’s also a metaphor app.
You stick the blunt end in your ear
to wind up your brain,
then you carefully clean
the tip on a piece of paper.
If it leaves suitable marks,
you read them like Runes
and use them to create metaphors.
You can also use it to conduct music
or to take a thin, blue line for a walk.
It’s very useful for poets who don’t like
staring at computer screens, and with one
they rarely suffer from writer’s block.”
Moon
when the glue of the universe
sticks to your fingers
the turtle’s snap
is a red-tailed kite
sky blue across the marsh
where now the will o’ the wisp
that ragged wanderer
in his tinker’s coat
all hash-tags and patches
frost crisps the leaves
dry cactus in a tilted rain stick
they patter and fall
three deer watch from the ditch
twitching their ears
gibbous this rabbit moon
night hung from the sky
who will gnaw next at the rind
of its round yellow cheese
