Witnessing Something Soon to Come

The shroud of snow and ice

lifts just enough for more shades

of brown.  There is a fifth season:

The season of snow and mud.  Patterns thin

in delicate layers of fractured

ice show the earth’s color

underneath.  An array of future hues

is hinted in dirty white.  Birds sing the gray

away while rays from the sky cause the filthy drip

down sewage drains.  All will flush clean.  Fresh life

exhales.  Another revolution of the planet

promises not all is lost in the whiteouts plaguing

past weeks.  The ground will soon begin

to rupture in a rapture of crocus.

Baby Bone

If my sons wanted to return

to their mother, there is no longer a place


for me to keep them warm, sheltered.  No

womb to shield their tiny bodies


from the callous, calculated criminal

world that I should have considered


its cruelty before bringing such beautiful

beings into being.  I grieve for my sons.  Their mother


castrated because healers are no longer

healers. Butchers. The healing arts conduct


Capitalist business for all possible profits

to please CEO’s and personal expense


accounts.  Boys, your mother was aching,

sick and poor which lead to profound


pain of being dissected, disembodied, disavowed,

decentered.  Her pocketbook kept her


marginalized.  She sought help

assuming the Hippocratic Oath


didn’t make of those who take it

hypocrites.  She was sorely mistaken, by-effect


became systematically sterilized by the privileged

order of prefixed names.  They told her


it needed done: she would have a better life

if she sacrificed her sacred womb.  Now, children,


all she does is mourn the loss of your first home.

Small Echo of Toads


Tired of wishes,

Empty of dreams. 

            ~Carl Sandburg


Sitting, smoldering in smoky shadows

her eyes ablaze of passion to go

unseen and ignored. She sits barefoot, one

leg stacked on the other like logs

in a fire, searching for a melody enchanting her

darkness to dance, but only the croak of toads

echo in the air tonight.  It remains the same

all night long, as the sun beckons the unemployed,

underpaid broken faces to rise—no longer needing

to feign sleep.  There is no sleep in

times of worry.  She sat there all night finding no reason

to get up, let alone dance.  As women pull themselves

from their beds to feed children too sleepy to welcome

the sun, she closes her eyes to imagine

what a hymn of grace would resemble.

Then she poses her body as a corpse trying to breathe

deep into her being.

Sad Song of Trees Swaying a Female Figure

No broom can sweep up

fragments of a broken


heart.  A barren branch

doesn’t move the splinters of shattered


glass.  It stays splintered

in the chest, every beat a stabbing


from within.  Everything is fractal.  The world is

nothing more than patterns: glasses


lining a cupboard from largest

to smallest, dishes stacked


by size.  The cupboard nothing but a box

made of dead wood.  Each knot a mile


marker for the passing of time.  Behaviors

repeating year after year, decades praying


for dust to dust.  Every neglected tear

from that shadow of a woman fills rain barrels


for children’s songs, but you never want to be her


best friend, you never want to come out to play

with her.  Sullen in the shade of the menacing tree


line of a dense forest—listening for the crack of breaking

limbs to run under—she will become a specter


forevermore.  The wind will carry her to become one

with a crippled mountain sitting there waiting


to have its top blown to bits in a furious lust

to steal every smidgen of energy.

The End of It

After it all she goes away.  The night

wind is a wild horse bucking as a heart

full of anxiety. A pale blonde—that golden

plant—simply stood in a place

she had no business being, in

front of a door.  The thought of who was behind

the lock is life-times away. Knocking on that

forbidden form made her tremble. Speaking softly

to herself as if he could hear her, Distant you,

hold me in your arms, listen to the howling in the air

made of horses racing away from this place.  Living

and dying in her head, she wrings her hands

against the cold knowing the warmth of home exists

just beyond that door.  She quivers at the glass pane,

the dead tree shaped to shut out the world.  The struggle

she faces is harsh, looking at that threshold

she isn’t permitted to pass with tired eyes.  Catching

the muffled laughter beyond the brick and mortar of a house

that isn’t hers, it rises in the sky seeking open air to a life

that has been locked for so long.  Her achy withering hands

slide into the pockets of her wool coat, a deep breath pricks her

lungs with shards of ice, each footfall leading her away

from desire and fear of rejection from a rare love.  The wind whips

her back with lashes of frigid.  Snow drifts over the path

she leaves as she walks away.   Moistness on her face

make her golden locks freeze to frostbit skin longing

to be touched for so long.  Locks she has grown for someone

who will never see the enduring time

it takes to grow.  In the blister of the northern February night

there is no evidence of any path from a woman wandering

alone in the dark.  With his brow on her brow, his mouth on her

mouth, that could warm everything, but the wind doesn’t

pass, so she knows something else instead.  Bitter

as bitter ever gets, the galloping wind takes her away.

Dancing in Various Shades of Shadow

Darkness makes being seen

impossible.  Silhouettes can be

ominous hiding the branding under her

breast, the mark that she was taken

as a possession.  The scar of things

no one should ever want

to remember is a past poltergeist,

in spite of how no one can see

it, it is always there.  The transverse,

electromagnetic wave seen by the naked eye

simply skips over that figure

female framed crookedly in the threshold

of a door.  She is the absence of light.

Some have said she is incandescent.  Really

all there is are various levels lacking

light.  Those who speak of her luminance are

sometimes mountains shading the dark dancing

figure from the harsh reality of burning

blaze —a permanence of earth for strong

footing—others are neutral, nearly massless

particles that hardly ever interact with the ordinary

matter of a branded woman.  Neutrinos traveling

faster than light function as love.  They come

in several kinds, called flavors, strangely

able to change from one flavor to another—form

never constant. It’s possible

that their faster-than-light abilities are what make

the woman’s dancing in the dark

seem to be a radiant loving dance to that sad ditty

you don’t want to remember.  That tearing

emptiness through a heart so drained

it’s dim, dried: the remnants of a dead

muscle.  Emptiness in the gut

proves there is no food more nourishing

than that for thought.  She wonders if only

mountains can understand the branding on her

flesh because the erosion is so similar

to the scraping away of flesh.

Tragedy and Silence Share an Address/ False Prophets Be Damned

The solipsist offers nothing

more than erudite insight of his own

failings, all of which he creates

the fiction of fancy beyond

himself.  We all know him

to be fallacious.  Every religion

warns of the false prophet.  Call him

the Laureate of Narcissism.  The insidious

nature of man and all his addictions

to himself come rallying forth in a grotesque

display of playing pretend.  Feigning to be a feeling

person concerned with the welfare of that

which lies beyond his skin. He is a fake.  Those

who follow the charmer make of themselves not even

snakes, but wriggling worms to be bated then drowned

with a sinker in his shallow reflecting pond.


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