Haiku for Ka (Mosquito)
Into the thick of the nest
The sting is sharp painful and fast
Many red stains on the wood
Drinking and driving – phantom #8
Every day someone looses someone dear to their heart,
Mother’s loose children, Children loose parents everyday,
This is a hard fact to accept, it often tears us apart,
To many lives are not lost but taken, I hate to say.
Mother’s loose children, Children loose parents everyday,
To many people drinking and driving, lives taken real quick,
To many lives are not lost but taken, I hate to say.
So many family members mourning, it makes me sick.
To many people drinking and driving, lives taken real quick,
A family driving home, from a family vacation trip,
So many family members mourning, it makes me sick,
These poor family members died before the car flipped.
A family driving home, from a family vacation trip,
Laughing and singing, can’t wait to get home,
These poor family members died before the car flipped,
When the drunk driver , when to text on his phone.
Pathways = Decisions
Before me lies a path
Stretching for miles
Leading to parts unknown
Should I take it?
Should I wander from its presumed safety?
Robert Frost said he took the path least traveled,
Shall I do the same?
A river runs peacefully beside me
Should I swim across?
Take a chance on what may lurk just below its surface?
The mountains’ icy peaks look inviting
Shall I take my chances there?
I zip my jacket
Adjust my pack
And continue down the path
God laid out for me
Nobody Has A Friendship Like Us
Every girl needs someone like you
Someone to trust
Someone so true
You care not what people think
Of your hair
Of what you wear
You don’t care if they disagreed
You’re not here to please
You are perfect
Because you are you
If someone hurts me
If someone threatens
You are there
To protect and defend
You love me unconditionally
No matter what I say
No matter what I do
The truth is the truth is the truth is the truth
Nobody has a friendship like us
Southern women
Loud and southern and tattooed
Is the ladies I’m surrounded by
They are possessive and matronly
Some had kids when they were kids
Some will have kids soon
Some piss in the yard
Expect to spent money
On a fuckin’ boat
Menthol and vodka sweat
And a one piece bathing suit
Rio plays and nobody dances
But they like Bowie on Facebook
Such is my life through beer number eight
But a life surrounded with southern women is always great.
home
we carried her poetry in an old lunch box
metal, with a broken clasp
so we tied it shut with an orange bandanna
and put a sunflower in the knot
there was a faded picture of Kermit the Frog on the outside
I led,
we took turns carrying the lunch box
as we maneuvered the boardwalk of Yellowstone Park
the stench of sulfur crept into our clothes
we knew we’d take the stench home with us,
she followed behind
in her wheelchair
the eagle floated the stretch of the river beside us
while she floated, using those electronic controls that respond to her lips, her breath
steering her own way on the boardwalk
content to follow behind, mostly so I didn’t hover
free to glance
at whatever caught her inner eye
selecting images and collecting words along the way
so that when we arrived at the end of the boardwalk
at that big deck in the mountain meadow
where moose wander by
I would open the lunch box
drop the sunflower and forget it there
pull out a new piece of paper
she asked me to use the purple pen
and scribe her words
if I could choose one
to walk or fly, I’d choose to
give eagle a ride
she titled the poem “home”
A Walk in the Mountains
Senses struggle to resist
The chance to explode
To become one with the divinity that surrounds,
Envelops,
Embraces.
The deafening rings of the muted sounds of nature,
Save for the sounds of
Breaths,
Footfalls
There is only solitude.
Whispers of the slow moving river
and the humming insects.
Eyelids close,
Having had their fill of beauty.
The clear waters leave a question as to its frigid depth.
My head bows,
In humility at the omnipresence of the snow-capped mountains.
Everything is in balance.
Hour Nine
Lonely Mountain
Granite, cragged and shrouded
like a white-scarfed grandmother,
the mountain looks over the shoulders of trees,
past the crumbling rushes,
into the still green water.
Autumn on the mountain is frigid,
cold seeps from the bones of the earth
into your bones and mine, while the wailing wind moans
“they left me here”
“they left me here”
“they all left here without me.”
City Muse #2: Boston
City Muse #2: Boston
Frannie Z
From campus,
Autumn cascaded over roads
like another sky.
The “real” sky breathed
over skyline, where sea almost
poked in, but only obtruded
in bays.
I walked and walked,
never tired.
I became my own trolley.
Spooling rails, slipping, greased,
over dreams,
I yelled Whitman’s poems
from bridges.
Cambridge sang: a concert
every night.
The streets stayed lit.
Late voices arrived,
just slightly drunk.
I grew so lost at times,
I could have been a car,
but a happy car.
Even in snow.