Snake
Lost limbs with fingers stubbed
legs that do not run when it is hot
scare others
wear clothes of bright colors
taste sensations
Leather boots earned not bought
Poisoned words
slimy, sneaky quickness
Hour 9 (2022)
Off prompt/free write
How cruel is it
that ashes are all
I have left of you
to hold on to.
And no matter my grip
you will still slip
right through my fingers.
Creature Feature #2
Creature Feature #2
Eating popcorn in front
of a black-and-white television,
my fingers drenched in
melted butter and iodized salt.
The Bride of Dracula
has made her fatal mistake,
while Frankenstein’s monster
only wants acceptance
from a crowd intent
on his eradication.
Next week, the Mummy
will lumber across my screen,
mindless as a drugged cow,
and I can stay up as late as I want,
at least until the test pattern
emerges. I watch everything,
the late-late news, the grand finale:
a rendition of the Lord’s Prayer
in sign language. Turning off
the television feels like saying goodbye
to an old friend I’m not sure
I’ll ever see again–or if I do,
one of us may have changed
into a creature no one can recognize.
I am already different:
my bathroom mirror shows a face
that has lived through
multiple bouts of terror,
and I haven’t even begun.
Prompt 10 – Somnolent Drifter
Iridescent drifter
Somnolent in
your lazy pursuit of sweet nectar
Ruby throated dancer
Slowly sipping
the endless charms of summer
Warthog School of business
O dainty and dignified Warthog
i see you every morning
at University City
Walking your concrete red carpet
not quite tiptoe
but en pointe
You’re the Natural Nutcracker
for the
Pennsylvania Ballet
Fudge!
Oh, how I remember
learning to make fudge with Mom.
Crisp Autumn night, no school the next morning.
Perfect time to mess up the kitchen.
Her favorite saucepan awaits ingredients on the stovetop.
Beautiful brown label box, with white and yellow writing.
It says Cocoa and above that the brand
that begins with an H, the same
as that candy that doesn’t ‘melt in your hand’,
except that it does.
In goes the sugar, in goes the cocoa powder,
Don’t forget the salt (giggles get louder.)
Next, the milk and stir, stir, stir.
Bring it to a boil, but don’t boil it over!
Get a cup of cold, cold water and a spoon.
At just the right time comes the instruction to drop.
Drop it by tiny spoonfuls until it
Forms soft (not too soft) balls in the water.
Now is when things move fast! Get a stick of butter, quick!
And the vanilla! and the wooden spoon.!!
Now Mom says, this is your part… beat it, hard and fast
Until it thickens at last. Hurry now,
Pour it into the square pan. You did grease it!?
Favorite memory… all of it didn’t make the pan!
Hour Ten – Dodo
Dodo
Actually, it makes all kinds of sense
On an island without large predators
With all our foodstuff lying on the ground
Flight was an unnecessary expenditure of energy
And so, we evolved
Perhaps you could stop using our moniker to mean stupid
Now that we’ve all passed on
Do a little evolving yourselves, huh?
Blackberry Picking in Kentucky
Blackberry Picking in Kentucky
Ashy legs dangled
from my grandfather’s weather-beaten flatbed,
wooden boards blanched from too many seasons of tobacco, potatoes, and corn.
A harvest of cousins, aunts, and uncles piled on with all manner of rinsed bucket
as my grandfather slowly dragged us into the woods to find wild blackberry bushes.
It was the hard red berries that gave the bushes with bruise-colored clusters away.
We — sticky with sweat
warned to watch for thorns
and snakes —
reached into the thicket to the promised obsidian clumps.
The flesh yielded beneath our fingertips as we
plucked and plopped the bouncy fruit into
pails.
It wasn’t a race because there were so many berries among the thorns,
and for the children
Time meant nothing.
Our voices joined the birds and frogs as we
blew on and ate a few of the more irresistible drupelets
pressing the balls of the fruit to the roof of our mouths until they were
flooded with juice sweet and tart like memories.
When all the buckets were heavy laden with fruit,
we meandered home.
With fingers stained the color of sacrifice,
We offered the buckets to my grandmother
to be made into a plethora of dark and delicious things.
Mama Squirrel
We call her Mama Squirrel
because all these little babies
we know came from her
Every night we sit out
wait for her to show
mangy patches and swollen eye
“Hey Mama” we call
and throw her a handful
of raw peanuts
Some she eats
some she stuffs
and runs
Not to bury them
but instead to offer
to her neighbortree friends
Mama’s Peanut Kitchen
has been running
for three or so years now
Feeding scraggly squirrels
Bluejays and an occasional raccoon
Mama don’t discriminate
And when the summer comes to a close
and Mama checks her larder
she’s none the worse
for having shown a little compassion
There is a way
Circumstances can change you for the better
Or upend your life
Either way
Flex and roll and
Be done with it
All seasons must end
No matter how long they seem
Life will be better