I remember ticking no religion
in my first job application form.
‘Yir a Protestant,’ he told me.
‘No, Ah’m no,’ I told him.
At his funeral a Catholic neighbour
said, year after year,
he signed Christmas cards comrade.
Things aren’t always as they appear.
Escape routes connected the pits
in case of disaster.
That’s another thing he told me.
Years later I see disused routes
under the fields and streets
between men, and imagine
lifelines buried in fists
blooming into palms.
Time eternally trudging forward
The one thing that never alters
How we wish to change it
stop it
rewind it
Erase the pages we have written
Write a new story
It would be better than this,
Right?
The leaves flowing in the wind
Displaying their green elegance
Like a shard of colored glass
They glisten like stars in the sunlight
Only to be brought down
By the winds solemn touch
Spector
On-looker
Overseer
Wallflower
Various labels
Various types
Though,
They all tie down to one thing
Watching
Observing
Catch every detail
Analyzing
Wordless
Are such thoughs
Such conceptions
Such quiteness
I remember that big hedge against that wall
Beautifully trimmed,
Flowers bloomed and withered.
Well maintained.
Then it was left there.
It grew and grew, unaware.
Until it was overgrown,
without a care.
Flowers bloomed wildy,
Branches sprawling, reaching out.
Butterflies started to appear.
Landing in each and every flower.
Blooming on the overgrown hedge.
We all grow.
With branches reaching out.
Where flowers bloomed.
Shuffling through the damp
leaf litter, I look more down
than ahead. Scattered
walnuts, intact and in pieces.
I pick up an empty half-husk,
the nutmeat settling, I imagine,
into the belly of the squirrel
taking stock from a branch
overhead. The shell surface,
sinuously crinkled, resembles
a rough netsuke carving
of a woman in a kimono
turning her back to me.
Flipping the nut over,
we meet face to face, hers
a cameo in the concave
in this era i look around
and not a single sad face is to be found
we always see people happy
doing things that they love
but we never see their scars
their broken voices from screaming
or their eyes that have no tears left to cry
and in this era it is very easy to put on a mask
most put on two
just like me and you
Walking down hallways
People look through you
Not knowing the names of those who look at them.
The watchers know their names
They won't care about yours
No one really gives a damn.
Those that give a damn, smile
They care to make your day brighter
You smile back.
Your brief smile ends, you walk on
Class has almost started
The day's a never-ending cycle.
The never-ending cycle will not be changed
All fear that with the change will come uncertainty
Those that care don't want that.
Those that care are the real middle school socialites
From this autumn garden row,
trim dried pods, open and scatter their holdings—
a smoke of tiny specks—
like postcards written, yet stowed to send as memories
of August when birdbaths stand frozen
and air drifts cold.
Each wrist-shake drops dozens of seeds—
each an onyx bead, each a whole code
for specific spring growth,
for the red aroma that calls hummingbirds home,
for sudden lofty stalks top-heavy with bubble-gum pink crowns.
And leave them alone on the dirt.
Some the birds will eat.
The rest may do nothing,
less, an impression of death,
as if black flecks of amphibole
Spine of a dog curves away from me and against, as heat
of a tired dog warms my skin through my sweater, through his fur.
He lies, front paws matched, chin tucked alongside them, neat.
One still beast; one, antsy with pen at arm’s end, cramming
the months and years and lives with rehearsals, games, dinners—
human scrawl. Earlier, no clock or calendar counting, we strolled
our constitutional past a father with toddler and tip-toeing terrier,
child chanting dog-dog-dog-dog at the approach of my friend (leaning
into me as I now lean back on him), switching to tail-tail-tail-tail,
as boy came even with the grand curl of soft tan feathers
waving from the caudal vertebrae of my fur child—
Sparkle Plenty basked
in sunshine on the back hill,
no doubt chewed at grass,
whatever the world laid before her—
as is the way with goats.
Mrs. Knott painted her portrait,
an unusual happening for a goat,
and now Sparkle Plenty gazes
from her contented place
at me, at my desk.
Her black paint eyes announce
a placid wisdom as if in acceptance
of the death which will follow the loves
and pangs and pleasures of her existence.
What Sparkle Plenty knew stayed
inside her small goat brain—
On water’s surface evidence of wind
also identical twins
of marsh grasses upside-down a darker tinge
also marbleized rainbow slicks
in quiets by black mud
also a stick
also a white plastic bag
red words say Thank You
Sky rides on water’s surface
perpetuates palette
without weight or repercussion
spreads sky grey to swamp water
stripes
SKY
LAND
LAND