Eat

fresh tilled soil revealed phalanges of innocents
disarranged,
chewed like chicken bones pointing or reaching
mixed with loose tree leaves that steel tines stirred in;
twigs snapped from limbs by some storm long forgotten,
and skeletons left behind after picking the cotton

the farmer sows afresh earth’s next crop rotation
seeds of winter wheat for bread we’ll be eating;
or grasses and sorghum for new cattle pasture
laid in shallow furrows with prayers for cover
anthem of living,
our losses forgiven in the harvest of summer

A Brief History of a Vacant Lot

in the city where they rise now,
weeds waist high in summer times,
aglitter under with still-luxuriant diamonds
when the sun shines just so,
even in winter
before lost under snow

all that's left of the window
from which a sweet Juliet surveyed prospects
playing touch football below in the street,
pausing gridiron glories for passing cars
or ladies with bags of groceries in arm

the broken tooth of the block,
just a lot, brick and rock
packed hard
under metal treads of reaping machines,
attracting a profane collection
of neighbors’ wind-blown refuse
to which none will lay claim today

the lovely vanished,
as if her gaze west as sun set
finally pulled her away through clear panes,
one life rejected limited, mundane
and left lifeless a cradle to crumble

none here remember her
every face changed, new as the years
or aged by insults of time and moved on -
nor she the stoop, once so sturdy and safe;
an ancient sycamore's welcome embrace,
cool every August,
would last forever
to the innocent mind of a child

and the woman forgot the crack
in the cemented back yard
where ants lived -
a girl once stared for hours
as they harvested
a crust of sandwich
hidden from the raucous street,
the heat of the sun,

which she decided to follow to its glorious end,
leaving behind a field fallow
where ants,
oblivious to a world that had changed,
fend, still, for a meal
in their broken concrete

Lost to Sighs of the Wind

Here it rests,
Splayed over lawn
Like a drunk old man
Finally lost legs and fallen.

Held fast through tempests
Long before I was born,
Sworn timeless -
Grandness embracing our sky,

Now crumpled, helpless
Across fence, on grass.
Numberless the seasons birds'
Nests were welcomed -
Summers alive with tapping
As woodpeckers hammered
Their homes in its branches,
Leaving as young were
Done with its shelter.

In Autumn, I once watched
A squirrel scamper a limb,
Disappearing, somehow, within.
Their secret's now obvious
As I can see the trunk was
Eaten hollow and empty.

The poor dumb giant
Spoke only when breezes
Animated leaves in evening,
Never given voice of its own
To decry those insults,
Feeding sweet fruit, instead,
To those creatures that ate
Of the strength held within.

Vibrant green life in spring
Was a veneer too thin,
As in living a lie
Finally admitted in sighs
Of the wind.

Counting Fireflies

In somber autumn dreams
we watch as clocks melt,
time the illusion once felt
on a creaking porch swing
one summer somewhere

when fireflies held in our hands
transcended brilliance of stars
because we sat there together
hiding smiles in the dark,
believing there was forever

Modern Existentialism

Thought I'd throw in with Sartre and Camus, but as my attention span is so short, the story is, too:

http://www.troubadour21.com/short-stories/zanfad/catching-ashes/

Faithless

Here to commit the quivering weak,
Feeding scurrying beasts
More reeking fodder,
Sentimental flesh no match for
Razor sharp teeth.
Banging pot lids, stomping feet
Hoping that rats near, feasting
On scraps and detritus
Will scatter amid bluster
Before eyes dare to open,
Perhaps catch sight of things
That might scare us.
And cans, never closed -
Left always ajar, an offering
Lest they grow too hungry,
Gnaw through walls and come inside,
Share foie gras
With guests hoped to impress
Now seated and dining behind,
Disgust them in sight of sins
Hidden back in the darkness,
Leaving fine linens soiled
With meals yet digested.

This body's been disposed before -
Innocent specter resurrected
By morning to fog up the mirror,
Reciting novenas as beads of his rosary
Roll in counts down its surface,
Never suspecting fate that awaits
As night falls once more.
Daytime is easier, drowning sound
From his voice in symphonies
Of piano and strings - Mozart's or Mahler's -
Other things of distraction...
That aren't there to hide in when
Sun fades and sleep tries to invade.
The figure repudiated, extracted
From psyche dissected years ago,
Like a tumor threatening to grow,
Swallow now from which time's made.
In pretense of conversion for the moment,
Take hand to lead him,
More fresh meat for the rodents -
Even saints sometimes lie
When they don't like the answers,
Atone deception later -
He still cries when I leave him
Alone at the altar.

Once a shaman, shaking dried heads
Tied to a stick with palm leaves
Promised mysterious potions
That would strengthen the weak,
Reciting magical incantations
Expected to exorcise spirits within
For all those who believed,
Practicing his science of faith
Or faith in his science,
For clients lined up at the door,
Seeking doses of hope that he sold them,
Returning each week for some more.
But for those apostate,
Left to stare in the glare of florescent,
Humors never found balance
In bloodletting, lancet nor leaches.
The weakness of faithless
Was in never tasting his cure,
Trusting tears could ever be
Wiped away by ice picks
He would thrust deep in eye sockets,
Or the sweet lies that he told them.
Holes left in one's soul
Could never filled by blue pills -
They couldn't reach them.


Missionaries positioned their ways
Through that breach,
Preaching new theology
That required surrendering
A reliquary of cherished memories
Precondition for salvation,
Discarding polished bones
We had kissed and prayed over:
Precious pink t-shirt,
Coil of hair still stuck there,
Though having no root
It could never be proved
From whom it was groomed,
But that was article of faith,
Who would dare question it?;
Used ticket stub, date imprinted
Indicating temporal truth that
Once something bigger existed
That we, too, felt part of;
Words bound in a covenant
Sent by saints in small pieces
Of lavender-scented mail,
Though having waited so long,
Faith in The Coming had wasted,
Perfume, long ago, faded...
To imagination.

And so, abandoned all hope of redemption:
A red rose rendered in oil,
Expressing devotion for eternity,
Lost meaning when it withered,
Watered by hope, as it was;
And castles built on clouds
Only come tumbling to ground
When we look up, stare at the sky;
The permanent brilliance of diamonds,
Become mere stones in the garden
When sown from a window up high,
Wealth for worms to covet and fight over.
Fools sift soil through fingers
In search of lost sacrament,
Finally planting their hopes
In the grave that they've made.
For forsaken, faith is just hope
Not yet ready to die.
But I think of the weak one I'll see in the morning,
Likely still worshiping old bones,
And reciting from memory ancient liturgy;
When I let it, a cacophony of questions
Can echo about paths never taken,
And why some vows, not others;
Wonder if there's a heaven for heathens
When clocks cease their ticking
Off nows that I live in.

Holding Hands

crickets whisper secrets to evening's breezes,
there where grass ends and trees begin.
limbs sway, heat of day rescinds
its sentence of old madness;
cool air invites to breathe
once again, and deeply,
sweet in flowers unseen
twilight descended;
mingled fragrance
renewed stale blood
coursed though veins;
and firefly flashes
now understood,
as brilliant as stars
that shine overhead
when stopping for rest
on an outstretched arm,
if only for a moment mine;
while starlight, never invested,
remains always at distance, and silent.
those unanswered questions, tonight, less pressing
Amid hushed murmurs of insects and thrushes at home in the wood