Everything began when the larger dog attacked the beagle and drew a six-inch bloody gash across its side. Nick rushed to his dog, picked it up gently and carried it to the porch where the old man sat reading the newspaper. “Can you give me a ride to the vet?” he asked. Before the old man could answer, he added, …
We hike the northernmost trail near the glacial wall
of ivory and brass, rust and pyrite, a gold vein
through a spit of silver ore, the path passing under
roped purple vines, thick and settled, climbing wind stalk,
the red ladened clay of storm sculpted paper birch.
Everywhere a flutter of redwings and large velvet ants,
yellow and crimson, a great green eye on each wing.
The way goes into a small dip past a chocolate swamp,
rising to cotton candy arrowroot, mocha creamed asters.
When we make the eighth turn, we enter a field of tall bone grass,
iron shaped bent by sun and rain, a crisscrossing of shade and smell.
The noises around us never deafening, but always present,
chirps, geeks, glops, slocks, chings, slobbers, blimps,
a static and song — so many songs — so many harmonies.
When we reach the ridge, we can see the Cloud Maker releasing clouds,
the Head Tattoo Artist inking the bark on newborn trees,
the Master Gardeners busy — and there is a sigh, a soft burp,
and we begin the short walk home to where the southern trail begins.
Here’s a little side trip for your lock down. (Read another pome about this garden on Michael’s page – check it out.) – mh clay
We did all we were supposed to do, and then some,
is this the only life we are meant to live,
the only song we sing,
the only dance,
the only haiku,
the only romp through snowdrift or piles of fallen leaf?
How often do we wake to tattoo gardens of distemper,
rabies and shots across the stomach?
That was last year.
Now we wake to lilac bushes and a frenzy of honeybees,
bright wood carvings in the last oaks to the west.
The phlegm of hope, a flicker
bird resting on the windowsill, dust
and fog, a longing for sleep,
one wing lopsided by a near accident last night.
The shortcut to Steven’s house was about two blocks from the train station. Every day he walked on one of two train tracks. He could smell the home cooked meal his sister had bragged about two hours earlier. When he saw the train coming towards him, he took a step to the left and easily reached the other track. He …
How do you know which day it is when night falls
or the minute hands within an hour’s seconds,
but we can draw the stars across our trees
and count leaves, the breeze, their seeds.
Tomorrow may be too late to remember
and the face of the clock too obscure to forget,
but we can drive into the ocean darkening
and watch shadow blackening, harkening.
Last evening the Northern Star fell from grace,
plummeted into our garden’s late afternoon tea,
but we heard it’s echo—its echo?–in its final falling,
stalling, calling, trembling into a kind of crawling.
editors note: Cloaking clouds, umbrella sky; loudly rips the hole where stars fall through. (We welcome Michael to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
One by one the cliff erodes,
ice bores deeper,
words stop making sense:
abyss, crucify, alliteration—
passion comes in through fog.
Who claims we must remember?
Skin always knows pain.
fingertips happiness, feet satisfaction.
We can feel the answers. The questions will come, in time. – mh clay
I am disgust in this little town
and my legs no longer brilliant.
O Lord! O Tambourine Head!
O Beautiful Beast of the Mountain!
I eat tambourine plates
and everything caught in a net.
When the strongman cut his toenails
When the weak man let his hair grow
The food on the table of plenty
fed the nation with blood and flesh.
When the strong took on themselves
When the weak rose to the challenge
We ate squid and crayfish.
We ate oyster shells and banana skins.
When the man lets go of his vanity
When the men let go of their vanity
There was enough to go around.
There was always enough to go around.
When enough was enough. How much is that anymore? – mh clay