Hand on the Wheel

Oh I remember it well:
all week in the bitter frost the trains were crying out
"Don't drive me so hard. Mercy, mercy,"
to the hand on the wheel.

And all over town the tender-hearted
wept for their lost ones and whispered
"Mercy, Beloved,"
to the hand on the wheel.

The earth groaned in her orbit
and the moon with her million meteor scars
wrote their pleas against the darkness: "Mercy!"
to the hand on the wheel.

As flour calls out to the mill
and stone to water: "Mercy!"
every living heart begs mercy
from the hand on the wheel.

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Blues for Absent Friends

When twenty years had gone the musketeers were reunited
for one adventure, after which their fellowship divided.
Porthos was a hero, Athos had a dream
D'Artagnan was a soldier, Aramis had a scheme.

Oh Lord, we carried on and on for years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

We give too much into the care of strangely absent friends
as if we don't remember how the story always ends:
Porthos under stone, D'Artagnan on a mission
Athos of a broken heart, Aramis in suspicion.

Oh Lord, it seems we're victims of the years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

It's age and time that make the world a place of solemn strangers
and habit killed the hearts that had defied a thousand dangers.
Porthos never changed, but Aramis was colder
D'Artagnan soldiered on while Athos just got older.

Oh Lord, deliver us from endless years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

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Under the Radar

You know it's safer to be under the radar. Look what happened when the stars threw down their spears. Meteors hit the curled back of the moon and left abiding scars. The firestorm wind pulled down trees everywhere.

And yet, the moon's precious heart wasn't pierced: only her shell was so marked. If you had never moved me, I wouldn't be waiting neglected by the telephone: still, the green sweep of the screen comforts me.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem

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Manticore (image)

Classically the manticore has the tail of a scorpion, the body of a lion, and the head or face of a human or ape. I've chosen to emphasize the scorpion aspect, as it's the part that disturbs me the most. This image goes with the Manticore poem.

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Untended Cemetery

3 Word Wednesday: Grave. Lithe. Offend.

neglect offends graves:
wind and lithe willow branches
sweep the headstones clean

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Cold Flesh Blossoms

The wind rumbled in last night
like heavy freight on an overpass.
No moans or whistles: just the growl
of bitter air and the tinkle of
frozen rose petals falling like tiny
scarlet windchimes.

The dead leaves felt it coming
days ago. They crept from my feet,
whispering anxiously with
cadaver tongues in a language
of sibilance and clicks. They
fear brittleness.

It's here to stay in the bone forest
the grove of frozen fingers
the cold flesh blossoms
among the tongues that only speak in hissing whispers
all drowned in the echoes
of the rumbling wind.

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Roses in December

December fifth, and though the trees are bare
there's still a rosebush with a late-blown bloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

a dab of red, a waft of scented air
a touch of August captured in perfume.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

and dead leaves rustle down the concrete stair
a scarlet blossom braves the winter gloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

on bushes as disheveled as the hair
of sleepers roused from winter-darkened rooms.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

defiant roses challenge the despair
of dead grass shaking out a seedless plume.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

although this morning, frost was everywhere
and on the calendar, these numbers loom:
December fifth. But though the trees are bare
a trace of summer lingers here and there.

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The Void-Gate Opens and Eldritch, Ichor-Dripping Tentacles Emerge, Writhing Hungrily

I mean, honestly. What does it look like to you? Apophysis fractal.
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William Stafford Birthday

Jan 17th, I've been invited to participate in the William Stafford birthday celebration at the Columbia Center for the Arts in Hood River.

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Solstice Spell

Sun going down
Candle and crown
Drive back the night
Lingering light
Edging the sky
Hovering high
Kissing the earth
Mistletoe mirth
Head of the beast
Fire-hall and feast
Bonfire and bough
Sun return now.

--for Read Write Poem's December prompt.
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What book am I? II

I'm... Romeo and Juliet?
Thanks to greenduck for the heads-up.

You're Romeo and Juliet!

by William Shakespeare

While people think of you as the most romantic person alive,
you may actually be more prone to offer practical warnings of what happens when
people follow their feelings too severely. You do believe that love has the power
to conquer the sharpest divides, no matter the cost. It's just not entirely clear
whether that cost is worth it. People spend a great deal of time referencing the
things you've said or even singing about you. Nevertheless, they are most likely
to describe you as "star-crossed".


Take the Book Quiz II
at the Blue Pyramid.

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Barefoot Shoes Blues

Woke up this morning feelin' for my barefoot shoes
Lord, it's come to something when you can't have no walking blues.

Some people tell me hard-soled shoes ain't bad
But I swear these barefoot shoes feel like the best I ever had.

Yeah, I woke up this morning and put my barefoot shoes on
And I looked in my sock drawer but all my socks were gone.

Well, I'm leaving my cross-trainers and I won't be coming back
I'm leaving them this morning, I got toeprints in my tracks.

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Black Friday Stomp

Warning: in bad taste.

Just see them crowding at the plate-glass doors:
they'll open soon, there'll be blood on the floors
as people fight to get those special deals.
The holidays are here, you know it feels
like we're dying in the Black Friday Stomp.

A ten percent reduction, though the price
had gone up yesterday to almost twice
what it was week before last. Oh, but wait:
include the manufacturer's rebate
and it's worth risking the Black Friday Stomp.

Black Friday Stomp, Black Friday Stomp
You can call it a dance, you can call it a romp
In dire circumstances, we bring on the pomp
and celebrate the Black Friday Stomp!

We barely can afford the food and rent,
the winter heating budget's overspent
but no-one can resist that sales tag.
So throw that one-time item in the bag
and fight through the Black Friday Stomp!

--for Read Write Poem's December mini-challenge, which seems to find me cranky this year.
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This is NUTS

If you Google PV=nRT... my sonnet comes up at #11

That's nuts. You want to tell me a goofy little poem that uses the ideal gas law as a political metaphor is more relevant than the hundreds, if not thousands, of chemistry and physics reference works that are available online?

Google works in mysterious ways...

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Department Store Display

3 Word Wednesday: Fondle. Kick. Sumptuous.

mannequins dressed in
sumptuous yet kicky clothes
fondle sleek torsos

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Super-mart Santa

The poor guy in Santa apparel
must think he's in hell all day long.
They stuff him as big as a barrel
the poor guy in Santa apparel.
He's stuck with the super-mart carols--
excuse me: they're "seasonal songs."
The poor guy in Santa apparel!
I think he's in hell all day long.

--for Read Write Poem's December mini-challenge
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Manticore

The Manticore lies at the foot of a rock
with his scorpion-tail arching above—
obsidian, with a pearly gleam of poison
at the tip. His mane is scarlet.

The sand all about is bare of tracks
for even snakes fear him.

The sky above is empty of birds
for their shadows fear him.

The Manticore wears a human face
but asks no riddles. His ribs are hollow.
He speaks the tongue of famine
to unlucky wayfarers. He drinks blood.

The desert is without roads
and the wind fears it.

The Manticore chews a camel's tibia
to splinters, then to dust. He has
no saliva. His teeth are like a man's
but bigger than a hyena's.

The world is free of monsters
but we fear our own shadow.

--for Miss Rumphius' bestiary
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Pomegranate Raspberry Green Tea

"My naturopath recommends green tea,"
she said, "but I hate the taste."

So I gave her a box of
pomegranate raspberry green tea.

Not for the anti-oxidants
(though it's got plenty)

but for heart. The ruby glisten
of healthy tissue. Clean white bones.

The roundness of intact rind. We are
such delicate fruit. And teabags

are frail banners to raise in this storm.
Pomegranate raspberry green tea

doesn't cure cancer, but it tastes like hope.

--image by Thanasis Anastasiou courtesy of Read Write Poem

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Reading in the Bathtub

If you are a reader you'll know what I mean
when I say that the left hand just never gets clean
from reading in the bathtub.

So what did you think about "Strange and Norrell"?
"The story is great, tendonitis is hell
from reading in the bathtub."

My books are all crinkled and spotted throughout,
the pages look wilted, like orchids in drought
from reading in the bathtub.

Some bookstores describe a used volume as "foxed"
but mine are more "ottered", or "salmoned", or "loxed"
from reading in the bathtub.

The love scenes are passionate, tender or dreamy
but when I read through them they all just turn... steamy
from reading in the bathtub.

There's splashes of bubble-bath all over "Dune"
and my mouth tastes of soap when I "Drink Down the Moon"
from reading in the bathtub.

I think that the S-bend that's under my bath
is clogged with the same Doom that came to Sarnath
from reading in the bathtub.

If greycaps appear in my house, it's a cinch
they sprang from my waterlogged copy of "Finch"
from reading in the bathtub.

And now I've destroyed my last copy of "Shane"
it fell in the tub and dissolved down the drain!
I think that it's time that I learned to refrain
from reading in the bathtub.

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Captain Obvious

Three Word Wednesday: Give. Obvious. Thanks.

GIVE WAY FOR SNOWPLOWS
DO NOT PASS ON RIGHT. Thank you,
Captain Obvious.

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Construction on Path

because each seeker constructs the path
with her feet, step by step
while the path unmakes itself behind. No turning back—
but there is returning.


and the best one is
your daily practice. But there's no free ride.
Sometimes you have to get out and push.


This is where the tunnel twists and dips
and you have to dive headfirst into the unknown.
Plenty of people have gone this way before
but I can't convince myself I won't get stuck
and suffocate.


the sound of the brazen hinges
on the gates massive as neutron stars
and hot as blue-white Sirius.
But here the remembering soul forgets itself—
forgets the doors are there
forgets the doors are.
THERE!

Note: This is a partially found poem. The text in the images is from signs currently posted on the Eastbank Esplanade.
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Pushcart nominee

Barefoot Muse nominated "Pleistocene Relic" for a Pushcart Prize.

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Mangoes by the Road

The roads into the hills are steep
and scorching powdery dust
clings to our ankles. Surrounded
by strangers and a language I don't speak
we stop to buy a mango.

The smell revives me. Food, drink,
ambrosia in a plain green skin.
Gold-rich juice cuts the road dust
from my thirsty throat. Flesh
strong as meat fills my belly. Excelsior!

--for Read Write Poem
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A pleasant surprise

The most recent issue of Eclectic Muse includes two of my poems-- "Ingenue" and "Cicisbeo". They make a nice pair.

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