My Perennial

This boy I’m growing
planted with hugs and sunshine.
Keep the frost away.


The Ice Age Began in 2019

We then zipped up parkas for the first time,
Left dead trees. No more lemon no more lime.
Alligators dead in three feet of snow;
blood too cold, became rocks in this clime.

The miles that we traveled further south.
No place warm. Everyone with scarf to mouth.
Headless snowmen and mute snowman babies-
effigies- Shamans praying for a drouth.


Dandelions

Not too sweet. Softness
staining sunshine on my nose.
Breathing in happy.


Ode to the Eighties

Grape kool-aid in my favorite kool-aid man cup,
(although we all know all colors tasted the same;
but fun to pretend the rainbow was fruity).
Danced to the record Mom played from
that huge magic music-in-a-box.
(Doing the moon-walk on carpet was tough
but I made a valiant effort).
Back outside on bike. No helmet,
and band-aids laughing in the breeze
(why we even bothered putting them on in the first
place…?)
Back inside for dinner: mashed potatoes and
pork chops with white gravy accidentally
dribbled on my plastic floral placemat
(it stuck to the table a little).
Back out to the gravel and grass
until bedtime. Hair full of dust
nimbuses and smell of all earthly permutations.
(no more band-aids on but too tired to care).


The Girl With the Moon Flocked Gown

She either loved too much
or not at all.
Heart leaning on a crutch.

She waxed glassy and tall
in bulrushes.
Her heart learned not to fall.

Days hunting with thrushes
head bent, eyes cupped
feeling the earth’s flushes.

Heart about to erupt.
Time to lay down.
Love asked to interrupt.


If I Were a Lily

then maybe you would have noticed the grey mold:
fungus infused tears devouring my stalk.
Maybe you would have noticed
slugs sleeping on my stamen;
heavy and burdened with slime.
Maybe you would have noticed
the rabbits gnawing at my heart,
and you would have protected me.
But you thought me a cactus:
strong enough to live sparsely
hold droplets forever and carry them
and not get tired.
prickly enough to never
feel warm bee breath on my face,
and the sting of despair.
But you were wrong.
Break me open and oceans fall out
messy, profusely, and brine flavored.


My Favorite Willow Tree

Now that I look back at it-
I think that willow tree was haunted.
But not in that scary dramatic stab me in
the face with a branch type of poltergeist and
that’s what I get for following the voices; no. But
more like fairies and a nature boy from one
hundred years ago. A nice gent (not country trash) and
his love of wild rabbits and mourning doves
cooing in branches. Rabbits almost close enough
to touch as they seemed dazed hopping amongst
the roots; spellbound by the willow’s phantasmagorical
pheromones. I too shipwrecked and marooned on this
island of a tree for hours in summers.

This was created using a prompt in which I shuffled my mp3 player and took the first five song titles and used those within the poem.


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