Badger

This is not a children's poem.

Sometimes we are
busy as a beaver
sneaky as a weasel
we have nine lives
like a cat
or deeply love
and depend on
our best friend
the dog.

Sometimes we have
a memory
like an elephant's
or we're shy
as a mouse
or roar
like a lion
when we should
bleat like a lamb.

This is not a children's poem.

Sometimes we're cougars
and our claws come out.

We so often follow
like sheep or
are pushed along
like cattle or
are more stubborn
than a mule or
act like an ass.

And that brings me
to the equine paradox:
there are more horses' asses in the world
than horses.

This is not a children's poem.

What of the badger?
The badger badgers.
And usually it works
at least for him.

More persuasive
than the snake
was Eve
or was Adam just
more easily turned?
Unlike women
(according to many men's analogies)
she didn't have to badger
or bitch.

This is not a children's poem.

Sometimes tautology
is the best we can do.
We are what we are
and it is what it is.
We're human so
we're simply not a butterfly
but don't we see that
we are as stunning and
have a butterfly's fragility
that steals the breath?
That we can --
if we wish to --
stop crawling and
(not without a chrysalis phase)
discover flight.

Believe me.
This is not a children's poem.
Children have not yet forgotten how to fly.

Copyright 2010

Coals

Dancing on coals
as red as frostbite
will ignite
the forgotten lessons
that formed
like ice particles
in our warm breath
that day
when we sang
by the church
joining hands
with the dark
and the empty
as we hungered
for comfort and heat
yet fumbling
with numb fingers
traded our
worn scarves
to strangers
for gratitude.

Copyright 2010

Piercings

I told her
it's trite to say
that her heart is pierced
even if it feels
as real as a paring knife
on a peach.

But when she lifted her shirt
immodestly
and eagerly said
it won't hurt -- do it quickly --
I'll just look away --
jewels fell like those
that had colored her fingertip
when she signed
a childish lasting pact
-- with a serious look --
then mingled her life with
that of her best friend.

It was through
in an instant
followed by
a captive ring
with a crimson droplet gem
a prism
reflecting the truth
of an eternal metaphor.

And she smiled with defiance.

Copyright 2010

Unshu Mikan

Oranges under my skin
beg to be peeled
until I trickle
over your fingertips,
my pulp under your nails.

Better to juice me
than slice me in quarters,
although you already have me.

I don't mind being squeezed
until trust is sweet on your lips.

Did you know that satsuma
-- unshu mikan --
is a mutant from Japan?

It means honey citrus.
Tart and sugary, like me.

Copyright July 2010

Right here

Somewhere over the rainbow
(alto II part burned into my brain)
I sing about platinum shining
where leprechauns lurk
(those lying midget bastards)
and the pot of gold
on Wall Street
crumbled into dust
like the dying
(the ashes of whom
weeks later
dusted my shoes)
and yet I cannot
stop from singing
and the song rises
blue and gold and crimson
above a turret
above a spire
scraping the sky
like ivory
against the night
above 200 soaring voices
all knowing
that only fools
seek gold
instead of the rainbow
(yes a Ding an sich)
all the voices
are blinded by the hues
shining through clouds
and rain and hail
and blasting through
thick Gothic walls
in stained glass allegories
inflaming those who do believe
(in justice
in peace
in tolerance
in love
in ourselves
and in what we carry
in all that's spoken
all that's holy)

Copyright June 19, 2010

Time

unfurled
by urban gusts
swept away
by undercurrents
moistened
by spray moorings
loosened
salted sparkles
in the granite
in the sand
neither tide
nor time
can be told

May 21-24, 2010 Rockport and Gloucester "These things take time," he said, and gazed beyond the sea. I'm never sure what he sees.

Blind Drunk

Groping forward
her cane feeling
for the walkway
the bag she carries
rips.

Bud Ice rolls
into the street
as she cries out
in fear of a darkness
that can swallow
more than the colors
of the sun.

The bluest of skies
her backdrop
she curses,
kneels to grasp
the only savior
that she knows.

She doesn't want my help.

And anyway
I am loathe to gather up
another's poison.

It's only Bud.

Even a frothy
stein of Weissbier
sweetened by raspberry
tart with a lemon slice
isn't worth death.

Copyright 2010