On the Road to Blythe
The desert mountains lie in state like kings,
their skylit faces void of feeling now,
enduring time, and unconcerned with how
their history’s told. Utterly done with things.
The pilgrim semitrailers, crammed with things,
advance in somber lines, all going Somewhere.
Load, unload, repeat. In arid air,
as wheels drum round and round — a madness sings.
In withered towns beside a strangled stream,
as unwashed children wander on the street,
a wind brings in the rising tide of sand
that will in time submerge this cruel land.
Your kiss, so vivid, tells me life is sweet.
Your kiss, my love, where prophets go to dream.
(posted January 23, 2022)
We’re DNA mules
smuggling tested lifeways
to strangers, somewhere.
(posted August 28, 2022)
Time is matter in
motion. From then to now is
you from there to here.
Seven between fives,
a prime number sandwich is:
haiku, Math Deli.
(haiku with an extra line)
My rising sun smiles
from overhead where you are,
seeing you are too intent to stop for lunch,
hunting a saddened chord for
your song about us.
Last year I breathed air
so cold it made curls of fog.
The air we breathe today is warmer than blood,
and the fog forms in my lungs.
Cold air, just last year.
A pretty nice girl,
born to wear the heavy hat
and shoulder nationality like a cape,
steadfast for seventy years —
gone, Her Majesty.
You cannot unbreak
your horse, cowboy, nor regret
the dusty days of saddle-work together.
Cool and brush him with your thanks,
and let the rest run.
You are the comet
in my sky, explaining why
there should be an infinity of shot stars,
grand enough almost for your
wondrousness, my love.
Every soul has worth:
it’s Christianity’s gift
to western thought, the least of us endowed with
Don’t Bury Me in a Bra
The pants, you think, or ruffled skirt,
which would our sister say?
Dear Madeline was one who always
dressed for a special day.
The pants for weekdays, well and good,
but not her going away.
The skirt in black or ocean blue?
We’ve shoes to match for each.
Black’s for mourners left behind
when souls fly out of reach.
She won’t need shoes to walk in clouds
above this stormy beach.
Don’t bury me in a bra, I pray,
the freest of us three.
If you go first, I’ll not forget.
We’re tied as family —
like braids we were until that day
you took my James from me.
O sister dear, those times are mist.
Can’t you let them go?
Past as those times surely are
they’re what we have to show
for choices made along the way,
for years of yes and no.
[posted October 3, 2022]