The Hawk

 By a fence line in the damp green of the morning

a hawk by gifted vision caught a wren.

There underneath his claws she learned the sense behind the laws

and she'll never by the fence line sing again.

In the evening by the fence line lay her feathers

which I gathered up to weave a tiny dress.

Stars said, "No, it cannot fit," but I whispered love to it

and by daylight I stood head to toe in yes. 

By the fence line in the damp green of the morning

I made from apple wood a mandolin

to play the hawk a tune, oh aren't you pretty as the moon

and at his touch I felt the answer sinking in. 

______

shared with Desperate Poets Open Link. 

Lesson In Entomology

 

Red ladybugs, often made of wood or plastic, are the cheery ones. The dull brown ladybugs are the ones that bite. Born yesterday, uncelebrated and infused with the bright mindlessness of relentless summer, their hate is genuine; they wait on a pretty stalk for your bare arm. Your pain is their nectar. 

October is the time of show-off leaves. Red ladybugs burn their own houses down. Ask one. She is her own child in the blaze, and to her, death is quite romantic. She loves you, without the slightest notion what that really means. They are as vacuous as lawn ornaments. 

When waiting winter compels a choice, your heart will say, choose the brown ladybug, she knows your soul, even as she destroys it. Your sense says, choose the red, she'll make you happy. But no. You have decided and offer your arm.

______

Today at Dverse Prosery, Bjorn wants us to use a line from Bob Dylan's classic song "Desolation Row', a piece I have long admired, both for its lyrics and also for whoever that was playing the guitar counterpoint to each line. Bjorn instructs that we must use the line "To her, death is quite romantic" from this song. I will comply, (143 words)

The Notion Of You

 

I loved you

and that has left me

a sister of a dead order. 

I carry in asters

gone from purple to brown

to lay on the altar

but can't set them down.

Faith is a funny thing and I carry a cross

though the texts are tainted,

the deity lost.

St. Catherine of Alexandria

was nourished by milk from doves--

not by the relics and bones

of the notion of you, that I loved.

I am of the order, but not the abbess

at whose jeweled theca ghosts bow--

I carry my head like the body and bread

of the Chosen One loved by you now. 

______

for Dverse Meeting The Bar "Conceit"

New Baby

Our new baby,
a darling of the Universe,
grows tusks and unionizes.
Now, feedings are disastrous, injuries frequent.
Now, everything must be negotiated, from emotional forays to bottle temperature.

An intermediary is sent in,
but gets into the baseboards
and turns the TV into a homing beacon for her bitchy friends.

All we wanted was a child,
a sentient bit of fluff to dandle and imbue with various undemonstrated virtues and qualities.
Not tusks that send dentists howling into madness.
Not wildcat strikes with their attendant rancor and bloodshed.

Please baby, we say.
Please be normal.
A telegram arrives, from our baby.
We are terrified to read what it says.
______

for "Different Perspectives" at Real Toads.

Ice Cream Walk

You never know how it's going to go.
Early evening, book aside, tv on,
dog asleep and smiling,

I went all zen over the ice cream tub.
Too much for one time, but 
not enough left for later.
It's like someone in your bed asleep-- a familiar sweetness
that disappoints unannounced.

There's someone else,
or you're someone else from who they thought.
The door closes, the tv blathers on,
the dog goes or stays, the book marker is lost.
Better have all the caramel cookie dough now.

So I couldn't sleep, after.
After what? 
After any of it.
It made my stomach hurt, so I put the dog on his leash
and took a turn around the neighborhood in the dark.
He was hot on the trail of something--
I know the feeling.

The further we went, the less sure I felt.
It seemed like a good idea at the time--how often have I said that?
Passing the light manufacturing strip
with its trailer offices and loading docks,
an acorn fell on a tin roof like an angry word.
The street lights were impassive.
I walked faster--no objection from the dog.

Here we are, I said, home in sight.
Crossing the tot park, my dog searched for nightcats,
I watched for pervs or stoned teenagers
on the swings,
in the shadows. 
Three houses up, lights on inside--
We're waiting for us, in there,
our other selves who go shhh shhh shhh
like I've heard that mothers do, when things go wrong in the night.
_______

for Sanaa's "Of Muse & Me" at Real Toads.

By Morning, Disaster; By Afternoon, Despair

What the fucking hell is this?
Another dunning, a fresh demand?
Passed like poison from the hand
of the postman, Satan's accomplice?

What's this annoying stupid shit?
Disguised to look as if it matters?
Faux certified, in official patterns
denoting nothing, largely writ?

Begone, hateful courier in blue!
With your clanking keys on a pocket chain!
With writhing form and crawling brain,
daring to stamp it "postage due!"

Sure as pestilence, slow as a snail!
Stuffing my slot with each babbling ad--
driving me nervous, driving me mad!
Curse you, eagle who bird-bombs the mail!
_____

Mailed in, for Susie's challenge at Real Toads. She asks us for the real thoughts behind the faces in John Millais's portraits.

Historical note: Up until the early 1950s, there were two mail deliveries each day, morning mail and afternoon mail, hence the title.

Proof

Let's be together. We'll take pictures for proof.
Fill our mouths with those heart-shaped candies
and say the words, those melting words--
a dollar hidden in your hat brim, an amulet tucked inside my shoe.

Pretty wildflowers grow
fed from the slack-jawed smiles below--
blackbird, bluebird,
cowbird, crow.

Here is our memory book, let's fill it and call it a life.
If you need anything, ring this little bell;
I'll blow in to say the words, those healing words--
like the cutest little Christ-girl, your do-the-devil wife.

See the sunflowers, tall and fine
lining the road from our prairie cottage here--
sun burn, sour churn,
your lies, mine.
_______

"Ghost Maiden in the Meadow," 2015, by Angela Deane

A little scribble for The Storialist.   

Lizzie Borden

He cut himself shaving.
Yes, on the couch. He was cheap,
and bought those disposable things 
that are just a golden invitation to bloody accidents.

On the couch because he was too cheap to run any water.
Goodbye, horsehair sofa!
Now I can pitch that hideous thing.

No, you're right, that doesn't explain Mama.
Meteor shower, if you ask me, and you did. 
Through the open windows, of course.

Fall River, home of the snoopy neighbor
and the bigmouth gossip!
How am I supposed to live here, after this? I'm a victim.

Go on his computer, he had loads of enemies on Instagram.
They could have just blocked him!
No, it wasn't a murder, it was razors. You're confusing me.
Who does a girl have to kiss to get a Diet Coke around here?

That axe was already broken.
Bridget tried to chop down the equestrian statue in the town square with it.
Maybe she doesn't like horses, how should I know?
Hire bog Irish and that's what you get.

Look, do we have to do this right now?
I have a date for duckpins tonight.
(Mimicking the interviewer) "This is very important, Miss.
Seems like you'd want to clear this up, Miss."
I bet you don't get invited to many parties.

*sigh*
All he ever said was, "No, Lizzie. I forbid it, Lizzie."
Put a nickel in her and it was always "Listen to your father, Lizzie."
Now the cat's got his tongue,
wherever it is.

I have rights, you know.
I want a lawyer, one of those ones on tv 
that stands there and goes, "My client is innocent of these ludicrous charges,"
"This is a gross miscarriage of justice!"
and like that.

Maybe he stepped on a land mine.
Yes, in the middle of the parlor. 
There could be a rhinoceros standing there,
and Bridget would be all "Wut rin-aw-srus? You mean that wee horned thing?"
So, yes, a land mine. As if she'd take it out to the bins without being told.

I'm done here.
This isn't exactly CSI Fall River.
Your own people keep tromping through like a herd of retarded elephants,
every one of them a size twelve or better.
Anything that was here is gone.
Yes, including the razor.

See ya in the funny papers, Sherlock.
Oh don't look so down in the dumps.
I'll put a kick-starter thingie on my Facebook page 
to buy you a new magnifying glass.
Your eye will look THIS BIG when you look through it,
and then you'll see I didn't do it and you'll be all "So sorry, Miss," and I'll be like, whatever.
_______

 

Folly

J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing was many things.
He was a business man, a board member, a church elder, a Jaycee and a notary public.
"What, for immortality?" wondered J. Prudent aloud.
"What for the Divine, what for beauty, what for posterity?" he fairly shouted.

His basset hound looked up, startled, then set its head back down on its paws, bored already.

J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing was disturbed by many things,
and cited the breakdown of traditional methods and mores as the culprit.
Like Noah, like Moses, indeed, like an avenging angel
(if avenging angels wore suits and drove BMWs),
J. Prudent decided to honor God by creating His very visage carved in stone.

Behold! After ten long years of back-breaking labor
(performed by a certain Juan Martinez, paid under the table at an appallingly puny rate),
the Divine Visage was complete.
The Deity Himself scowled grandly down His nose at all and sundry,
from a marble base in the middle of the park.

However, there were unforeseen problems.

Some disrespectful wag had soon spray painted "Jenny C. puts out"
with a phone number, on the lower portion of God's right cheek.
Someone else glued a Q-tip to His ear.
Yet another miscreant used a permanent marker to black out one of His teeth.
Finally, a pair of robins built a nest under His mighty brow,
and their droppings marred the Visage with gooey white tears,
not to mention the ceaseless racket of the baby birds.

All of this began to affect J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing's health. 
He developed a tumor under his left eye, which gave the impression of a permanent wink.
This same growth stretched the skin at one side of his mouth,
so that J. Prudent seemed also to be grinning suggestively.
The fury in his eyes!
The pain in his demeanor!
The poor man could no longer sit down without homosexuals mistaking his expression
and sending over drinks.
How he suffered!

Even the basset hound found it necessary to relieve himself on the monument.  

In time, the Divine Visage cracked and fell apart, leaving half a head staring dolefully,
and the other crumbling in the crabgrass.
J. Prudent Anderson Pennyfarthing died,
and no one remembered that the purpose of the Visage had been to elevate morals.
It was sad, and very tough shit, you know?
Oh well.
_______

For "History Is Twistery: Folly", a challenge by the fierce Viking chick we know as Hedgewitch, at Real Toads.   
_________________

          
         

Teas

"Here are my teas," you said,
fingers light on the smooth white 
inside of the cupboard door.

Tucking red hair behind your ear,
you recited them:
"Darjeeling," (drawing out the "ing")
"Mood Mender," (stressing the "M"s)
and "China Black...?"

You carefully fold back the little flaps
of one lucky box.
"Mmmm, smell that," you almost whisper.

Then, the kettle whistling,
the pretty, empty teacups on the table,
and you, with a cat's cool,
serving tease.
_______

Exactly 75 words for Margaret Bednar's "Play It Again, Toads #15. The photograph at top is hers.  I selected Mama Zen's Words Count from last December 10th, asking for the use of homophones. (Are they some kind of specialty cell phone? I've got to get my hands on one!)

 

Poor Werewolf

A wealthy werewolf wearing worsted and a Windsor tie,
wondered whether I'd witnessed a wench -- his wife.

I said, she whispered to me that she can't stand stubble--
which, for you, I think, means trouble.

On Wednesday last, she wandered by and slept
with me; and when the werewolf heard -- that worthy wept.
_____

for Marian's letter W prompt at Toads

 

From My Mouth

From my mouth, an egg.
From the egg, a monster, 
wearing a wet, sticky veil.

Above: the sun, stupid, cancerous.
Below: everything.
Below: my monster, full of a ravenous emptiness.

Let there be summer, never-endingly.
Let there be my monster,
consuming one, and one, and one.

Let there be lawyers and elected officials.
Let there be a rot-bog of stench and glory.
Let my monster be Lord of it.

Let the language of my monster's groans ascend,
come deluge, come Judgement.
Let my monster's instant of joy be cemented.

From my mouth, a new history.
From this history, another monster,
dwarfing the first one, and less merciful.
_______