Cicada

A cicada is a simple thing.
Given the power of speech, it would say,
"I am respectable;
I have worked years for this."

The tree upon whose branch the cicada clings
has stood on the same ground for decades,
but is not unchanging.
"As with me," the cicada would opine.
"I am a miracle of industry,
creativity
and purpose."

On the August breeze, birds float like daydreams,
their songs summer scarves folded on a table by a vase of cut flowers.

A cicada has shed its empty brown skin.
It would tell us, "I have left myself behind on a journey to myself.
Admire me,
collect the lessons I give,
strong, solid and marvelous."

On the August breeze, birds float like daydreams,
their songs summer scarves in myriad tones of impossible variety.

Then, the cicada,
droning its unmusical single note,
proud,
stupid,
insistent that its noise and buzz is all there is
because that is all it hears or can imagine.
______

for Wednesday Muse "Cicadas!"

A Peculiar Blindness

"If I were blind, would you be my eyes?" --Todd Rundgren "Pretending To Care"

It's a peculiar blindness
so many of us have. 

There you are, little bug, looking for a place to land
never giving much thought to how you came so far.

That's why a breeze brought you me.
You think you are small, unremarkable,

but I can see your big glorious wings
spread out like an exclamation

right behind you,
in fabulous display,
plain as day.
______

for Wednesday Muse "butterflies."

Lightning Bugs In July Darkness

Lightning bugs in July darkness
make me think of your Indian hair by firelight.
It's like being hit in the head, these tiny stars--
this pleasant longing with a barb on its tail.

Air is a funny thing, especially at night.
Like you, it seems expansive while obscuring entire worlds.
I need wings to keep from falling, writing poems on foolscap
about you, and eyes that can't help but follow 

The foxfire there-and-gone glow of lightning bugs
In July darkness.
_____

for Wednesday Muse "Night Sounds." I see now that I have written about a night sight instead and hope to be pardoned this departure from clear instruction. 

An American Sentence

Don't let me die in high summer; let there be frost and October rain.
_________

I know there doesn't have to be nature in an American Sentence, but I couldn't help myself. For Wednesday Muse.

The Anniversary Of A Breeze

It is the anniversary of a breeze.
Sometimes I look into the fire and see
wedding bouquets and funeral flowers,
party invitations and goodbye letters,
all burning in the same flame.

I don't care about any of it the way I used to.
My loved ones I will see again,
and my enemies are gone--why hate them anymore?

My yard brings me peace.
Every day I check the progress of every leaf
and enjoy astonishment that I am here
on this ordinary day, the anniversary of a breeze.
____ 

for the Wednesday Muse #9.

 
 

In The Silent Hour

in the silent hour
indigo of night sky
through branches of walnut and mulberry
full moon shines on
my dog as he wanders
while i stand hugging myself, waiting, watching
while i stand hugging myself, waiting, watching
my dog as he wanders
full moon shines on
through branches of walnut and mulberry
indigo of night sky
in the silent hour. 
______

for the Wednesday Muse--night sky.

There must surely be a name for this type of poem. Anyone know what it is?

Swans & Roses

Eleven swans with one
voice brought a warning,
delivered in a dream.

"Your love is sick,
dying. Her bones are 
stems. Her hair, thorns."

Each swan carried a
bloom. I followed, eleven
miles. Behold, my love:

In the earth, stems.
On the earth, roses.
_______

A quadrille for Wednesday Muse.

Indolence

"There you stood on the edge of your feather/expecting to fly" --Neil Young

April rain came like a too-long book.

Aimless starlings, poised buds, everything waits as I do also, indolent, supposing suns behind closed lids.

_______

for Wednesday Muse "Busy Body" .

Asian Pear

Standing at the kitchen window leaving a message for my married lover, I admire the Asian pear just outside.

Its limbs stretch across the walk,

gifting soft white blossoms from itself every spring.

People tell me to cut it back,

it is where it is not supposed to be, but

it is so beautiful and I am so lonely.

______

Day 3 of 30 for the Wednesday Muse.

I doubled up today. You can find my other, unlinked, poem HERE, at Mamba.