The Days Left Behind

I asked the mourning dove

where to find the days left behind. 

"In the dew," she replied.

"In the wild grass

 on the slope beside the river.

Hurry," she warned. "Winter already whispers."

I asked the vulture

where to find the days left behind.

"In the fire pit," he replied.

"In the ashes 

full of hands and faces.

Go slowly," he warned. "They will wait."

I asked the falcon

where to find the days left behind.

"In my nest," she replied.

"I used them

for my children, bald and bottomless.

Go now," she warned. "My talons are teachers."

I asked the gentle mourning dove.

I asked the grim vulture,

but the lesson lay

at the feet of the falcon

in a slurry of time, need, and blood.

Song of a Tarnished Eidolon

 

I asked the locust leaves if they were lonely.

They replied,

We are restless.

An owl on a branch of the locust tree

wept silently.

I have looked in all directions.

At home, I found my future in a spoon's face,

and my melancholy in the strings of an oud.

I haunt myself.

Indigo is the night sky.

Indigo is the sleepless sea.

Nun-white bird,

I will meet you beneath the locust tree

wearing a veil of Point d'Esprit

and holding a torn carnation.

_____________

Faux Foxes

You three.
Come to me.

Open this box.
Take out a fox.

They are color coded.
Don't tell me you didn't know this.

Now here's something you may not know:
Two are real, one is faux.

Ever wonder how this came to be?
What I'm saying, what I mean,

Is the thing that I most want to say:
ever wonder how a faux fox fffff-finds its way?

Okay, back in the box.
Come back next week--next week, ducks.
______

foolishness for Sunday Muse #102 and day 13 of my 39 poems in 39 days. 

Photography by Anatasiya Dobrovolskaya

Noon

At noon, I licked sweet white frosting from my fingertip,
having already forgotten the little grease burn, 
from earlier, on my palm.

Later on,  I will find you sitting at the glass-topped table outside,
in your favorite teak wood chair with the green cushions.
I will run the same finger through your familiar curls,

under a half-stirred sky of light and shadow.

Xmas Wish

They came a long way
to bring that kid swag.
They pretended not to notice
the livestock
and the funky digs.

Natch, it did finally shake down
to wood, nails, and vinegar,
but still, he blew it off
cos they didn't know what they'd done.

Me neither.
Can't you forgive me?
_______

for Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads.

Inspiration

How can I explain what it means to me
That you are there?
Where does a vine begin?
What is the starting point
Of air?

I know a certain magick--
A way to make what cannot be,
Be.
But the thing is,
I cannot make sweet honey
Or sweet sting, either, truthfully,
Without hive--
Without bee.

I can capture the light
Any time of year;
Between window shade and window pane,
And hold it, dancing, there.
But I write these lines because you read them--
Create because you care--
That's as well as I can explain the vine
Or the starting point
Of air.
_____

To The Young Man Sitting In The Park

You were sitting on the ground
in the tot park
in the middle of a sunny Sunday afternoon.
You were leaned back against
the brick stand for the drinking fountain,
wearing a dark blue security guard's uniform.

You looked to me
as if you were just so tired
that you had stopped there
and fallen asleep.

I asked you if you were all right...
your head was to one side,
like a little boy who had drifted off
while watching television.
You had on black shoes, and I had the odd thought
that you may have sat just this way,
years and years ago,
when someone taught you to tie them
on some other, happier,
sunny Sunday.

I feel certain,
though I don't really know,
that somebody loved you.
I feel certain, too,
that I will not forget the sight of your bright red blood
or your things--your wallet and keys--
placed so neatly at your side.

Why did you do this?
Did you think no one would cry?
I happen to know
that the lady on the bicycle, who found you, did...
and that she wishes, quite sharply,
that you had not made such a heartbreaking choice.


_____


This is not a made-up story. Yesterday afternoon, riding my bike across the local kiddie park on my way home, I found the body of a young man who had shot himself in the chest just minutes earlier. I called 911, but he was dead. I don't know what to do with that. I keep seeing him, sitting there, looking so young and defenseless. So I wrote this poem.