Clocks In Deep Resentment

Do clocks sit in deep resentment
of time flowing past them, through them, slipping by,
or do they cradle and bless like a riverbed? 

I have asked them, held in my hand
like branched nests whose natural progress is startled
by my rude curiosity.

You--are you a kind of clock?
At times you define me to myself, but in the next moment
one of us has moved on, like pouched time, a hoarded secret.

I wonder--shall I join these resentful clocks,
ticking off quantified complaints ad infinitum?
Or is it better that I dissolve, like the sugar of a moment

In a hot mug that warms my hands, but only in this instant?
_________

for Fireblossom Friday: Ask  Question.

 

Mums

When I die,

may it be at mid-afternoon, in autumn.

May there be a a westerly breeze

carrying the scent of a burn barrel not much distant.

When I die,

lay my dog's old leash and collar across my hands.

If my life has had roses, sunflowers, asters,

leave me with simple mums

Like distracted children made to see off 

an old auntie they hardly know

and who is less interesting

than today's red leaf, or tomorrow's taste of cider.

_____

for Sunday Muse #46

 

 

Song of the Silly Girl

"Be Free" by the sensational Magic Love Crow

I fall into a tree when gravity

reverses itself--

natural laws turn fickle 

this time of year

don't you find?

Anyway,

I am become trinket for my

heart's desire, Sir Crow.

He knows me--

the wench who nests in fourwalls

and sings, albeit badly.

As stunned as I am to have fallen up,

so is my Love taken aback

and gobsmacked

at the ridiculous endearments I spout in his direction,

numerous 

and fresh

as spring leaves.

_____

for Sunday Muse #45

Big Boss Z

Peanut Man goes out in his back yard on a windy afternoon, picking his way carefully over the ice beside the house, and then high-tailing it over the snow to the back fence to see what neighbor dog Quinn has to say. That accomplished, he sees the birds under the feeder and takes a duty run at them, delighting in making them fly.

windy afternoon

bird house on its string swaying

as winter hangs on

______

for Season Your Poetry pt. 2

If those birdies want their seed, got to talk to Mister Z

 

As A Vine

Existing as a vine, I brought you my love
from every avenue.
I learned from bird flocks, and like them,
I spoke and sang without interpreter.

Each time you sought my source,
I grew a hundred more arms, your slaves. 
I said, "Kiss my lips, wherever you find them."
Hummingbirds carried our portraits in a locket.

Clouds are never far from the sky, love.
Blue jays find them and call.
We hid our first hearts at the base of a wall,
faces furled at our fingertips

Crying, "Look here! Look here!" in magnificent cowardice. 
________

For The Sunday Muse #44.

Upon Receiving My Woodstock Chimes

Asian pear tree branch

mother of April's white blooms 

hosts brass temple bells 

____

A hai...ha...hik...

A three line poem for "Season Your Poetry"

Someone activate the holo-doctor. I feel funny.

 

Instant Karma

We were called by other names,
each of us
separately;
years appeared, shone, yellowed, peeled away
before we called out that falsity and all the coiling lies 
tripping off tongues we left behind.

There were dry years,
each of us
alone in a crowd like single stalks of grass.
Sunrises came, noons blank and hard
with evening riding on the tail of eternity
whispering through the book of our solitary dreams.

But I remember
--and will always remember--
that moment of recognition when like met like.
I have been often confused, mistaken, lost;
but this time it was sure and simple as east to west.
I knew, honey. Right away I knew.
______

for the Sunday Muse #39.