Lost

Lost my job, soon my dog.

He headed toward the bridge.

The cat ran off and hid.

Not sure how to find them.

Cell phone lost its power.

Pressed nine to be removed.

Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,

Not sure how to answer.

Sprung forward, lost an hour.

Calendar refused to change.

Time took off to join the dog.

Not sure how to follow.

Reality soon stepped aside.

Maybe was demoted.

Limbo took claim, raised his flag.

Not sure where I am now.

Joined dog and time up on

the bridge, horizon slips away.

The helm is standing empty.

Not sure where I’m going.

Chart a course, words my map.

Poetry my wheelhouse.

Floating on uncertain seas.

Not sure where I’ll land at.

Marilee Smiling Broadly

Marilee, smiling broadly

for the camera points to

the weather map reporting,

“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.

Later the storm hits, just as

she said, with all its fury.

Wouldn’t it be great to know

the risks before proceeding?

Marilee smiles, pointing at

your fiancé, “Your marriage,

marginal risk”.  Now you smile,

breathing a sigh of relief.

She points to that used car,

“Slight risk” she foretells.  Going on,

pointing to the contract for deed,

“Moderate risk” she predicts.

Through all this, you nod knowingly.

Smiling now, she points to you,

“Your life, high risk”.  You pale,

anticipating impending doom.

There is great risk in living.

No one can predict the future,

not even Marilee, but we all know

no one gets out alive.

Now I Lay Me

Now I lay me down to sleep

on a pillow-top of privilege,

prostrate on freshly pressed sheets

purchased from Penneys.

My soul is well kept,

baptized and sanctified.

Washed clean by daily showers

and semi-annual  hygienists visits.

Should I die before I wake

I pray the present profit

margins support the futures

maintaining resale value.

My soul preempts a takeover,

I eat right, exercise, and

attend weekly service.  My ways

need no further guidance.

Powerless to dream the dream

I pass time penning poems

on reams of paper to be recycled

saving the planet. Amen.

Branches of the Noble Spruce

Branches of the noble spruce

raised like a Flamenco dancer,

swirl in the wind parading

his male prowess.

I hear the rhythmic clapping,

then fiery crickets join in,

strumming their guitars to the

throbbing pulse of his beat.

The scarlet paintbrush enters

to the sound of heels rapid tapping,

her sultry face half hidden

behind a fluttering fan.

With chin proudly raised, she turns

away from him, their limbs

undulating in unison,

passion overtaking them.

Their dance reaches its climax,

the paintbrush now entwined

within the spruce’s branches,

both spent and breathless.

The final notes hang in the air

humming like a bee,

the two bow in the wind as

I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”

The Darkened Stage Lights

The darkened stage lights,

woodwind and percussion sound,

the Thai dancer poses,

elegant fingers lifted.

The pine tree stands postured,

filled with inner stillness,

slender needles splayed

raised in awed wonder.

Face serenely composed,

arms and hands tell

life’s emotional journey,

struggle for survival.

Branches bowed down under,

weighted with snow and ice,

enduring winter’s darkness,

waiting for the light.

The dancer is not a tree

nor the tree a dancer,

their spirits share a song,

voiced within their limbs.

Music learned in darkness,

heard in graceful gesture,

twist of twig, branch, and root,

in blood and sap, on wind.

Happy Breath day

Happy Breath day.

We are on the air:

Air our grievances.

air our complaints.

air our dirty laundry.

It clouds the air.

Happy Breath day.

It’s in the air:

Respiratory droplets

when you sneeze,

when you cough,

when you lie.

They breathe out.

You breathe in.

Happy Breath day.

He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

Freedom is like air.

When you have it

you don’t notice it.

I can’t breathe.

Happy Breath day.

Come up for air:

Throw open the window.

Fill your lungs.

Hold it in.

Embrace it.

Happy Breath day.

Hurry

HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.

With dark clouds rolling in, we point

saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”

as light ebbs away.

Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.

What remains? Emptiness

fills the vacancy between

today and that day.

So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying

our credit isn’t exceeded

before closing time. Facing

FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.

Just Beneath My Skin

Just beneath my skin

a mesh structure exists,

like chicken wire,

holding me together.

It keeps me upright

so I don’t crumple,

sag before family,

collapse in a heap.

This is a bad day.

My hollow chest caved in.

Old wire has become

brittle, rusted, unstable.

Years ago it was

recalled from the market,

leaving us implants

no recourse but removal.

Without it I would never

stand again, return to

slither through the garden,

in search of fallen apples.

Open to Question

Please complete the following:

Check the box.

Are you alive?

[    ]     Yes

[    ]     No

[    ]     Undetermined

Have you received a second opinion?

[    ]     Yes

[    ]     No

[    ]     Planning to

Are you satisfied with the results?

[    ]     Yes

[    ]     No

[    ]     Doubtful

Is this your final answer?

[    ]     Yes

[    ]     No

[    ]     Unlikely

Do you have any comments?

[    ]     Yes

[    ]     No

[    ]     Unable

Thank you for your participation.

The New York Times Asks

The New York Times asks,

“Is Omicron peaking?”

I saw the covered face,

neither man nor woman,

child nor adult,

black nor white.

I could not pick out

that face in a crowd,

but it glanced my way,

caught my eye,

dipped its head.

Death lives next door.

I smell the smoke rise

from his burn pile.

I see the hand raised to me

from the window.

Why is it now the dead

that point the way?

Why is it their voice I hear

though they no longer

speak a word?

Omicron is peaking.

MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in

Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.

I return from checking traps.

What do I find?

The wild rice pot boiled over,

our dinner burned, the fire out.

I leave you one simple job.

Do you do it?

No, you have more important

things to do than watch a pot boil.

I trusted you to watch it.

What were you doing?

I bet you fell asleep, or

fooling around again.

Oh no, I don’t believe it.

Do you see it?

That long crack way up the side.

My mother gave me that pot.

I have used that pot all my life.

How will I cook?

We will have to eat rice raw,

break our teeth off chewing it.

I loved that beautiful pot.

Where do I find another?

It could’ve been on display.

Now look at it. Nothing changes.

After Weeks of Winter’s Cold

After weeks of winter’s cold,

my mood as dark as days,

temps rose above freezing,

it’s bitter grip loosened.

Spring sent a card,

Remember me.

I heard birds sing again,

morning light brightened.

I did remember Spring.

Like a foolish school girl

longing for love, I wrote

its name over and over.

You Are Such a Tease

You are such a tease,

warm one day, cold the other.

Your moods a roller coaster,

sunny then threatening.

You ruffle my hair,

promise me my heart’s desire,

encourage my affection,

but your kisses sting my cheeks.

“Any day now” you taunt,

“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.

Your words torment and excite.

I am so in need of your warmth.

Winter has me in its grasp,

the ground still frozen solid.

Spring just a dim memory.

March, you’re such a tease.

Dear Poet,

I’ve never written to you

before today but I can

no longer maintain silence.

Don’t think I’m not grateful,

you’ve been a good employer,

but I’m tired of having to write

lots of words where a few would do.

For instance,

“She looked at me sadly” is now,

“She gazed at me from afar,

tears glistening in her eyes,

her face twisted in despair.”

This is a waste of ink.

Are you writing a poem

or a soap opera?

No one has time for this drivel.

I can tell by your grip that

you feel this is pensplaining,

but look at your audience,

they write in text messages,

and follow twitter. They are

not going to contemplate the

impact of your chosen words

on the literary world.

Think about what I’ve said.

This is within your grasp.

I remain,

Your devoted pen

I Looked for Meaning

I looked for meaning

gazing up at the clouds.

In them I saw the hand of God

stretched above me, then again,

it may have been a crab,

dancing the can-can.