Scilla found her head… — a poem

Scilla found her head over the dress,
not the original — battered, discarded —
one eye juttering… too much stress.

Plop onto her mannequin neck bone,
skin color doesn’t match, you see.
Can’t have it all as a dollyhead clone.

Joan of Arc sleeves, celebate knot
at the waist — calls for alteration.
Wonder… is chastity something that’s caught?

Scilla found her head and her call.
Scilla found purpose in a monastic robe.
Scilla found herself surprising them all.

 

* * *

 

The Sunday Muse.

Actual image for The Sunday Muse #170:

 

 

The Soul Sucked Dry — a poem

Photography by Artist, Jasper James

The soul is sucked dry!” she cried.
“But who needs a soul in the city?”

She looks out from “a place… dry
and dusty*.” Ironically, the 15th floor.

She has been away from her home
so long that the city is integrated
with her being, her thoughts. City-
molded, but not city-fed. It feeds
upon those who stay this long —
eyes stop investigating, brains
stop reflecting, chips swallow
braincells — a uniform diversity
has absorbed her originality.

The last time she left, went home,
she had forgotten the language.

Warmth, welcome and humanity
had driven her back to the hub,
the tower. Steel, concrete, glass.
Traffic, litter, loneliness… safety.

What once was discordance,
grate, jar, screech, is lullaby —
the hum of humanity’s machine.

* – Juan Ramón Jiménez, “Author’s Club”

 

* * *

The Sunday Muse

Green Is the Grasshopper — a poem

Public Domain Pictures

Green is the grasshopper
on the sidewalk; green sidewalker,
flighty hopper, green walk signal.

Hopping mud dauber;
daubing mudder, another mudder,
a load of mud daub bobbing by.

Butter yellow butterfly; butter
flying wafting by — wafting
butter as I pass I spy.

Alliterative litter of little
bitter butter mudder hoppers
green and yellow — Oregon’s colors!

No ducks or beavers, though.

 

 

 

The Ill Effect of Solitude — a poem

Beware! Again I say, Beware!
Not the teeth; my teeth are not set
for thee.

And fear not to look into my eyes,
for I always glance askance. Shy
I appear.

My muscle, sinew, and tendon
are not that alone which will bring
you down.

I am alone. I run with no pack.
Solitary.

A sickness has separated me;
a disease most deadly —
not of my body…

of my wolf spirit.

 

* * *

 

For The Sunday Muse.

Downstream, upstream…. — a poem

image by Charley

Downstream, upstream,
Regal, Bayliner, pontoon, tri-hull,
pontoon, fisher, Bayliner pulling
an inflatable raft, children screaming,
kayaks, pontoon floating bar scene.
Jet skis racing.
A Cigarette boat slows
and turns back downstream.
The river churns.

On the bluff I feel
the agitation of the river —
the flow impeded.
Like the stream, I am
pulled.
My life a recreation
of others.

Trumpeter Swans desert,
in unison they search
for peace. Eagles, shaken
by chaos, return no more.
No shore birds wade
where there is no calm.

 

* * *

“We’re only trying to get us some peace”

— Lennon/McCartney

Threadbare and Raveling — a poem

Both sides are a frayed
mess — this comforter past
its use — so old, glory faded, left
out too long in harsh light.

Perhaps the center still holds;
perhaps something smaller
will suffice. It will never return
to what it once was.

                                  It won’t hold
together.

Stitched together, created
wonderfully, of many separate
pieces. Now beauty undone,
                                undone, undone…

united no more.

 

* * *

Written some time ago.

Before someone misinterprets this poem as “hankering for the Good Old Days,” let me say that I don’t believe in good old days… or bad old days. They were and are no more.

What this poem can mean is many things depending on your mindset — a new unity, a return to civility, a desire to not see the ship dismantled while we’re still on the ocean…. Many things. You are free to read into it what you see. I’m free to laugh and shake my head… while we can still claim that this is the land of the free.

The Church of Whatever — a poem

Welcome to the church of whatever
floats your boat. No sermons, no guilt,
no liturgical monotony. Baptism never!
No redemption or Christ’s blood spilt.

The church of happy thoughts always,
and our fellowship meals are catered.
Musically blue, the word is paraphrase,
our deity diverse is patered and matered.

Welcome to the church of whatever
gets you through the night, thank god!
We won’t judge your quirks, never —
but accept you as long as you’re odd.

 

* * *

The Sunday Muse #161

Down the Rabbit Hole — a poem

iStock

Imagine a rabbit nibbling grass
out by the portable classrooms
of a city high school —
the students, raised on technology,
immersed in STEM curriculum,
staring blankly at what clearly isn’t
AI and what doesn’t fit into the laws
of probability, unless you account
for an infinite number of variables;
perhaps chaos theory enters into it.

Many of the students will glance
but not perceive. It requires too great
a paradigm shift to observe and recognize.

But then there is that one student
who sees, smiles up at me as I hold
my classroom door open, and says,

“A bunny.”

That child will suffer greatly in this
world and conceivably become a poet.