Bird-killer Manor

a house, which hides
among houses on Thurman,
is a predatory monster
lurking on turf

it's glassy eyes,
the instruments in
which it lures and
pounces on its
once worry-free victims

the abode's no
different than the
deep sea angler
deceiving its prey
and leading them astray
right into harm's way

death comes knocking
on Bird-killer Manor's door
all hours of the day
and ghastly night

long panes of
suspended liquid
hang in its walls
to eye the world
and its free-spirits

a lion in the tallgrass
is the house that sits
and waits and hungers
and devours the sparrow,
wren and thrush
on back steps and window well
its very own bowels of hell

Let hold

hand slips from grip...

grasping onto
those moments
sparkling in rays of light

that reach into
the heart of the sea

fallen moments
below the water's surface
rest in the flow...

are secure
in the cool moist depths
beyond today's breaths

knowledge sinks
into the heart

that neither
hand, nor paw,
nor tendril, nor claw,

nor fin, nor rocky
precipice can hold on to

something ever changing

it's the bold who
love ever change...

the wise who love that
which remains

the Matriarch

in my arms,
she felt fragile
as though her bones
might break...

as though those
muscles, which used
to buck bales,
might fail...

as though her
hands, which blistered
all her children and
grandchildren,
might surrender...

as though her
breath, which made
sure all her family
knows she loves them,
might vanish

in my arms,
her strength remained
as though her job
isn't quite finished...

as though she
has many more
memories to make
for the next generation...

as though she
has many more
cards to send and
letters to write...

as though she
has many more
infectious smiles and
laughter to share

Snoveling Show

hours spent over
metal scoop, concrete path

heavy winter grain
fell with the rain
shovel runs like train
lo, the muscle pain

neck and shoulder
move and grind like gristle

falling ices randomly beset
almost give rise to regret
nearing goal makes one forget
mingling with pain as an offset

exhausted illusions, no
discernment of snow from salt

Wolf Stupa

Iced

It started with the drops...
they dropped and dripped
but became sticky with the chill

then their dropping and dripping
slowed in April's breath,
as the flowing sweet fluid
sometimes flows from the trunks
and hardens in bulbous gestures
luring curious fingers

the drops splashed
against their predecessors

they splashed and stayed
in their early spring play

more and more crowded
on flayed maple buds,
which bloomed just
a couple days previous
when warm sun coaxed
them out of their slumber

now they await their
wither from icy weather

unseen hands pelt the
ground laying below
with the newly made
hail blossoms

those same hands
rattle the ice-choked
trunks, branches, twigs,
making the trees wail

thunder that comes late
with the converted ice
echoes the wailing
echoes the creaking,
groaning, twisting,
cracking, snapping, falling...

dripping drops

Two hours before 7 am

pried-open eyes manage
a stumbling walk
to cold tile, shower knob

fumbling fingers find
white socks and tee
dark shorts and khakis

somewhat water-energized
hands rub oil, lotion
into thirsty pale skin

vague thoughts search
for the abandoned lover
of a dream left on the pillow

teasing glimpses return,
whipping and driving the
memory to nocturnal trips

the coachman cannot,
best be his aim, catch the
fleeting subconscious spill

black liquid hardly fulfills
its purpose, thus dozing
comes with the dawn

gradual light pushes
through drapery, falls
upon exhausted traveler

Hippity-hoppity

Those Sundays usually seemed to be an April affair,
unlike the ones I've noticed taking place in March
these years I am now living. 

Those Sundays took us to Moscow,
to Granny's smile and
Grandpa's smoke-wrapped chuckle. 

The newly spring event was mixed
with the sweet taste of milk chocolate,
bitter marshmallow confections,
and sour smelling dyes for various-sized ovals
collected from the chicken nests.

Balance was learned with our tiny hands
using wire dippers to lift the bathing eggs
from bowls of bright colors. 

Wet newspaper print and
white distilled vinegar filled
our noses while Granny and
Mom hovered over us to make sure
the boiled beauties were placed just so. 

Light blue, yellow, pasty pink, and faded green
were hidden under barberry,
in tire swing, and behind the feeder
made into a planter. 

Cousins scrambled to find those colors
awaiting our unsure hands
that would squeeze too tightly,
or throw too hard in the basket,
or tip too far over. 

Warm smiles created by those annual Sundays
always signaled the end of cold times,
certainly something to celebrate.

Key is to cast

nameless keys jingle
in the leather coat pocket

rusty, dingy cogs of a collapsed contraption

reminders of lapsed love, letting loose...

lessons learned

they are tomorrow's mail,
a forgotten token
to send to once kind thoughts,
now doubting disappointment

that Thomas won't
touch this blood
that has flowed
far from its origin

its life is new,
refusing to look back...

refusing to make the same mistakes

it caught the flight
to the distant horizon
with sunflower seed hitchhikers
dropped in its luggage
by its guiding hands

the tag-alongs of promise
tell of days to come

of days cherished
and savored

of days bleeding
from stomach, chest, and eyes

wanted tones drive those devils
to their earthly beds
that no priest could cast out

just as the postman
will cast the dingy cogs
to a past hell, relieving
the leather coat of its heavy burden

His hands are my hands...