-
BURNING
A PAPER BAG
I see in a moment of fire
the bag hold its thin expanse of ash
then curl into disintegration.
The paper remembers a leaf
from its tree origin,
a leaf as it is on the ground,
lace filament of phloem and xylem
dispersed by wind, digested by earth.
CLEAR CUT
In foreboding imminence of man
age old susurrus of the forest
cries in the distance,
betrayed,
drowning in chain saw roar,
furious activity changing forever
this signature of God.
Pools once deep to the sky
reflecting green-dark cathedral spires
muddy with blood of Earth,
visions of raped wooden landscape
sear the eye emotion
imprinting there a wasteland scene
devoid of stewardly care.
The humane voice must speak
to delay is doom.
stop the march of modern hell
ere primal sobs silence
echoing
into
DROUGHT GARDEN
The sun is high and warm.
In shorts and leather sandals
I wade through weeds, squash vines,
tomatoes-
Tendrils and leaves caressing my bare legs
reach expectantly
as I approach the bath water barrels
under the window.
I plunge two pails downward,
arms wet,
watching the swirl of sky and floating
fir needles,
hoist them up dripping
on the parched dirt,
scattering beads at my feet like mercury.
I carry the liquid offering
its weight through my shoulders,
tingle of sweat blooms
on my brow-
Muscles straining,
back stooped,
I pour on each plant in turn
the gift rain has not bought.
IF IT LOOKS LIKE ONE
I wore my hair today
the way I did in High School.
Duck's ass, that's what
some indiscrete person said.
The old DA
and I don't mean
an aged lawyer for the state who
paddles in pools of depositions.
My hair. Feathered back.
A swish and a swirl,
like it was when
my trombone sweetheart
slid up behind me in band and
ran his fingers through it.
(My hair, that is, in case
misguided readers get wrong ideas.)
I didn't quack
but my heart
did,
a small quake
like my leg now
with this bum hip
which under the extra weight of years
gives me the illusion of a waddle.
Not that I mean to complain,
as long as I don't get arrested
for indecent exposure
of hair, which,
by the way,
grows that way naturally.
INTROVERT
I'm not sorry I don't
buy time
stack it on shelves
of calendars
or spend on the whims
of hungry people.
No.
I steal time.
Not to kill
but devour it
like chocolate.
Its dark.
Its melt.
The sweet space
slipping round me
my mouth.
I lick every corner
until I'm wasted.
STAR MAGNOLIA LEAF
At this moment I see
its separation from the stem,
gold falling toward decay.
Two crows fly overhead
as if to say
nothing has changed.
WHO'S
POISON, WHO'S DINNER
Band snakes flash amber caution
rings labeled poison
probable death to many creatures,
but are diner to king cobra.
That hooded gentleman can swallow
band snake whole.
I think, however, mongoose can down
the cobra - have it for dinner.
A certain scorpion has pinchers
and a tail with poison so strong
a grown man can be immobilized,
yet, black widow can snare
and turn this scorpion into soup.
I have wondered who eats her.
I know her mate is juice
If he tries.
My ego has trouble sometimes
figuring how I fit in.
At times I feel like another's psychic dinner
but I usually get spit out.
Maybe I have an indigestible poison.
A secretion from bad thoughts?
Maybe I should just go home
and be put to bed without supper. -
H. Drummond