18/365: my rosemary

my rosemary, a photo by Mark Bonica on Flickr.

my Rosemary speaks with her scent
of ancient days.
she and the sun are companions
and he does not intimidate her.

I can take the dead gray desert
and make it mine,
she says.
and she does.

rain is good she says.
or not - it's ok. all things in

their time.

16/365: heaven on earth

the flea is an admirable fellow -
hanging from the summer's grass
with family and friends.
he smells us thundering by
like an air craft carrier-sized Thanksgiving Dinner.

he and his peers spring forth heroically
(who cannot admire this feat)
bounding heights of tall buildings -
hundreds of body lengths -
only to discover the whole meal is covered
by impenetrable canvas. and so they crawl
miles over wrinkles and sometimes into pockets
never to be seen again until
perhaps they find a belt line or a collar and
Sweet Jesus! it's tender flesh
without the steel follicles of a dog or mountain lion.

we are a feast worthy of such a creature.
he takes a bite here, then moves on
creating a line of revelry and joy
having found heaven
on the moving earth.

15/365: correspondence from caring strangers

the king of some African nation wrote again
to inform me that I have unclaimed wealth
in his land - all I need to do to make it mine
is send a very reasonable deposit -

immediately -

preferably by Western Union.

this after I received very special offers
for various enlargement emoluments,
and another message in Chinese - no doubt
from someone else who has my best interests
at heart,
but has yet to learn my language.

11/365: native sounds

the shush of a passing car is just one
of the native sounds of the suburban night.
listen now to the chick-chick-chuck
of a wayward sprinkler kicking off,
and
don't call the HOA about that damn dog barking -
you can't fight Nature.

instead,
sit on your deck and contemplate
the flare of the streetlight shining
over your six-foot privacy fence -
it's like a personal star
the gods of public works,
circling the earth in their white pickup trucks,
have hung
                     
just for you.

***

This one inspired loosely by Carl Dennis's writing - particularly Practical Gods.Excellent, readable collection, by the way.

this is a make-up

this is a make-up -
missed time that can no more be recaptured
than the water that ran down the river yesterday.
where is that water that went by
when we weren't looking,
like your daughter's 4th year
or the third weekend after you were married
and you had to wash the floors
and do laundry.

**

Published in the Nov/Dec issue of See Spot Run

1/365

For a father to feel, he
must
hear the mother's grief.

bent and twisted

you remember
bent and twisted
in a shape that is a priori

true.

bent and twisted
bent and twisted

bent and twisted.