Don’t take the corduroy, minstrel,
it will jostle your feathers
There are marsh places
which will hide flying thoughts
keep them still
unless you mean to avoid the intrigue of mud-cling…
the skunk cabbage
…rotten in Denmark
…stolen by the beaver
…spiraling in their vanity
mosses and morels
…sponges at the bar
Go where the others hide—
to the cities of interesting
found within upturned trees
words sometimes fall out of my mouth
they seem to fall
they tell me to hold my tongue
an infant robin sometimes falls
she seems to fall
outside the nest
they tell me to hold my tongue
Old things are wrapped within this moth-eaten quilt
of numbered road-stitches: this barn at mile 29
Signage suggests what glories can be found
behind square doors patched and painted
the same color
many different shades
like the greyscale calico
cement running beside it
How can a blanket excite me so?
Its twin, printed on Kodak
in grandma’s living room curio
Sun spoke of her
they grew up a county over but I had forgotten
Ran without streetlights and fell in the hole
Where Shoulder Blades Touch the Ground, Under the Spruce Bough
Tried to find the tree silhouette somewhere past the pink nosy mountain
sequined black sky-mask sewn shut by pine needle and pitch
Gave thanks for porchlights and celestial neighbors’
because in full moons guests don’t drop as unexpectedly
May bring flowers
wait and see
Will the mud melt more—or less—today?
Sometimes thermometers lie
Certainly, from April to March
when Earth has the fever
so her blood chills and sweats
maple syrup, strawberry
juice and ants
Without the heat, the sap won’t flow
Without the cold, we might never know
Don’t you think crocuses are most beautiful
on a crystal floor and the rising white wall?
Don’t step on it
its more fleeting than you.
She doesn’t intend the drifting
to be so contrary
Simply remember yesterday
to wear the sweater or not
can be a silent shout.
It won’t travel very far.
to know me better.
The earth turns me towards the night
knowing long enough have I been awake.
The residue of sun shines on moon’s face.
I do have something to say,
maybe just the fog
from my breath
amidst the symphony of summer
and a shared moment of belief
or maybe the night is what
I want to tell you about.
In my closet are bits of strangeness tied up in a plastic bag
stolen goods brought here
when hurried home.
They won’t ever be lost again, but once
taken, will never be found
like they were once.
Each, like pieces-of-eight,
treasured in water and chest
within the second of resurrection
and the third, or fourth like it.
Each stone in the bag
for a sling of thought,
rounded like shot, or skipped at the sun
seated on the wave-dais, or nearly
too small for fingers and eyes.
I found them and saved them from forgetfulness,
no two similar, but on the third
tossed back to splash
in the mirror and fall on the glass
So, thrown at myself every so often
make me remember
to reach down,
I laughed at Budapest’s snuffling snout.
Said Billy you’re too much
hope he stifled a snort
What animal got into your pen?
My fingers fly away without thought
like the chickadee song fading
But I can’t fence the sky and my mind,
perched a county over somewhere
startled when he laughed too
In the night
I smell things coming up
out of the ground
and drifting invisible clouds
I find small pleasure
in waking dreams
of wiggling earth-eaters
Yet I’m afraid of the dark
when catching the cold
in my nostrils
and the mist in my chest
—And dirt, heavy in the shadows
of bricks and rain
is with child
I look forward to participating in the online literary community and hope to receive comments and helpful criticism from other poets. First poetry post coming soon!