Poetry

The Poppies

They lean and slump
over one another
with exhausted faces and wilted limbs.
Muted crimson now edged in rust;
each had a blithe beginning full of beauty.
Twisted and bruised vessels
weary of life but not yet ready to bow
are beckoned by the lifeless mound
upon which they rest.
They huddle together to face nature’s curse,
and they regret nothing.

Hands

Gnarled hands with sharp nails

quiver and shake as they stretch

slowly toward me.

My heart beats hard and leaps up!

Tears well, and I hug grandma.

Something Must be Done

I’ve seen him before, but today I really look at him:

An ebony suit stretched over a fragile frame;

eyes white and large, fixed on me.

Flies jumping all over him as if he’s a feast,

sucking the last bit of moisture from his sweaty skin.

Faded blue pieces of cloth cover strategic areas of his little body,

but not enough to hide his hunger.

He sits down on the dirt floor which is parched and cracked like his lips,

and he reaches toward me with his skeletal hand.

A tear drips slowly down his face,

and disappears into his hollow cheek.

“Won’t you help him?” pleads a faceless voice.

Where the hell are his parents? I think.

Why can’t they take care of their goddamn kids?

A deep sickness wells up from my gut.

There are no adults around, only dying children.

I can’t take this anymore;

“something MUST be done!” I declare.

I lunge for my remote to change the channel,

spilling wine on my silk shirt in the process. 

No Self

It is not a single entry in a log,

but a splendid myriad of details,

bedtime stories, and factual fallacies,

mingling together in a text that can't be written.

It is not primary, not the action-

not blue, red, or yellow,

but a secondary actor with shades and hues

of limitless colors, breathy and opaque,

that resist replication.

It is not a finished dish,

but a rabid recipe in flux

unable to hold its form or function

from moment to moment-

a heap of buttery garlic noodles, changing to lush chocolate cake

with velvet ganache, morphing to face-puckering pickles and a fresh out of the fryer

golden corn dog that burns your fingers.

There is no one scarce thing to which the label sticks precise.

It is an eclectic mash and whirl-

not summed up and not considered apart,

that cannot be unraveled, grasped, or harmed.