Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

https://www.dropbox.com/s/b7djwy5mwby1p1e/DRUMMOND%20COMPLETE.mp4?dl=0
​

Facade



We laugh
cuddle
an’
hug,
we live
to
make love~~~
Then
name call
hurt,
we cut,
tear down
each other’s
worth
then
we laugh
cuddle
an’
hug
we live
to make love~~~
Then
name call
hurt,
we cut,
tear down
each other’s
worth.
Then
we laugh
cuddle
an’
hug
we live
to make love~~~
IT’S
ALL
A
FAÇADE.
Cause
love
don’t
love us
at all!!!
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dedicated to: Your move.

 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 17, 2017.
 
 
 

Double Dutch Bus


Shoop
de’
Shoop.
‘Dis’
ain’t no
hula-hoop.
It’s ‘dat’
double dutch
rope.
‘Dat’ do
what
it do.
‘Talkin’
‘bout’
‘da’
loop de’ loop.
Shoop.
Shoop.




Yeah,
‘IZ’ shook it
to
‘da’ east.
‘IZ’ shook it
to
‘da’ west.
I shook my butt off
on ‘dat’
double dutch
bus!




Shoop
de’
Shoop.
‘Dis’
ain’t no
hula-hoop.
It’s ‘dat’
double dutch
rope.
‘Dat’ do
what
it do.
‘Talkin’
‘bout’
‘da’
loop de’ loop.
Shoop.
Shoop.




Nappy!
Bald as can be;
aint’ stopped
‘dis’
big bone neck,
ashey black legs
an
brown
crusted feets’
from doing
the
‘dawg’
on ‘thang’.
Shoop
de’
shoop.
‘Dis’
ain’t no
hula-hoop.
It’s the
double dutch
rope.
‘Dat’ do
what
it do.
‘Talkin’
‘bout’
‘da’
loop de’ loop.
Shoop.
Shoop.




Yeah
i
rolls my eyes
and
stomps’
‘myze’
feets,
cause in
‘DAT’
rope
‘dis’ dark sustah’s
confidant
‘AZ’
can be.


Shoop
de’
shoop.
‘Dis’
ain’t no
hula-hoop.
It’s ‘dat’
double dutch
rope.
‘Dat’ do
what
it do.
‘Talkin’
‘bout’
‘da’
loop de’ loop.
Shoop.
Shoop.




Shoop.
Shoop.






Shoop.
Shoop.






Shoop.
Shoop.
‘Dis’
ain’t no
hula-hoop.
Its ‘dat’
double dutch bus
that
do
what it do.


Dedicated to: 1, 2, 3, 4; get ready, jump in, an’ ‘ev’n’ ‘dat’ score. Shoop de’ shoop!!!
A B.A.D. Poem
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 14, 2017. 

Disgust


 
I loathe
that big bed,
cause
more slaves
are
made!
 
I detest Massa
an’
‘WISH’
he was
‘DEAD’;
instead!
 
I despise
Missy;
she pretend
she don’t
‘SEE’!
 
I dislike
her kids
who ‘LOVE’
‘MY’ 
chocolate breast
and
suckling
‘BEST’!
 
I ‘HATE’
my ‘OWN’ kids
cause
they
belong
to him
and
not
me!
 
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 
Dedicated to: Genetic connection!
 
 No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ March 31, 2017.
 
                                                                                              
 
 

Citation
(A Poet’s Haven Poetry Contest Challenge)


 I’ll write a poem for you;
You write a poem for me.
Back to back; quotations extract ‘summadat’
‘BUTT’ remember to cite thee; PLEASE.
Illustrations’ mention references; citation is key.
I’ll write a poem for you;
You write a poem for me.
Son of citation will allow thee,
to be or not to be;
“A BAD Poem” if you please.
 
Dedicated to:
Drummond-Brown, R. (2017). A B.A.D. Poem. Bloomington, IN: AuthorHouse.
A B.A.D. Poem
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 27, 2017.
​

Blood Stained Banner
As I pierce
the deep
blue skies
returning home
questioning
‘not’
who?
What?
 When?
Where?
Nor
why?
Shoeless
‘BUT’
got His
favorite
BLOOD STAINED DRESS ON!
Some say it ain’t so
but,
if ‘He’
can walk on water
to me,
then
through
mustard seed
faith
an’
‘sum’
belief;
I too
can
gaze
across
the shore,
calm
the raging seas,
keeping
mine eyes
fixed
only
on Him
all the more.
And ‘YES’
drown
into
ETERNITY.




Dedicated to:
At a ‘TREE’, at a tree (Acts 5:30); is where I first saw the light
and the burdens of my heart were rolled away.
Yeah,
that’s where it ‘twas’~~~I received my sight!!!
A B.A.D. Poem
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 18, 2017.
 
 

#666-666


 
She’s
‘po’
black trash
to ‘sum’.
 
 
 
 
 
 
While
to other’s~~~
 
 
 
 
 
 
WELL~~~
you know
the deal~~~
 
 
 
 
 
 
YEAH~~~
she’s
the toast
of the town;
an’
‘SUM’
‘BIG’ ‘BIG’
‘BIG’
fun.
To
EVERYONE’s;
sons!!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Downtown
knows her by name
WELL!!!
Them other sides’
of the tracks;
produce
some of the
same
lames’
but,
shhhhh….
Satan won’t,
if you don’t
TELL.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This is that
and
that is this.
But remember,
shhhhhhhhhhhhhh~~~
some have a
hissy fit
‘ov’r’
666-
666.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Games’ so weak
‘itsa’
‘cryin’ shame.
‘Wazant’ for Eve;
Ms. ‘Thang’
own
‘THAT’
blame game;
just
the same!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Rest assure
‘sheza’
knock off
Beyoncé
‘kinda’ dame.
‘Wit’
High dreams.
Red stiletto
heels.
Ghetto facade fame;
small minded
scheme
of thangs.
A low reach~~~
minus the frills.
A brick house
‘anna’
hard pill
to swallow
that is;
when ‘ONLY’ she
do what it do
an’
make it rain.
‘Takin’
*ABSOLUTELY*
no prisoners
and
*DEFINITELY*
asking
‘NO’
LAST names!
But,
what’s ‘HER’ name?
What’s her name?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Get ‘ov’r’ it!
An’
let her
do her.
Yeah
she can be
‘ALL’
she can be;
in her own
make believe
fantasies.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
#666-666
CAUGHT^
‘inna’ web.
SAVED BY GRACE^.
‘Dem’
UP-TOWN>
‘sadities’
‘NEVA’
saw that ‘comin’
but
keep reminding
her;
oh’
‘dem’ strange
monopoly games
ONCE
played;
back
in
her
hay-day
of ‘thangs’.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BUT GOD.
 
ERASED
~~~~~~
#666-666
~~~~~~
anyway.
 
 
 
 
 
 
And
called her ‘OUT’
by anew
#
‘witha’
 brand new
claim
to ‘HIS’ ‘kinda’ fame
and
‘COMPLETELY’
changed her
wicked wicked wicked
ways.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
777-777
replaced
‘dat’
game
AND
made her
whole again.
 
 
 
 
 
HER FATHER
‘SENT’
666-666
on its way!
 
 
 
 
 
SO,
who are you;
MS. SADITY
(yeah ‘IZ’ said it)
to have
this inmate’s
last say?
MRS. UPPITY
just
SHUT UP!!!
And let her
do her
and
you
do you
an’
CHANGE
your own concealed ways!
 
 
 
 
 
 
did you forget???
***NEWSFLASH***
‘SUMMA’ US  
REMEMBER YOU TOO
FROM
BACK IN THE DAY,’
YEAH.
DOWN THE WAY.
SO,
WATCH
WHAT ‘cha’ SAY
cause we
hear
not ‘LONG’ ago
you too ‘wuz’
666-666~~~
yesteryears.
Just
go somewhere,
mind your business
and
while you at it
CA$H
 OR SHALL WE SAY
CAST
YOUR OWN CARES!
 
Dedicated to:
He who is ‘WITHOUT’ sin; let him cast the first lie.
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ May 1, 2017.
 
 
 

 
                                      WASTELAND


Lost in a place of undreamt dreams
I can no longer find my way
I wander through the shadowed halls
Among the empty thoughts I stray
 
The footsteps of those who came before
Can still be heard within this hollow
Beyond the silence no voices speak
Along the path of which I follow
 
  
 
                                 NOBODY CARES
 

People talking at you
People talking over you
People turn their backs on you
Nobody cares
Why should they care
         
          Why should they care
 
People rushing past you
People bumping against you
People shoving into you
Nobody cares
Why should they care
 
          Why should they care
 
Empty faces everywhere
Blank expressions only stare
People forget how to share
Nobody cares
Why should they care
 
          Does anybody care
 
Everything is so strange
No personal exchange
Nothing ever seems to change
Nobody cares
Why should they care
 
          Do you care
 
 
 
                           SAME OLD SAME OLD
 
 
We never catch any fish
          yet we keep going fishing
We never sell any books
          yet we continue to write
We never lose any weight
          yet we keep on dieting
We never give up fighting
          the perceived good fight
 
We never win any games
          yet we keep on playing
We never get very far
          yet we keep on walking
Our prayers are never answered
          yet we keep on praying
No one ever listens
          yet we keep on talking
 
We continue to do the same things
          over and over again
Even though we get the same outcome
          we never seem to change
We keep loving the same people
          who do not love us back
We need to learn life’s lesson
          and our actions rearrange
 
 
 
 
 
                                COMFY SLIPPERS
 
 
You fit me like a pair of old worn slippers
Soft, warm, comfortable
You mold to my shape and conform to my mood
When I am feeling lonely
You caress me
Even your frayed edges have a familiar feel
They are part of your charm
Each wear mark holds a memory
A special place in my heart
Each stain tells a story
Of our time together
You are always there when I need you
To make me feel secure
I would be lost without you
 
 
                                      DARK SIDE
 

Poems are not always pretty
Some are ripped from the heart
Torn from the very fabric of our being
The shredder of life
They are dark and foreboding
Words spill our secret thoughts
As they slowly leak out
Like drops of blood from a pricked finger
All at once
There they are
In the world for all to see
Our ugliness exposed
Bared before all
All poems are not pretty rhymes

                            All the Pretty Little Ponies
After: The Fool on the Hill by Paul McCartney
 
The carousel reigns among the visitors; her image flickers behind gargantuan sheets of plate glass in this artsy garden home. Chortling, secretly in a sylvan wood, winking from mirrored eyes, not resigned to age in captivity untouched by the blaze of sun or downpour of platinum sky. Like St. Catherine’s Wheel without the sparks, the old gal spins round and round at the docent’s call.
 
Hidden movements of cogs and wheels spin within the calliope’s heart. Brass and brilliant, these clockworks raise and lower each of the fierce or flamboyant creatures which hold daily court, recalling the days of yesteryear. Hear the um pa pas pump through its organ—start?
 
outside
a manicured forest waits:
do not walk sign
 
Sustained by love, her horses race on golden, spiraled, poles, chasing the ostrich, frog, or deer; never letting the cat come near. Though instate, she daily waits for little ones, who squeal for joy—to leap on the pinto or plop-down in the old green gilded sleigh.
 
In her missed notes, in the crackle of mirrored panes, a sense of longing resides, for the days long gone, the carnival days—caramel apples, cotton candy and taffy, for sun’s sweet rays, for the busker’s play, for the twenties when women were sassy. Yet, here she sits, assigned, bewitched encased in plate glass.
 
 
  
 
                                 Art on the Bart
 
I met her on the Bart as the subway swayed like a fine woman’s hips. She was a picture of perfect imperfection. Her cherry-red bike chipped, shabby chic as her fingernails. We got on at Mission and 25th Street. A peaches and cream complexion defined her as au natural. She wore a dress of fiery-red polka-dots on a white ground which draped between elegant knees. This walking work of art and kindness bled poetry.
 
the smell
of sweat and perfume:
fans whir
 
I [a fish out of water in her wake] asked the way to my stop. Her hands elegant in fingerless, red wool-gloves shifted atop the black, trash-bag covered seat of her ancient bike. As she braced the frame against the seat’s stanchion, she looked up smiling.
 
“I’ll watch for you. It’s hard to see—too much noise to hear.” She mouthed tapping her ear.
 
I glanced down at my sneakers beside her caramel cowboy boots, feeling a bit lost but safe. Her Pacific-blue eyes reassured me from beneath honey-colored bangs. She was a vision of disordered loveliness, this aide to wandering mothers.
 
The cars stopped and with a finger point, she shooshed me off the East Bay train, never telling me her name.
 
 
  
                            A Withering Reign

Inspired by The Bayeux Tapestry 1077

Clouds, top stitched with crows, smother a cruel sky.
The tapestry of morn captioned with flying glyphs
glowers at the assignations of allies?
Across the tundra, a Russian bear lopes
standing to shred the welkin with claw and
fang while the eagle sleeps with the Kremlin’s gifts.
On the bleached bones of the weak, the eagle gnaws
its baser side feasts on the kills of others.
Ruled by gold, its Aryan leaders once abhorred
demonstrate the state of hate between brothers.
Let rebels rise, Betsys with needles in their hands
to mend the standard of our founding mothers.
Pierce the sky at this cruel time, right demands
the return of light and justice to this land.
 
 
  
             Chante Fable for Unholy Nights
 
Spiraling east into the sun, a cloudscape unfurls through vales and rills. Mist clings. We wing above. Air France buzzes Charles De Gaul airport, vibrating with holiday travelers. An eight-hour flight, NY to Paris, arrives. The drowse of sleepers goes uninterrupted by game playing mini-tyrants, parents’ call—children. A rocky landing gifts an omen, put-aside—too quickly.
 
France surrounds Paris, the mons Venus, its sweet bit on the Ile Saint-Louis. Notre Dame rises with esprit. The banks of laggard Seine rotund, pierced with light, spread, climatically stunned,
Ah, the intrusion of men, the confusion of women,
Vive la différence.
 
Among other retirees, I float the Seine toward Normandy disconnected from the Net. Lazing sated like the odalisque - La Grande in the Musée du Louvre in Paris. I munch hors-d’oeuvre and sip champagne. Peace and plenty engulf us as we move from lock to lock, disembarking only for choice sites. We peruse history sanitized for tourist’s palates. December twenty-first, we re-dock in Paris. At seven PM, we bus cruise the Champs-Élysées while in Dijon terrorists drive into eleven people in a Christmas Mart. Still, death is distant thunder which does not follow us to Provence in the south or home.
 
The Eiffel tower recedes,
height minimizes, misleads,
for the beauty of a dream
for war to end its regime.
Is there a difference?
 
Reconnected to the Net, I sit at home. Encased in quiet and serenity, I ponder. Is there any safety, any river of peace, any odalisque who has not chomped too often on the tit of condescension? The distance between ‘have’s’ and ‘have not’s’ has grown too great. Rebellion rides upon a pale horse.
 
 
  
                                 La Petite mort de Mère
 
with utter disregard & apathy, Pip’s and Estella’s bid farewell
(no sense in chasing them) the west coast soul seekers run
                           from east coast roots   & vice versa
 
(there’s no looking back) each escaping the
parental grasp             once treed, these green buds--
to citron-suckled—meld to tangerine—then burgundy
are cheeky in their
                             leaving
 
like the blush of a vestal virgin or falling petals of September’s
mums—imagined or contrived, they flee with Cheshire Cat grins
with—pure abandon        
 
a right royal tear of tender hearts—ripped up, ripped-in-two
this episiotomy of a day--from nubile buds   or ancient family
trees                they leave the nest, flee the tree        
disperse           (all gone—ground to sepia stages)
 
like the fortunes that remain in a teacup
fertile  offspring leave returning only for
the birthing of
                     grandchildren
 
 
 

                 I Pulled a Sword of the Rose Out
 
I pulled a sword of the rose out
With a starlight
Repeled the eternal night
I made God to retire
Return the golden stick of his hands
With a lightning
I carved a spell in the mask of the sky
Make the stars to dance
Make the sea sweet
Make the giants to return from outer space



                                The Wings of Phoenix
 
Excavate a window in the wall of the phantom of the world
Let the rain of fragrance from heaven to bathe the soul
When you hear the madadayo song of the angels
You will see the golden transparent skin of the earth
Your eyes will twinkle like stars
The dates of yesterday will disappear in the distance like clouds
A golden scepter is held in your hand
Make the mountains and rivers is like picture
Make the heavens is like jade
The sound of the dragons will make you into nirvana
Spread the huge wings of the phoenix
 
                            My sword of the dawn
 
My sword of the dawn
Came from the ancient sun
Fly in the grim night
To find that king of the demons
Breaking its head
Casting a net of lightning
Let the monsters perish
With their bodies and spirits

          The Stars Were Gathering in the Sky
 
The stars were gathering in the sky
Armies of the gods began to set out
The earth was trembling
The dark night was surrounded by flames
Ancient city, python of millennium
In a network of gold
A sword of the moon
Cut off the figure of the lightning
A golden bell roared unexpectedly in the sky
A golden car of the sun
A giant with a crown on his head
From the clouds flew near angrily

   The Gods Will Return with Thunder and Lightning
 
The spring is as charming as the poppy
The gates of hell, gold carving
Make the smile of the times
As sweet as the red wine of the blood of the grape
 
The eyes of the vault of heaven became forbidding
Overseeing huge cities
In anger the earth is waiting for
The gods will return with thunder and lightning

Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

                                                   Bridge



The word is wand and

Faith, creation, and narwhal?

When I hear the sound of canter,

And the beating of flapping wings,

The promise of lovely darkest days,

Rays do not whip me.

​

​                                                     Serendipity
 
 
There will be time for sadness again,
to wring hands, wail at the half-moon,
gnash teeth and shake a fist
at God,
or whomever,
for the losses and pain,
but not today.
 
Grief will rest heavy upon
the chest and like a cat's claws,
dig in for an extended stay
to mourn
or feel numb
to form a sinkhole in the heart,
but not today.
 
Another moment of rage will burn
hot white, red bloodletting knives will
be thrown from our lips and eyes
at someone,
or something,
for the wrongs not righted,
but not today.
 
Disappointment will drop by
unexpected and unwelcome, to remind
us that life is never fair
to us
or to those we love,
a reality check of ups and downs--
but not today.
 
On this day we will climb this tower
together, tethered only to one another, tied
by beats of our hearts, in sync
serendipitous and surreal,
and while we gaze above
the treetops from this place,
or at the clouds from this blanket
on the grass,
we fly,
our feet
never leaving the ground.
 
 
 
                                At Last, Arrival
 
 
The first Saturday in March
we met on the corner, Camp House
coffee for two,
a voice from my phone stated,
“You have arrived at your destination.”
 
I looked both ways before crossing
searching for a familiar face
booked for several months
kind eyes, hard to tell the color,
but they draw me close
and we collide.
 
All at once it's clear
your face more familiar than I first
believed, your smile a caress and I let you
wrap me like a gift, as I fold up within your arms
as though my place had been saved
bookmarked
while our lives transpired, preparations
made, hearts broken
glued back together with grace
given to hope, in all hopelessness,
never give up
never say die
and when I look into
your eyes,
I know
that I know
that I know
I have arrived.
 
  
 
 
                                       Tourniquet
 
 
Are we comfortable, content, moving daily toward a dream—or complacent,
caught up in sad refrains, reaching but not rising, to meet one another
 
watching the decay, hopeless? What would it take?
Teaching moments miss the mark, slide around us, leaving us lonely
 
looking for a way out. Stifling fear and oppression fill the void once overflowing,
lingering love lost on echoes of egregious words, killing fields
 
of kindness run with blood; broken hearts and dreams, derailed by deleterious
dogma, refusing any outsider purchase on this sacred
 
ground. Blood, it’s all that matters, despite the vows or veneration whispered, wedded.
I tripped over my tongue and sprained my ankle aspiring for first place in your
 
heart, I broke my own, shattered against the wall where blood begets bond
above all, so this is where I limp away.

​
​Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives near Seattle.  His poetry recently appeared in Gravel, Here/There and Bookends Review.  Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.

                                   The Railroad Crossing
 


On the west of end of Widefield
Was a demarcation
Where hammers and saws would not
Cross over to build rooftops
Beyond Canam Highway
 
A place Dad would drive me
In his ’55 Bel Air
On Sunday afternoons
With no special reason
Except to see the other side
 
Unfurl endless sagebrush
With no roads to enter
Like Father’s private   life
Across dusty plains
Bereft of signposts
 
From those wooden tracks
Marshaling infinity
On either side of us
Gawking at immensity
Squeezed between our shoulders 
 
  
 
                                    Teenage Therapy
 

As Chris and I drive south
In his parent’s Oldsmobile
The speedometer chases
One hundred twenty
 
Toward Sagittarius
A half-human creature
Stalking El Paso County
Through the high beams of
 
Our car that snarls at
Constellations rigid
As Marksheffel Road
Taking us away from
 
Family break ups while
We roar underneath
A tributary of stars
Summoning regard like
 
So many nights gazing
In telescopes that
Funneled our anger
Through apathetic space
 
 

 
                                          To Smokers
 

You are a celebrity
When crossing my gaze
With your nomadic swirl
Unfurled in urban crowds
 
As you skillfully inhale
While pedestrians walk by
That ritual incense
Blessing your body
 
Sometimes you stand alone at
A restaurant back door
Blowing a small cumulus
Near your bewitched fingers
 
Or your left hand does arm curls
Out the driver window
Pausing for the luscious cloud
Above the sprawl of muscle
 
How hypnotic that burn
Of tobacco with its fire
Waving turbulent thoughts
Into extinguished care
 
 

 
 
                                       Improvisation 6

After the drawing by Cheryl Richey, 2014
 
Some impromptu moments
Occur like an itch
In the hippocampus
 
Calling for attention
From its squashed room
That is narcoleptic
 
Yet manages to budge
As if hatching from
Years of incubation
 
The urge to burst out
And scribble away
The darkness that had
 
Held everything so tight
In a merciless egg
Now slithers unaided
 
Toward a midday sun
Revealing on its path
The need to stay eclipsed
 
 

 
 
                                  Door to Nowhere
​
After the photograph by Helen Geld, 2012
 
Never to open again
The handle was removed
Just like the memory in
This short alley entrance
 
Distinct extinction
For the Ballard tavern
Banished behind lumber as
A backstreet Siberia
 
With its latitude
Of secrets closed away
In remote terrain
Beyond geography
 
A place we settle for
In our conversations
Where intimacy follows
The butchery of hush
 

       Upside-Down Is Right-Side-Up Upside-Down


A mitten grows fingers to match
its willful thumb. Each day a buck’s
risen hunch nurses at the branched
antlers until they disappear in one
 
theorem. In pond water the peacock
catches 50 blue-green eyes watching
from its plumes. Sad coyote starving
forgets and chases the roadrunner
 
while rack on rack 10,000 pumps
of the princess stare at the closet’s
polished floor. The dreaming pilot’s
jet bomber takes off without her,
 
leaving white, then gold and pink
contrails, odd flight plan she almost
can decipher. When the poet falls
silent as snow pages turn to windows
 
with bars all the words can’t bend
to save the stranger with black coat
and hat stumbling for black woods.
Halloweens in the mountain castle
 
a dead king called “The Enchanted
Hill” lovely maiden and her unicorn
in the meadow stitched with daises
rouse at a monster’s ghost trying to
 
enter the tapestry. As the sprinter’s
chest expands to break yellow tape
lanes reverse, backward the slowest
runner wins the trophy. Nightmare:
 
our President wakes in sweat, certain
he’s been elected President. Finally
he recalls, showers, shaves, shirt, tie,
the fine suit as striped as a prisoner’s.
 

                           Lightning Strike


She didn’t want the kids to
suffer. He ran about as far
as he could run. Why’d she
leave Tipton? Her mother
lives in Tucson, so I took her
old dog. Is that far? South
of Phoenix. What weather
do they have? It’s hot with
rain in summer, turns green
from thunderstorms. Father
saw a lightning bolt strike
an end-post and shoot all
down the vineyard wire, just
like that split each stump in
half, like with a paring knife.
Well, sooner or later we all
get struck. My yes, and now
it’s hit pretty close to home.
 

                                The Werewolf


I heard the primal howl
older than any mad dog’s
scream terrorize my human
 
ears and next I knew all
was white and red, snow,
blood, my blood. The risen
 
full moon bleached blank
the barrens I’d crossed for
my true love rumor said
 
lived secretly in the farthest
north, her castle made of ice.
Now my face wore fur, my
 
mouth lion’s honed incisors,
hands, feet bare, unfrozen,
comfortable, well-armored
 
tiger’s sharpest claws. With
nostrils flared from a 1,000
too pungent scents I smelled
 
and hunted one only, sweet,
hot, salty, disguised in living
flesh. A new different hunger
 
led me past dark pines, on
the trail of the lone caribou
till blinding day I woke, no
 
boots or gloves, down parka,
wild taste burning my raw
tongue so I ate snow. I stood
 
shirtless, bare-chested, and
upright trudged on for love
before next month’s moon
 
when on my palm I’ll see
the Gypsy’s pentagram, my
Pole Star and silver bullet.
 
 

                         Under the Coupling Clouds
 
 
Under the coupling clouds
weddings and funerals
reign, faith is crushed like
a blade of grass beneath feet and destinies
capsize. Forging through life's worst mishaps,
enduring hearts still burn great
and potent dreams.
 
While reeling in the cries
of rat-bitten love,
comes legends of courageous
forgiveness.
 
Under these coupling clouds
people heed morning as an adored
second chance. Habits break
to let begin a blazing birth
received.
 
 

                                  before
 
 
This child will come
like the spinning of a maypole -
strong colours entwined
and all her blood in unison
with the sun.
She will be a glorious bird,
sure of her place on this earth,
sure of the love that moves from
each breathing lung to the unseen stars,
tied to it all like water is to the shore,
like a night breeze coming to soothe
the summer day's scorch.
She will be set free by her heart's
irregular beat, unique in her beauty and
in her strength.
This child will come, welcomed
like a prayed-for dream.
We will hold her and know her -
our highest visions united then separated
into an infant being.
 
 
 
 
 
                                 Autumn
 
 
Throw in the towel.
Throw in the left side of your brain.
Remember now to speak against
the polliwogs infiltrating your dreams.
A dozen ships have sunk under the banner
of righteous revenge. Still, people
are talking about the end, as if
such a thing was predictable.
The end will come but not with wings of fire
or because of the clocking of the millennium.
Children are new. Antelopes are running
unharvested fields. Death has no beauty, though
some will tell you different, some who have never
touched lips with Death or felt Its cold, eternal hold.
There are patterns in the fallen leaves that none but
the birds can know. Wait now for winter, for something
immaculate to cover up, then to renew, the old.
 
 
 
 
                                  We Walk Again
 
 
            We walk again, becoming
the watery breath of lovers
touched by the same vision.
            We feed our skins again
on the shifting flame
that burns all natural affliction.
            We kiss again on home ground,
and do the things of togetherness,
full of letters and sighs and the bones
of our ancestry.
            We stand under the umbrella,
nearing the darkness but staying alive.
            We release all secrets
drenched in the soft light
of a fluid and tender joy.
 
 
 
                               Change of Address
 
 
I long for the tree I am missing
by the window on a sunny morning.
Shadows are like an empty vessel
and I count the days like coins,
passing frantic from hour to hour
into this good beginning.
I will settle, discover
my happiness on this side of
the threshold.
I will toss my past into the river
and watch it surrender to the undulating tide.
The walls of my home are vibrant with love.
I will walk to the corner, learn
a new road.
 
 

                          At the Vet’s
 
 
Even expensive vets are trailer park
In tone, single wide and used at that.
Dogs do this.
Cats.
The odd exotic – a snake or lizard, rats.
It’s the public pissing, the crap-where-you-will clients
Who live and think in immediate never minds.
Diplomas hang next to a television set
Looping pet PSAs,
Opposite shelves of Pet Mart Products:
Hamster wheels and dog chews, flea
Collars, flea powder, taxonomic charts
Of the familiar puddle-to-people tree, seeds
And leashes, carriers, shampoo, canopic jars -
With ovals carved for a mug shot of the loved
One, portrait in long-ago-dog.
A woman enters, stoled in silver fox.
She passes the diplomas and urns, the TV
Explaining deductibles, a five pound Pom
At her jeweled breast: “Give mommy a kiss.”
High heels click-clack across
The waxed and easily cleaned linoleum floor.
 
                Dives: On Confirmation Bias 
                                       There was a certain rich man who was clothed
                                        in purple and fine linen...  Luke 16:19
 
 
Turns out, the obese are obliged to eat –
The latest gene theory.  Others address
Bi-polar and A.D.D.,
Or why students, vexed, should study less.
Concerned with popular disease, America leans
On the no-fault of science to nail down
The exceptional cool of its people - like you, like me.
The wider universe, too, excuses humans:
Late or spacey’s explained away by relativity,
Love loss and loose ends by entanglement.
Your own observation, of course, ends uncertainty,
And obscure powers that shadow stars, the benevolent
Dead or dark matter, approve what we do:
As, “All is forgiven” and “Everyone loves you.”
 
 
 
 
                             Dives: Uncontrollably Old 
                                             There was a certain rich man who was clothed
                                             in purple and fine linen...  Luke 16:19
 
 
A time-worn tease, “You couldn’t handle it!”-
The young one by the restaurant door,
Angled finely in afternoon light,
Jeans and high heels.  Wham-
Bam’s ebbed to pleasant, unoften.
Usually, it’s the news and three innings,
Sleep.  Age is a. m.
 
In the first, mid-twenties, “Sir”
Hints of arthritic ache, unsteady
Heart and mind – the eighth decade’s
Slippage of personal universe and truth,
Divide of appetite and ash.  Witness
The reluctant blood, the phantom limb,
And lately, the codger-condescending “Cute.”
 
Early bird dines at five:
Soft targets, softer food -
The old lady trade, fondue.
Rascal’s twenty feet back,
A distance that lengthens day-by-day,
And the young woman steps aside
To hold open the door, unasked.