Leaf Tattoo

 

Leaf Tattoo

A boy named Craig in second grade
shorter than me but stronger
lifted a stone size of a hubcap
and dropped it on my head
digging a divot of hair and flesh
lubricated by red blood
astonishing us both.
Craig picked up my scrap of scalp
and dangled it dripping from fingers,
couldn’t answer why as teachers came running
but it was the last we saw of Craig.

From that day
I had a bald spot, a scar like a dead leaf
top of my head
which seemed not part of me
but carried by me
inanimate
detached like senseless violence.

A bold girl named Betsy
touched it once and let me
touch her nipple. Just one touch,
one nipple. Then we threw stones into water
to watch them splash and sink
and disappear.

Sometimes yet in autumn
when the leaves let go in breeze
with a sound like Betsy’s whisper
I see that nipple a tattoo that glows and grows
giving, giving
against the luff of air
as we flutter, as we briefly fly.

…..

First published in Black Coffee Review. Thank you editor Dave Taylor.

To a hummingbird warrior

 

To a hummingbird warrior

Sparkling you hover,
staring into my eyes. You intimidate
with har-oom of wings.

This coffee my only nectar
with a squirt of canned whipped pseudo-cream
which embarrasses me, my love of fluffy crap
while you, tiny bird, need glucose to survive.

A man with weed whacker
clears a drainage ditch by the road,
works nearer, nearer whining like a
giant mosquito in a cloud of gasoline fumes,
nearer wearing bug-eye goggles,
bright orange ear guards,
nearer bright yellow safety vest
like a toxic flower.

Zip a green bullet you fly.
You poke his face. A gloved hand swats.
Winged syringe, you stab his neck.
He lifts weed whacker as an ungainly club
swinging mortal combat to your fragile bones
but the cutting string slaps his leg.
Startled he drops the machine and—
Zip you fly toward our rose garden.

Har-oom har-oom.
May my coffee be so sweet,
my life so pure, so tiny brave.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen.
Painting by Katie Col

Bury Me in a Redwood Forest

 

Bury Me in a Redwood Forest

May redwood roots tickle my bones.
May my blood rise as tinted sap.
May my arms lift as limbs to sunlight,
    may I embrace the rain.

May these muscles bear massive growth,
    may they bend and flex
    through squall and storm.
May the once-abundant hair of my body
    become filaments of shaggy bark.
May fingers and toes become needles of green,
    may the chickadee clutch with tiny feet.

May my dreams flow to cones, become seed.
May my words whistle with the wind
    spreading stories, tall tales.

May the hawk build a nest at my crown,
    may the fox hover at my hollow.
May my unworthy spirit surge
    with the glory of sequoia.

May I resist the rot, repel the insect,
    and when at last I fall
may I be sectioned, milled, notched and nailed,
may I become the soul of a house
    peopled with children,
    crafted with love.

…..

First published in Red Eft Review—thank you editor Corey Cook
Photo by Casey Horner on unsplash

Rough Cut

 

Rough Cut

Let us praise beauty imperfect.
Tough lumber, stubborn
resisting the blade.

Fallen trees, local,
plus driftwood of the northern coast,
free for salvage.

Crazy grain
from growth against the odds
twisting for sunlight.

A crafter’s hand and mind,
a little rough around the edges.
Heartfelt.

Sanded, oiled, yet
flawed. Please,
don’t change a thing.

…..

Note: I’ll dedicate this poem to my dear old woodworker friend James (Jim) Adams. He died this past week. Here’s a link to more about him: James Adams, Local Salvage

Elena's Dollar

 

Elena’s Dollar

Elena who paints her eyes green
gives greenbacks to Greenpeace.
Abandoned by husband (she blames pollution)
and by friends (a bit strident, she is)
she hires me when a water pipe detaches
from her one room shack which
is sliding down a green hillside.

Elena is none too happy about any of it:
the slow landslide like a lover’s betrayal,
the emergency repair charge of $100
though anybody else would charge $300.
I tell her it’s my “friendly rate,”
though she’s no friend.

She pays with a sheaf of ones and fives
plus a jar of quarters and dimes.
“Count if you don’t trust me.”
I tell her it’s about accuracy not trust
so I count while she scowls and then
I give back one quarter, two dimes.

Back home early. Rose is there.
Idly fingering the money she says “Elena
needs to get loved or at least laid
but how do you hug a cocklebur?”
She finds an extra dollar, says I should return
but the kids come home, the dog needs a walk,
shoes and paws are wet, dinner needs
to cook and serve.

When I finally see Elena she says
to keep that greenback, she has cancer
and it won’t be long, anything left will go to
the hospital’s giant sucking treasury.
“You should have charged me more.
I’ll probably never see you again.”
She blames pollution. Okay, okay,
I’ll donate a dollar to Greenpeace.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig  — thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen
Image by David J Roberts

Just a quick note to say

 

Just a quick note to say

loons are calling
sounds like Corinna
    Coh-
        reen-
            ah…
as my heart calls for you.

Silent moon is splitting calm water
with yellow beam oh how I wish
I were parting your hair.

Eleven mergansers survived the summer
(used to be eighteen), swam a cautious circle
around the big boulder and then one by one
flapped onto the flat top where they preen
watchful for the bald eagle
and are you safe
are the windows locked?

Something splashed I think a mink.
I miss you and your minky parts.

…..

First published in Rat’s Ass Review — thank you editor
Roderick Bates

The Opposite of Hate

 

The Opposite of Hate

Singin' in the shower.  
Peanut butter. Daisies.
Weathered barn boards
are the opposite of hate.

Playmate. Roller skate.
Rhyme is the opposite of hate.

Balloons. The only thing
you should ever blow up
is a balloon.

Skinny-dips.
Swimmin’ hole, hot afternoon.
Buck-naked is the opposite of hate.

…..

Note: When I shared this poem with friends, they added “cake” and “dark chocolate” as the opposite of hate. You can add your own. Please.

Anna’s Hummingbird

 

Anna’s Hummingbird

On this careless planet
little Jacob shouts I found a bird!

I warn Jacob not to touch.
I tell Jacob it’s an Anna’s Hummingbird.
Fluffed, huddled on gravel over tiny feet.
Jacob says Anna’s vibrating. She’s cold.

I tell Jacob a hummingbird heart
can beat a thousand times a minute.
Mine too.

Our kickball game forgotten.
Can’t you do something?

I take off my shirt, slip it under like a gurney.
Anna flutters, makes faint peeping noises.
She’s scared!

I carry shirt and bird to the carport, bunch the
fabric like a nest, place under a lamp for heat.
We’re trying to help you, Anna.

She lies on her side, feet outstretched.
He who could never sit still, crouches.
Get warm, Anna.

I could tell him. I don’t.
But I’m shivering, I want my shirt back.
Jacob whispers as if blowing into tiny lungs
Breathe, Anna!

Heat lamp glowing, tenderly he waits.
Our hearts are slowing, spirits growing.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Haugen.
Photo by Julie Martin

How to Use a Chisel

 

How to Use a Chisel

Not like that. Flip it over.
Keep the bevel edge down. Flat side up.
Don’t hammer.
Light taps, wooden mallet.
Better, just push with the heel of your hand
as the old masters tell you,
those of clear hearts
who work wood all their lives,
their flesh an anthology of oops —
tales of skin flaps, bloody dovetail joints.

The fingertip fell as a stub
he retrieved from the sawdust floor.
With both hands occupied
pressing tip to knuckle as tenon to mortise
bound in a shop rag dripping red, he drove
the old truck with no hand on the wheel
steering with belly, with elbows,
the whole trip in second gear, couldn’t shift.
It was night. Rain.
Then the prettiest little nurse
with that ugly-ass surgeon saying
You did it wrong, should’ve put the stub
in a plastic bag with ice
but now you’d hardly discern — see?
Crease above the knuckle, it ain’t natural.

Keep a sharp edge.
It’s simple, the motion.
And yet, no matter. One moment
out of millions, something bizarre:
a lizard drops onto your head.
Oops.
Plastic bag. Ice.
Okay? Now, son. Here.
You can have this old man’s chisel.

…..

First published in The Literary Nest—thank you editor Pratibha Kelapure
Photo by Alexei in Pixabay

Toast

 

Toast

On magnificent wings
a great blue heron in the golden dawn
glides to a stop
where power lines sag on steel poles
to a stop
on a silver thread of shine
to a stop
bringing velocity sideways swinging the line
to a stop
contacting the next line
to a stop
POP
and heron is no more.

Power out for two hours.
Toast untoasted. Eggs unfried. Coffee unbrewed.
It is our own fault, this inconvenience,
don’t blame the bird. Your fault. Mine.
Our dollars bought this design.
Singed feathers float over the marsh,
a reminder, a memorial,
if we care to see.

…..

First published in Misfit. Thank you editor Alan Catlin.
Photo by Greg Johnston.