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