Christmas Three

If I could sing, my voice would have a bluegrass hiccup on the high notes

If I were slim, I would never wear a bra.

If I were young, I would choose again when it came to being old.
———————

After beginnings, I sometimes falter

Perhaps that’s how I got here.

———————

I write poems on the backs of my diet menus

In careless disregard … as I munch chocolate mint cookies in bed.

I have decided to live as if I decided to be the way I am,

Notwithstanding suggestions surrounding choices.

To be happy is to be healthy enough.

———————-

Living my way is only fair

My wings are an inside job, my life is littered with feathers

And comfortable shoes for my friends to deride.

I burn incense under fire alarms with a stick nearby to poke the screech.

————————

HILLSBORO

In Betty’s yard, yellow flowers grow on the tips of leafy stems.

There’s an unfinished fence to contain these, & dirt-clumped ground

To probe bare feet.

A frayed clothesline holds wood-sprung clips

In turn, holding nothing at all.

An unconscious solidarity, my face becomes

A clock, following their petals east to west

The sky only a feeling on rainy days.

My head grows heavy, filling with seeds

Once fallen, I will feed the world,

Calling birds to the runes of tree roots gnarling the boundaries.

Of Betty’s  yard.

————————-

The ocean is always nearer than a thought of tides,

Turning on its edges to re-enter itself,

Ridged, wrinkled, silken, gray-white with pickling salt.

———————-

I want to live in a lighthouse

Lining the circular walls with books

I can drift my fingers upon, pulling one to read

On my journey towards the Light,

While at the base, the sea slithers & hovers & booms

Hissing among the rocks, scribing on sand.

————————–

I hear a drum

Or is it fireworks at midnight?

Faraway-faint.

I flick the blinds to see

Raccoons loping by in doglike packs

Masked with the aplomb of true bandits

Did they plant the explosives?

——————–

Florida has much to say if you speak Jungle

Huge Adam & Eve leaves quiver on trees

Atop roots of black mold grimy as sin.

So green, so wild, a lunch of little flavor if you favor a sky

Munching mountains, that sierra symphony.

Florida has alligators & anhingas swimming

The same waters

Blue herons stalk while

Pelicans dive among floater-boat gulls

———————–

(Too bad I cannot eat my words

Ideas like Italian ices, cooled & lemony

Sweet & sudden on the tongue,

Freezing the brain.)

I’m a writer, I tell you

Just tamped & tamed by earning since

I cannot devour syllables.

I prize them loose & pack them down in soil

Where they breathe into roots & water,

Like bread that rises with morning to nourish.

Some words yellow as butter or smelly cheese,

Tart as root vegetables, soft like ripe tomatoes

A salad is a poem

Leafy & crunch-spined

A lean diet crafted in layers

Gilded in dressing, evasive to gather, hard to chew

Seeded & spiced to flavor with adverbs & minute spicy grains

Sparkled & healthy & cleaning to the system.

Buon Appetit!