catbriar

Mantid Days

Mantid Days

these last few have been mantid days
and everywhere it seems, are tiny pale and tender insect miniatures
posed in attitudes of patient prayer. insectile pharisees of the fall.
aloe that summered on the porch
(brought inside at the report of frost
in butter tubs and plastic cups,
green pups expecting potting soil and better digs)
brought the first one to the level of my eyes.
it was clutching a slender young and jade-pale aloe spike, living jewelry.
etched gold wire legs, body pale spring citrine. for accent ruby chips
pot, plant and insect departed my warm brown desk
returned to the porch for chilly shelter and survival by their own devices,
but I have seen more one inch monsters since.
one on the door
kneeling to share the word with its glass reflection,
another posted on the mailbox,
the USPS in its meditations, or prayerfully auditioning to stand for next spring’s stamp.
frost did come at last as promised and the only traces left are filamentous legs
still grasping leaves, transparent body empty now: molted,
or to answer its petition, relieved of mortal shell
its chitin coat, an empty prayer left for the needy

December 14, 2009 Posted by barbara_y | Writing | | No Comments Yet

THREE

From the hill whose long and fading shadow
reached back to the night, she watched the lower town
emerge from faded color into red touched light.
Awake, but suddenly released from months
of urgency, from need to be somewhere,
somewhere, somewhere else.
What strange restlessness
brought her to this place, and now?
the blue depths of the western sky
were clear from where they rose
out of the dirty bay, reaching dark
beyond the moon’s translucent oval.
can the moon
see what is coming
does she feel
the press of the storm

she thought that she might almost feel
the wind against the mountain’s back
not a gentle teasing sunrise touch,
a pressure like a steady hand.
far out on the bay a rowboat fled
through swells the wind tipped
blood pink with froth and sunrise
hurry to your mother
little water beetle
tell the captain
he should be away

Movement on the shadowed dock resolved
to shape three scarecrows, shambling things,
unsteady on their driftwood feet.
One hid the sun behind his hand
another dropped onto the planks,
releasing an impossible load
bundles, sea bags, burdens.
The third scare crow, a bag of drift
and bone, pearl-shelled fragments,
flotsom in the shape of man
looked over one tenth of a town
and met her eyes

His second day aboardship,
a glancing blow, the backhand
of a boom he hadn’t learned
to watch for, caught him and
he saw the sun explode inside
his temple. So the sunrise
from the mountain stunned him
and he thought:
I’m dying in this place

Still he answered the boy’s question
with a nod to the old cook–no longer
Cook, now nameless.
And he thought: and so am I
nameless, homeless, free.
Youngest whined again,
accustomed, after months
of kicks and threats, to orders,
lost with none of those
and nothing in their place.

Oldest straightened like a man
and took a step toward solid land:
You find a place
above the surge
you call it home.

Three, they say, can keep a secret. If two of them are dead.

There was something–air, perhaps, or water
something in the garden dirt or something in the plants
brought secrets to the island, to the city there
Something lured them in, and held them mute
Let men hide the past inside like grains of sand
let them shape it as they would, so their lives
could hold it, smoothing history
with lies and fabrication

Tumor, cyst, or pearl,
the city held their secrets safe,
safe as death, and love and home
safe as a city made for dead men

December 13, 2009 Posted by barbara_y | Writing | | No Comments Yet

« Previous Entries

Myths Grow Feet

Myths saunter through our lives as effortlessly as Hercules could rip your check in half and say your money’s no good here or Pecos Bill could spin a three day novel out of tumbleweeds and moonshine They walk among us in disguise Medusa’s masked and pixilated but she’s there and stoning the unwary from a screen Dragons dress innocuous and sell insurance
mantid days

these last few have been mantid days and every where it seems pale are and tender green insect miniatures posed in attitudes of patient prayer. insectile pharisees of the fall. * * molted, or to answer prayer relieved of mortal shell chitin coat left for the needy.
Ladybug

a tickle on my neck I brush and crush a red and spotted lady beetle soon they will be clustering and cloistering dropping from the ceiling into soup and wandering among the potted plants like tourists from tokyo or mars but now the scent like fig leaves on my fingers reminds me to be careful as my feet disturb the earth
plasterform

If I cast plaster over my small world would it create a white inversion of my polychromic chaos? Could the negatives of cat hairs seem arranged processional as lines of poetry, and etch the wet lime inverse with platitudes of order? What cryptic shapes would come from ball point pens, remote controls and coffee cups?
Summoned to a Lady’s Room

he stepped into a dimness dressed for winters ruled by kings and queens of bone and dust now memory a parlor wearing wealth in saturating dyes, dense to hold an ember’s warmth through nights without a whispered hope of summer fire, heat wrapped in velvet and in silk against a life of white, black, of a cutting blue. steel and ice. venous ravenous.
Three Scarecrows

they left him and two other scarecrows on the dock beside a canvas bag of mail its brass lock half ripped off beside a bale of something smelling dead and three bare sea bags flat as hunger

Moonshine Tunes

covered all in creekslime and smelling like the guts of worms, dead fish, and honeysuckle later we would find ourselves the hosts to countless tiny ticks too small to find until they’d gorged themselves and swollen large as mustard seeds. stay aways, not run aways we were wild and fearless singing moonshine tunes like nursery rhymes
Afternoon’s too long

The afternoon's too long and bright sing down the sun and bring on night with music use ukeleles, piccolos and chimes to lift the stars and when the time is right bring on the moon flute a sliver from behind a cloud or sound out full and rich the sweet bassoon
DOWN TIME

Sirens’ echos screaming off brick facades and black roads are calling down the stars Faceless men making dark rites in back room whispers and coupled lovers pleading for completion chained hounds belling in staggered chorus join in calling down the stars Listen.
Dawn Emergency Room

the dim dawn startled her like walking into daylight from a movie matinee time playing tricks again she stumbled over nothing caught herself and stayed upright, too tired to fall with none of the raw fear that brought her here all adrenaline and energy departed hours ago.
May be truth

May be truth should wear a label hang a sign around its neck and give us leave to waste our time on more important puzzles (Hamlet was a fool to care) May be the night has fooled your eyes, you see gray recollections shades (see fire curl in spectrum
as damp then peach

Odds are in your favor missie if you buy this car you won't be sorry true she's got some miles on her but she 's got plenty more you had your own mechanic look * * * Imagine top down wind and Mose Allison exhaling cool irony nowhere I got to be no just flat blue highway and night smelling baking bread and coffee soft leather seats and smooth responsive powerful and ripe as peaches headlights picking out the lines stars blurring mine we us
Guitar thirst

We got lost one night outside of Crossville, three girls in an old convertible no spare tire, when the radio hit static, engine light winked on. out on this tar blacktop road, not hardly two lanes anywhere and not a sign of anything in sight, just our headlights on the road. We wound up at this roadhouse, white cinder blocks and black paint trim, the smell inside was old stale beer and french fry grease from last July. We meant to get directions and get out of there
Before Remembering

he stands in the dawn humming last nights music blind to the world and the pearl morning light blue alcohol fire burned away yesterday sometime during the night he waits for the past to show its face now a reminder to lead him back home he drank to escape memory sang to re-wake memory
Rest somewhere sweet and listen

Morning rests inside the darkness. Sorrow comes where sorrow will. Mourning is no cure for loving. Stars unseen are with you still. Starlight rests inside the morning. Rest. Work will still be here tomorrow.

catbriar

meow

Mantid Days

THREE

Myths Grow Feet

mantid days

Ladybug

plasterform

Summoned to a Lady’s Room

Three Scarecrows

Moonshine Tunes

Afternoon’s too long

DOWN TIME

Dawn Emergency Room

May be truth

as damp then peach

Guitar thirst

Before Remembering

Rest somewhere sweet and listen

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