An Interlude of Logic

 

 

 

barbarians at the door
their heads on backwards
gossiping with the dragonflies
they seem nice enough
ask me how I am today
but they already know
they are a little supercilious
I don’t trust them
and attempt to close the door
but the dragonflies hover
in the hinges
knowing I will not hurt them
the barbarians try to convince me
to join them on a walk
down the lane to see the fox
and to ask forgiveness
but the fault is not mine
the barbarians tell me
we are all at fault
and I can’t fault that logic
but I remain unconvinced
the barbarians screw their heads on
rightly and walk off
saying no matter
they will ask for forgiveness in my name
I watch them lumber off
the dragonflies become unhinged
and I want to follow
but I do not.

—————————

What if?

 

 

 

 

what if
all the mirrors
shattered?
how would we know
who we are?

what if
no longer knowing
who we are
we get lost
in the streets
not understanding
a place called
home

what if
only those of us
with dogs
could be sure
we are someone
who knows how
to love
and be loved

what if
we knew only one
religion?
how long would it take
for judgments
to be served
cold

what if
the stars fell
at our feet
and pleaded
for compassion
would we kick them
in the arse?

Blue-Winged Birds

©Tarawinoa

 

 

 

In these tired walls
blue-winged birds flutter
unceasing
in their lament
calling us to task
for deeds done
for words divined
for neglect and abandonment

A sapphire feather
tumbles
out the peephole
my breath moves it
to a safe place
calling into question
our duties to each other
how much guilt
do we bear

Double-winged dragonflies
never alight
but soar and plummet
stunt riders fearless
in a mindless pursuit
to mindfulness
misguided instinct
is all we have

When I listen to the blue-winged birds
I feel the heat
of this life
burn my insides
branding me
and to all the psychologists
who say it is pointless
I say fuck you

A long time ago I lost someone
when it happens again
as it will
the blue-winged birds
will turn scarlet with shame

——————–

Too Old

 

 

 

He’s not my type
besides he has six girlfriends.

So which is it?
he’s not your type or
he has six girlfriends?

He doesn’t have six girlfriends
they’re only friends
you know, platonic.

Why do you say
he has six girlfriends
if he doesn’t, actually?

When you’re of a certain age
you look around
and you see things that aren’t there –
for you.

Like what?

Love.

Are you too old to be loved?

I am.

Do you never notice the deep purple hydrangeas,
the heads of your foes
bobbing at the window?

Do you not weep with mothers in wind-blown small towns
accepting delivery of flag-draped coffins?

Do you not rejoice when you wake to the harmony
of the songbirds at your windowsill on a summer morning?

Do you not shout and pound your fists on the floor
when you hear of a woman raped the next street over
or 10,000 miles away in a far off land?

I do all of that and more.

Then do not say to me you are too old.
Say to me the world is still young
shot full with promise.

Illogic

 

 

 

barbarians at the door
their heads on backwards
gossiping with the dragonflies
they seem nice enough
ask me how I am today
but they already know
they are a little supercilious
I don’t trust them
and attempt to close the door
but the dragonflies hover
in the hinges
knowing I will not hurt them
the door stays open
the barbarians try to convince me
to join them on a walk
down the lane to see the fox
and to ask forgiveness
but the fault is not mine
the barbarians tell me
we are all at fault
and I can’t fault that logic
but I remain unconvinced
the barbarians screw their heads on
rightly and walk off
saying no matter
they will ask for forgiveness in my name
I watch them lumber off
then the dragonflies become unhinged
and I want to follow
but I do not.

 

 

Palette

 

 

it’s the lipstick, baby
a shade of pink
that doesn’t look good
on anyone
that’s why I wear it.

and the yellow, you ask
let me just say:
I’m not yellow in the sense
that you imply
I’m not afraid
of anything, or anyone.

it’s the pill, baby
a shade of yellow
that doesn’t look good
on anyone
that’s why I eat it.

it takes away the voices
like yours
that tell lies
about who I am.
but I know who I am
and who you’re not.

a color palette, baby
a jumble of tones
that doesn’t look good
on anyone
that’s why I mix, and match ‘em

——————–

For Magpie Tales… a new site I discovered. Come by, and read the other entries by noted poets and writers.

Thanks for reading!

Feral

 

©manwithashadow

 

He’s white. Like snow. A neighbor calls him Casper. Though he moves like a small ghost, slinking through the vineyards, he’s not friendly. Maybe he was once, but life has dealt him a weak hand, and he has to play it where it lays.

Like any good hunter he’s familiar with every tree, and rock, every fox den, and squirrel drey in his travel radius. He has his landmarks. I see him resting by the cairn of flat rocks my niece constructed last summer. She buried a treasure, the feather of a blue jay. The cairn marks the spot. Out of the path of the vineyard tractors I imagine it staying in place until she’s grown. She’ll forget it ever existed. Until one year while she is in the midst of a life-altering decision, I’ll lead her to it. Seeing it again will flood her with memories, all those carefree days of childhood. Miraculously, her decision will be made clear. These things happen.

By then, by the time she has set aside her stuffed animals, and taken on the demands of adulthood, the white feral cat will be long gone from his hunting grounds. But, she will remember him. She’ll remember how we tried to adopt him, how we left him offerings of food, how we spoke soothingly hoping to coax him to come near. But, he was too far gone, his fear of humans too pronounced.

in the wild
the hunter and the hunted
memories of moonlight

——————————————

Bjorn at dverse asks us to write a haibun, and Hamish Gunn asks the same every week…

Thanks for reading!

Spectre

 

 

My backyard…

 

 

 

Nearly a month until summer,

and already a heat wave.

Ripples of warmth rise from the vineyard

like a mirage one sees in movies.

I imagine ghosts, spirits, spectres.

 

Twelve years I have lived among these vines.

Three pets lay buried, deep in the dust:

two cats and a much beloved dog.

I watch the wrinkles of air

and imagine the dry bones as a fine powder

rising heavenward, if there is a heaven

though I truly doubt there is.

 

If there is a heaven it is populated

by animals, and children, playing..

an adult free zone.

Not even a Mother Teresa deserves an

eternal reward, don’t you agree?

More likely we return to right all our wrongs.

 

Great clouds of dust rise in the hot breeze.

I can smell it. It smells like money.

Thin tendrils of springtime vines rise

heavenward, toward the sun.

They are rewarded for their adoration

with fat red grapes bursting with sugar.

 

Where once apple orchards thrived

rooting the soil, feeding children, now

Grapes ferment into dark bottles of money.

and the unfettered soil lifts and is borne

many miles into the spectre of a future

governed by the dry bones of sacrifice.

 

 

Otherwise

 

Fairgoers cheer for Sarah Palin
Credit: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images

 

 

The Age of Ignorance by Charles Simic

—————————–

Many otherwise intelligent people
are stupid.
What does that make them?
Idiot savants?
They might be good at their job,
might even be good at parenting,
might go out of their way to aid a stranger.

 
They are otherwise good people,
while lacking any understanding
of the greater picture of their own interests.
They proceed in their daily lives
believing what they are told
by unscrupulous sources, bent
on manipulation.

 
Otherwise intelligent people
care only that they are viewed
as nice
as helpful
as caring.
They are all of these things.
And they are stupid.

 
Otherwise caring people
believe the lies they are spoon fed.
The information age is a misnomer.
Piece of cake, easy-peasy to seek the truth.
But these otherwise nice people don’t do it.
Because they are nice.
They wouldn’t do anything or believe anything
that seems uncaring.

 
It is the only way to get through the drudgery
of their lives
believing they are happy, caring people.
Many otherwise lovely, friendly, charismatic
people – are stupid.
__________________________

 

The Age of Ignorance by Charles Simic

Everyone should be like me

To be clear, I’m the bad guy here.
Impatient. Something I inherited from my father.
But, I’m nice to her. I don’t want to be nice.
I force myself to take the high road.
I greet her. Hello, Gretchen.
She smiles, says, Hi, how are you?
She doesn’t remember my name.
We are in yoga class together
three times a week.
The class is not large.
I know everyone’s name.

Everyone should be like me.

Gretchen is vivacious.
She tells us stories of her exploits
in Mexico where she has a house.
She talks and talks meeting our eyes, wanting contact.
This happens in the ten to fifteen minutes before class.
A rectangle of sunlight crawls across the floor.
I wonder if she notices.
I wonder if it edges nearer warming to her story
or wishing to quiet her with a blinding brightness.

Gretchen doesn’t listen.
Or pretends not to listen.
I think she pretends.
The teacher corrects her, often.
No, Gretchen, the other leg forward.
No, Gretchen, we’re not doing the bind.
No, Gretchen, hips forward, not back.

One day she tells us she’s a recovered drug addict.
Her mother died when she was very young
sending her into a downward spiral.
I’m a terrible person.
I want to believe her, but I have my doubts.
She drives a BMW, and wears expensive
outfits, coordinated with care.
I can afford a BMW, but I don’t want one.

Everyone should be like me.

I could befriend her, ask questions she’d
be delighted to answer, dig up the real story.
How much does she understand about herself?
Does she know how she comes off to others?
I could find out. People tell me things.
Something in my face makes them want to open up.
I could discover the truth.
But, I don’t.

Everyone should be like me.