A Poem for Mondays

 Memento Mori in Five Syllables

Something awful may

happen tomorrow.

Some terrible thing

may be waiting for

mourning.  Think on this.

The car you leave in

never arrives.  The

voices you hear are

whispering lies.  The

hankie you touch to

your lips fills with blood.

Think of the skull on

the mantle.  Ponder

Boethius, et al.

Turn Terror away.

Make today quiet,

humorous, and good.

Rats Country: Imbricate

         

            Imbricate

Overlapping edges give the illusion
we're sewn together by tiny stitches.
I told you something a moment ago.
You didn't listen.
Silence entwines us.

Rat's Country: What I Can't Fix

I can't change your table mate,
the one whose teeth fall out on her plate
or the way your dinner
smells like death and ketchup.

Rat's Country: Misogamy Monday

Misogamy  Monday

I’m suspicious of women

who marry impossible men,

but then,  the opposite

is  true—the hapless gent

who chooses a shrew.

Yet those cloying teams,

“He’s the man of my dreams"

Fill my throat with  nausea

thinking of that  devoted old goat

and nanny goat, too.

"Harry Houdini Extricates Himself"

                         Harry Houdini Extricates Himself

Harry Houdini, submerged under water,

 has wrapped himself in rusty old chains

enclosed in  what looks like a bulletproof box.

Family and friends and naysayers, too,

watch the calm surface and think of  the struggle below.

They look at their watches and  whisper together,

then he bursts through the surface, his hands in the air.

“ I’m free!” he shouts and we breathe his relief

as well as our own.  We turn to go home

dragging the chains we wore to the shore

 when we recall he put himself in a terrible  fix,

 but  then,

by God,

 he got out of it.

"Driving to Elko on a Winter Day"

Driving to Elko on a Winter Day

I see storm clouds stacked from here
clear to the Ruby Mountains.

I see Jesus rays beaming

downward in all directions.

Even Lone Mountain seems blessed

by  light,  and in the distance

it looks as though the whole town

rests on hallowed ground.

 For all I know—

and this is true—

a sacred light

shines right now

on me  or you.

Rat's Country: What Would Fido Do?

What Would Fido Do?

Don't succor your  grievance
 the way a dog does
with  self-absorbed licking
of nicks and scratches.

Shed your  annoyance
the way  a wet dog
shakes off the rain,
then curls into a ball,
 falls asleep.

Word Play: James Awakens in a Good Mood

James Awakens in a Good Mood

The callethump in James’ brain

rose and fell o’er his mental terrain.

Who was the bride?  Who was the groom?

Who was the clown with a red balloon?

Accustomed to eat his cereal

with thoughts sere and funereal,

why the epithalamium

in his venerable cranium?

Did he deserve unnerving joy?

Was he a lexographer’s toy

who could uncathect grumpiness

contemplating callethumpiness?

                                                            

Scorpio Women Are Born Bi-Polar

Scorpio Women Are Born Bi-Polar

I am having a good day.

 Let me tell you about myself. 

I say clever things my friends remember.

 I am kind, caring, bold,

sometimes,

a beautiful woman,

some days,

who deserves manicures, pedicures, exquisite clothing.

Some days

the world conspires to make me  awkward,

unimportant,

 lacking in grace, inclined to drool.

On those days

I am disguised as a thick-waisted lumpenprole,

a shy librarian with tiny affectations

and autistic bursts of knowledge.

One rare day I told the world

(of course, no one was listening)

I am a rare spirit, intuitive and deeply feminine,

an ancient priestess who could rule a kingdom

and read the stars.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to Me

No middle.  Too bad.  A rectangle  on slender  legs.

Ask my friends what  I  have said  worth remembering

Notice  that I love anything that

Crunches.  A ruminate

Yesterday  I tried.  God knows.  Today I begin with promises.

Men in  my dreams?  Always  familiar  but odd.

            Last night my  dentist  curled my  Cher

Hair in red rollers.

Chambray shirts.  Levis.  Suede  jacket.  Gold earrings.

            That’s me.   I sound like some  bitch from Jackson Hole.

            I don’t mean to.

Let’s say she was always interesting,  sometimes

            Beautiful.

Let’s imagine a fire.  She rushes into her house to save

            Five  things.  She  burns with  indecision.

Always says a childhood prayer.  Every night.

No middle.  Too bad.   Built  like a Snickers bar.

Dang.  She’s good company.

She Comes Home from College for the Weekend

She Comes Home from College for the Weekend

a prose poem

You may laugh, but it feels like a visit from royalty, and  that we are not the parents of royalty, but that we are, you know, the faithful retainers.  When she sits on the floor  of the castle sorting photos, we sigh and say, “Yes, that was you, your blonde hair a halo in the light filtered by redwood trees.”  And we say, “Your hands were always beautiful.”  Yes, we are the humble servants glad to have her back for a weekend, more amused and attentive than anyone to her tales of adventure on the coast of Mexico.  We gladly wash her clothes, fix the door of her car, only tsk slightly to ourselves.  “She is messy,” our eyes say.  Will her carelessness cause her harm, we wonder. 

We sympathize with her parents who deny these leave takings.  We are glad we can stand for them, waving as she backs out of the driveway  and then goes forward into the flow of noisy traffic.

High Mountain Haiku

          High Mountain Haiku

            Aspen in autumn
            A  shimmer of golden coins
            Soon black and then gone.

Whimsical Weather Report

Cloudy
 with
 a
 slight
chance
 of
 flowers.

"Gravity Keeps Us from Floating Up"

“Gravity Keeps Us from Floating Up”

            Angus McLelland, age 5

Be grateful today

that your  coffee cup

stays on the table.

 Take cheer when you hear

the sound of one shoe dropping.

You know it will hit the floor.

When the shoe will fall

or the cradle with baby and all,

you  will never  know,

and if the suspense is killing you,

never fear.  Here’s what to  do:

(at least this time of year).

Be Newtonian.

Go sit beneath the nearest apple tree

and contemplate

the  thumps on the ground around you.

Should you get bonked

by a nice green  Pippin,

laugh and be glad

for the gravity of your situation.

Car Wreck, New Year's Eve

      

    
Car Wreck, New Year's Eve
         for Persephone,  the one who lived

Look at the low light through leafless oaks.
Read the trees to know the time of year.
Persephone's descent is complete.
Her mother mourns.

Distraught Demeter waits in the ER
 the ambulance speeding toward her
skimming  the wet highway,
among its cargo
the damaged daughter
who stood in the winter road
blinded by oncoming lights.

Stunned Persephone
in the cold sarcophagus
driven back to her mother
out of season
bearing a mournful message
from her dead sisters
bearing her wounded life.

Fall Moon

Fall Moon

Membranous, warm, full,

a palpable throb

in the midst

of those cold shards,

the stars.

Full as an udder,

translucent, a sac

Full, I tell you, like a drip.

And I thought about that--

the moon suddenly dropping

Kerplunk gone.

Orison: Sotto Voce

Orison: Sotto Voce

Vestal virgin nightgowned in white

demurely kissed two foreheads goodnight,

tiptoed the stairs to her moon-made bed,

whispher-wished her gown were red.

I wrote this little poem when I was in college. Last night I remembered it.

If Anger Were a Place

If Anger Were a Place

For years you walked in the wind,

learned to lean forward,

head down,

trained yourself to narrow your eyes.

One day the wind stopped.

You waited.

When the wind didn’t resume,

you became the furious one.

You felt way too old

to learn to walk in stillness

and livid that you spent your life

in a windy place

although you chose it.

Dwelling on Myself

Dwelling on Myself

I am the dwelling.

Sometimes a hut, seldom a castle,

often a house under construction,

walls removed, a wood floor taken up,

revealing the debris of a life,

mostly rat shit, I might add.

Sometimes a treasure,

a porcelain button, a doll's leg.

Dwelling on myself.

I spend too much time

going room to room

dreaming about paint

and perfect furniture.

To leave this house is to die.

I understand that.

Deer Hunting, Pomo Way

Deer Hunting, Pomo Way

for William Oandasson

Sit on your spot

Wait for the game

Don’t shoot the first deer (one)

While hunting singing a chant

Once you kill a deer

You sing a different song.