::
You’ll see it in the sea,
the simple be of bee
the ska of storm,
the reign of rain.
::
In April, she poems.
This is the one that’s ravin’
of ravens, baring its soul
to feathered feet. Bearing
too much for one day’s
caws. Causing a ruckus.
It’s tearing up
(yesterday’s news,
tomorrow’s promise psalm),
palming tale high in the
air and swimming
in bass. Facing the
music, breaking
the Fall.
Give it your tired soles,
your aching
(telltale)
heart, your
bolder dreams. The pebble
in your poe-hum pocket,
your Sisyphus boulder.
The hill. The storm. The wind
-ing road that takes you
(evermore)
home.
::
In April, she poems.
There’s a big sky up there,
and the moon has gone amaying,
saying she might be back by Monday
(but also maybe not).
She’s got things to do and space
to be, ways to wax and wane
and do her own howling.
She cares not for wolf, or blood
or blue, and flowers are too far
for milky fingers. She lingers
here in all this black
lying on her ivory back
to see what happens next.
It’s best to let her do her thing
(come harvest, cold or snow);
she’s whole all on her own, you know
,
(content to be
a poem.)
::
In April, she poems.
here there be ghosties,
small horrors galore;
hobgoblins of hope
and sad specters in store.
banshees of beat drum
their way to the core,
knowing they’ve got you
as devil-doubts roar.
things that moan boo
and go bump in the night,
thumping and krumping
’til all’s not quite right.
we plod and we plead
and we put up a fight
to possess our own pieces
and seal them up tight.
::
In April, she poems.
We’re meant to carve it with a scalpel
out of the poor thing’s slimy chest,
(along with liver, stomach, spleen)
but I’m green myself at best
and turns out no amount
of Charlie scent
can mask the stench
of formaldehyde.
Mr. G just stepped outside to chat
with Coach Loh, and that’s ok with me
because I’m a little dizzy – between
the unfortunate frog
and your
(dominant)
baby blues
across the room,
wandering toward her
,
cutting me to the core.
::
In April, she poems.
She forgot to check that part, see?
(One should fully investigate
before one osculates.)
She’d assumed there was a prince
-ly core at the heart of all that green.
But he’d killed dragons.
And had a prideful mind.
And he simply wasn’t kind
(Truth be told, he was a little mean).
And the way he said her name
filled her heart with dread.
In fact,
turns out there were quite a few
virtues he lacked.
So she kissed him again
and turned him
back.
(Named him Fred.)
::
In April, she poems. Sometimes there be wayward princesses. And dragons.
There’s a guy on the corner
with a guitar, sings strains
and refrains about Mother
Earth with a soulful smile
and a tear in one eye.
And here, feet on pavement
and heart on sleeve,
I can see what he means.
Today
I sway along,
all rhythm and blues
(and greens).
::
In April, she poems.
and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
–E.E. Cummings
while the world moves;and every part stands still:
–E.E. Cummings
::
stirred
,
we see the sky
for what it is,
a scrim we’re all
behind. a blind
for hiding, abiding
on moon’s
darker
side.
we still
our hearts, our
hands. the lands
we love.
we sit and sip
and take one more trip
around
(and around and around)
the sun.
::
In April, she poems.
Boy meets girl
(Or is she an alien? A robot? A time-traveling librarian?)
Boy loses girl
(After quest, side quest, unhinged ex.)
Boy gets girl back
(Fact: love’s a circle, not a triangle.)
But still: cheap thrills.
(Don’t go into the basement.)
::
In April, she poems.
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