I leave my bed unmade
my dreams unfinished
and my door open
in hopes that peace will wander in.
Faces on the TV telegraph tension.
Furrowed brows and pain-filled eyes,
these are the lucky ones. Some
already lie still and cold and sightless
amid shattered buildings.
Ukriane’s brave build defense
one bottled wick at a time
and, tongue in cheek,
offer to return starved behemoths
to their origins.
The bear roars and rears while
the weary rest in subway warrens
and pray that peace will
find them.
I lose my mind among stacks of books and
find it amid words.
Ideas circle like cartoon stars
that follow a blow to the head.
But the impact is internal and words
swim before my eyes,
enough minnows to feed a pod of whales
or flocks, and flocks of hungry herons.
Words dart here and there.
Some form patterns.
Others go about their unfathomable ways.
So many books.
Delicious slippery covers beneath my palms.
Paper, some rough and some smooth, meets my fingertips as I
turn pages and corners in my mind.
Black on white, meaningless to some but
sacred to me,
text flows from left to right,
top to bottom.
All pages devoured, I sigh,
sated, and pause before…
seeking more.
Following the steps of Scandinavian foremothers
I scatter seed outside my door at Yuletide
enticing birds and good fortune for
the new year.
They deliver stray feathers among their blessings,
beauty, grace and energy.
When only split shells remain,
songs come drifting from the
oak, maple and birch,
birthing a sense
of peace and well-being
carrying me
‘til spring.
tiny fuzzy goat-man
four chins and hairy shoulders
shimmies as he dances and prances
mingles and mixes with vixens
and manner of wild beasties
who gorge on feasties or
finesse feats of frankness
pawing the floor and rearing
clamoring to claim the last clam
or juicy bit of ham
welcome to the fete
welcome to the ball
satyrs all
Her direct gaze was unnerving. I saw intelligence, wile, and hunger there.
She turned her head, pointing her chin west, the sun no more
than a memory in the star strewn sky, then leveled her gaze once again on me.
My body was immobile though my heart raced, running
rabbit-scared within the cage of my ribs. The hair on the back of my neck rose
along with ripples of gooseflesh across my arms.
In slow motion I swiveled my head east. She mirrored me.
Together, we watched the full moon rise. We tipped back our heads and howled, teeth
gleaming in the nocturnal light.
The word smith sits, smitten with
stories and tall tales and poetic justice
pen racing across lined paper
striving to capture meaning in secretive lines
and squiggles containing
strategically placed air holes though air is heavy
with heady concentration no
constipation of thought allowed just freeform
flowing creation.
Hub rolled down the street. Her long, thin legs propelled her
quickly, efficiently. When she was a child, the kids on her block called her
licorice legs, but she had grown into them. They were, in fact, one of her best
features.
She was only a few paces from the corner store when a voice
called out. “Hub. Hey Hub. I got something for you.”
It was old Missus Fitzsimmons from the mission, waving to
her from across the street. She always seemed to appear out of nowhere when Hub
really, really needed something, or someone, even if she herself didn’t
recognize the need.
Hub turned and strode toward the elderly lady, who stood
still, apparently grateful that she needn’t bother her arthritic knees and
swollen ankles with unnecessary locomotion.
Missus Fitzsimmons looked up at Hub and smiled.
“Hey Missus Fitzsimmons. How are you today?”
“Just fine Hub. Just fine. I’m so glad to see you.”
Based on the way she was beaming, Hub knew she meant it.
Missus F had been with the mission long before Hub found herself devoid of parents
and a place to live. She was always kind and welcoming, encouraging Hub and
others from the neighborhood to take seconds in the soup kitchen, and knitting
mittens for them all for the cold winter months. She never seemed to tire of helping others.
“Hub, a letter came for you today.”
The mission let Hub and others who were ‘between homes’ list them as a
permanent address. They were expected to stop by every few days to pick up
anything that had arrived.
Missus F pulled a fat white envelope from her handbag and
held it out to Hub. The return address was Columbia College. Hub’s heart
stopped and her breath caught.
