moxiesquirrel
  • HOME
  • Random poems
  • Buddhist Resources

April Fool III

4/30/2012

0 Comments

 
the Muse is smiling
her soft hands drift from my ears
like petals falling
The poems that follow were done for National Poetry Writing Month... a poem-a-day for the month of April.
http://www.napowrimo.net/about/

0 Comments

Juniper

4/30/2012

0 Comments

 
Juniper

I saw a small girl
picking juniper berries
among needled leaves
and said
there will be many more stings
like that of the wasp you tried to pet
there will be more wonder
than that of the tiny rabbit you caught in brown grass
there will be many goodbyes
like the leaving of wild mice you grew and released.
in all your days to come
some may be lost but none will be wasted.
these things I might have said aloud
but she was too far to hear.
turning from the child
I saw an old woman
picking chokecherries from a cankered tree
her whispered words blew softly past
too far to hear
still
I was strangely comforted.


0 Comments

Pumpa

4/29/2012

0 Comments

 
Pumpa

Pumpa
had a pile of dirt
beside the porch
and yucca poking up
rudely
in his garden
he slashed trails 
through wild cherries
and dug little wells
and big holes
to cover with bedsprings

Pumpa
kept the big oak
that fell
in the hurricane
of thirty eight
set a plank across
its sawed limbs
to make a store
selling rocks
and good dirt
he set a gas stove
in the yard
and told me
he would build
a house around it
so he put
a chair out there, too

Pumpa
made a swing
behind the porch
over lily of the valley
spiders wove in it
he told me
the big black rock
went all the way to China
and if I knocked on it
they would knock back
he made a golf course
of tunafish cans
and plastic tulips

Pumpa
roasted potatoes
in a plaid coffee can
outside the shed
and showed me mice
dried in their traps
roasted marshmallows
in the coal stove
baked brown sugar pies
in tiny pans
he made a whole room
outside
behind the shed
with real furniture
and enamel basins
and gave tours of it

Pumpa
had ladyslippers
and let us pick
as many as we wanted
he told long stories
set in the landscape
of the grimy painting
over his iron cot
until I fell asleep

When I am very old
I will be like Pumpa.

0 Comments

Miss Marcy, Music Teacher

4/28/2012

0 Comments

 
Miss Marcy, Music Teacher

Miss Marcy wore aqua
apricot and pepto-bismol pink
suits and clicky shoes
and always tucked
a handkerchief under
her watchband.

Miss Marcy had black
cat eyed glasses and lacquered
red nails and mouth
and layers of cosmetic skin
and oddly yellow hair.
I never saw her face.

Miss Marcy made us read tiny dots
on thin lines instead of singing
a chorus of voices wasted
all of us wondering
at the pointless recitation
of forgettable songs.

Miss Marcy pointed
right at me one day
as our fingers smudged along the staff
took my book with two disgusted fingers
to display
the tiny dog ear
I had unknowingly rolled
into the corner.

Miss Marcy is long dead.

0 Comments

Bog

4/27/2012

0 Comments

 
Bog

The homestead fields
protected now
by a conservancy of garden clubs.

The empty rail bed where
a rusty spike among oak leaves
was coveted treasure
now cleared and well-marked with bits of paint
historic markers
ordered cobblestones
keeping joggers neatly on the trail.

The cattle pass built in stone below the tracks
a long climb down and up for a strong child
now a lovely bridge and nursery flowers
history strangely silent
as to why there might be
such a structure at all
across a flat pasture.
Always oak had grown here
they at least had not grown as old
as I remembered them.

I could not find the meadow bog
though it lay clearly in my memory
unchanged, hot and fragrant
in summer heat and broken grasses
oily sage of sweetfern baking in July
past a spill of boulders once known
as The Caves although
there was no marker for them.

Picking my way through pines
and finding a depression on the deeply needled ground
it occurred to me
that I am old as these trees
that never were in this meadow
and the bog lay under my feet
and over my reaching hands.

The homestead fields
protected now
by a conservancy of garden clubs.
0 Comments

Night in the Projects

4/26/2012

0 Comments

 
Night in the Projects

Smoke tree
inky silhouette
splashed yellow
against the garage
in halide light
freezing rain
sparkles down
under the glow
porch swing creaks
in disharmony
with the wind chime
cats converge
on the azalea
the fire hydrant
proclaims
sovereignty
0 Comments

Virginia

4/25/2012

0 Comments

 
Virginia


Virginia
sits by the open window
silently blanketed.
A robin sings frantically
in hot twilight.

the blonde across the street
piles broken tables
onto the hood
and slams the car door
backs hard
planks clattering to the pavement
a ponytailed girl in glitter sandals
freezes

Virginia
sits by the open window
silently blanketed.
She remembers dancing
in a green painted room.

the blonde across the street
explodes in cigarette smoke
spins in fisted anger
daring a laugh
a window shade drops
inviting ferocity
she tosses the broken bits
back onto the hood

Virginia
sits by the open window
silently blanketed.
She remembers a patent leather
handbag.

The blonde across the street
says you gotta problem I
gotta throw this all away
cause you told
I was gonna burn all this
can't even make a goddamn
campfire
you gotta problem

Virginia
sits by the open window
silently blanketed.
She remembers her mother
and spiced perfume.

the blonde across the street
climbs unsteadily into the car
backs slow
across the turnabout
and stops at the dumpster
spears splintered legs
and shards of formica
at the stain rusted metal

Virginia
sits by the open window
silently blanketed.
A robin sings frantically
in hot twilight.

0 Comments

SkyWatch April 2012

4/24/2012

0 Comments

 
SkyWatch April 2012

Jupiter
dances feebly
on twilight's apron
to the West
feet hot from the Sun

The Moon
scoops Venus
at nightfall
from the Southwest
and holds her aloft

Mars
retrogrades
in nautical twilight
at the zenith
running from the Lion's belly

Saturn
makes eyes with Spica
at dawn
in the West
peering back at the Sun

Mercury
stretches furtively
at Sunrise
in the East
trying not to be seen



0 Comments

Spring

4/23/2012

0 Comments

 
Spring

spring
how tedious
every year you
promise and deliver promise and deliver
drop a few calling cards before your curtain even parts
tentative whistle of young cardinals
piercing shiva of titmice
in february
then you break
a few beaver dams
float sticks down the slow river
scatter bluets in patchy grass on the road turnout
like a fall of hail
and lasting just that long
you breeze in like the first child to the christmas tree
open all the packages
and scatter the wrappings about
tiny petals and gummy red maple flowers and mourning cloaks
and just when you become so full of yourself
leaves grown fat with your rain
too many chickadees

and deliquescent mushrooms
overburdened by your own sticky abundance
in hot disgust
you pack your trilling into summer
leaving her to set a heavy blanket over the mess
and start all over
replacing the bits you used up in a few short weeks
setting it all right again
and making sure
that next year
you again
will get all the credit
and each year
despite your excess
you make me grin
when I think no one is looking

0 Comments

Solid Ground

4/22/2012

0 Comments

 
Solid Ground

it's best to be
outside on solid ground when it hits like a small earthquake

that nevertheless might drop something on you if you're too close to canned goods in the pantry, say

there's never any warning or palpable atmospheric pressure buildup or the stilling of birdsong or slight ache in the joints or even an intake of breath before it blows

and you can't be in a state of disaster readiness or get too smug about your stock of bottled water and batteries and paraffin candles in jelly jars

but sometimes there's a hint like an ominous shadow cutting across sun glaring in your face that brings sudden clarity to an unbalanced moment in time

that stomach-pitting jerk when you see the falling rock is going to land right on the dog or the last bolt has just slipped the water main gate

and even though you're on high ground and the wind is blowing sideways and you know your ears won't really be in the trajectory of the flying Banshee

the instinct is flee or play dead or curl up tight but never bite or screech or even acknowledge because that would be met with puzzlement

because there is no scientific theory or philosophic extrapolation or spiritual reassurance

that might help explain the unforeseen and irrational implosion. Because it never did. Happen.

No, it's best to be outside on solid ground.
0 Comments
<<Previous
    Picture

    .

    December 2015
    November 2015
    August 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    March 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.