Deep inside the story, past the start of the beginning, but before the middle of the end
When the boy has met the girl, and kissed the girl, but not yet lost the girl, that’s my favorite part.
The waters are still calm and the wide open skies are blue. Conflict sits on a shelf by the door.
At the end of the middle, she is still his. There’s been no misunderstanding, no complicated,
Convoluted, comical slash and parry. Only long, hungry looks and a shared danish.
Hands splayed over hearts
Allegiances thus promised
In solemn salute
This most sovereign state
Land of the free they once said
But whose are we now?
Where do we protest
When the amendments all fall?
When the brave cower?
Lines in the sand,
arbitrarily drawn;
you are here.
Lines in a face,
describing a life;
worried etchings.
Lines for bread,
necessity’s calling;
separate, not equal
Lines of poetry,
quiet reflection;
heart on my sleeve.
sins of omission
and others much less passive
barter for your soul
turn about seems fair
trying out the gander’s share
an eye for an eye
stitch the letter “A”
wear it like a scarlet badge
of desire’s design
Guess what I’ve been reading!
Everybody knows
They whisper behind closed doors
Your secret is out
How will you respond
Held head high or bowed in shame
The power is yours
Laugh and make merry
Celebrate indiscretions
Make people wonder
She’d chosen her own box,
Crystal clear lucite walls;
Sturdy and impermeable.
Easy, she found, to watch
A world come undone from
The confines of the enclosure.
Breathing became difficult,
But over time she found that
Didn’t matter much anymore.
The world irrevocably changed
Safe places now menacing
The monsters made normal.
Thank heaven for the box
Her only wish was that
She’d made it smaller.
The Sewing Circle
by Leslie Noyes
Friends of a feather
Gathered closely together
Nimble fingers poised
A work in progress
Stitches in red, white, and blue
Most, perfectly spaced
“Janis, there’s a hitch
In the shape of your last stitch.”
“No, that clump is trump.”
On the other side of the desert, behind the third dune on the left, lies a patch of emerald
Lushness surrounding a small, irregularly shaped pond of surprisingly bright turquoise
Wanderers of every type have marked this oasis on their maps in bold strokes of ebony
Lest they venture off course and forget to count the dunes or consult the compass rose
I traveled there once, in the days of my youth on a humped beast, coarse hide of camel
Down hearted, discouraged, my lover lost to another, and I trapped by the monster green
In paradise I languished until roused from my reverie by a note written in crimson
Return home, my love, the words inscribed, without you here all the days are turned to gray
The choice was mine, remain in the land of dunes eating figs or settle for black and white.
Just for grins, here’s Maria Muldaur’s Midnight at the Oasis.
On 11/9/2016
Who did you become?
A boaster, bragger
instant tagger
c’mon can’t we get
along?
Or a nervous wreck
jumping at shadows
bad dreams of
four long
years to come?
a silenced nightmare
holding back
salty tears of
frustrated
rage,
or an anointer,
bring it on,
free the monster
from his
cage.
like lead, Pb and J
feet dragging between
two pieces of white bread
mercury rising
density be damned,
but what about
bismuth, you wonder,
good old eighty-three.
Praying for Eyebrowz 