StarPoet Newsletter Vol. X, No. XXII

Dove on a wire, blending with the sky,
Brown gray feathers on blue gray clouds;
Mockingbirds echoing tree to tree,
Sparrows chattering in the thick spring bush
While cardinals wait for sunrise
To complement their crimson hue
As they select just the proper
Sunflower for their breakfast.

May before the summer
With azaleas in full riot,
Stark white or shocking pink;
Buttercup and wildflowers
Run free on empty lots,
While the field mice frolic
Where the green grass grows uncut.

Hungry robins, a mated pair,
Hop across a manicured lawn,
Carefully search out their morning repast,
Pulling worms from the cool damp ground.
Humans struggling with steaming cups,
French dark roast or a Kona blend,
Making their way from home to work,
A seamless odyssey of women and men.

Mockingbird chasing a big ol' crow
Fleeing for its life; two more males
Playing king of the hill,
Defending their real estate;
A fourth is running scales
And singing Beethoven,
A bit of the Fifth, I think;
It's almost too good a day
To spoil it by going to work.

I hope the bus is very late.

Clouds
Sky
Blue
White

Breeze
Blows
Left
2right

Sun
No rain
New day
No haze

Just spring
Full moon
Trees & flowers
Summer soon

Lettuce
Tomatoes
Cukes Stringbeans
Zucchini

Peppers
Plums
Melons
& Peaches

Trails of vapor, water and ice,
Tracing across the morning sky,
High air defense over the eastern seaboard,
Guarding Washington from malicious intent.

A few layers down, an eagle soars
Out from the lake, catching breakfast,
Lower still the crows and cacophonous feathers,
Counting the minutes 'til the sun rises up.

Poet at the bus stop, slightly chilled,
Scribbling manically at her poem,
Illegibly faster before the words vanish
And the moment fades into the work day.

There are authors I read back
When I was a young teen
-- Depending on your age, you
Might have to use a wayback machine
To imagine such a time --
Writers who are now part of the canon,
Whose greatness was not apparent
To their contemporaries
-- To those of us reading their paperbacks
In  Contempory American Lit.

It's funny how dying can add character to your work
That was lacking when you struggled to survive,
And how those same groups of critics who called you
A pulp writer and middle class, now kiss your writer's feet
Once those feet are safely in the grave.

Busted flat in Nazareth,
Waiting for the Pope,
He's on the mid-east circuit because he can;

He's against the violence in Palestine,
He's for love and peace and everything,
He'd much prefer every one of them would convert.

Jesus is just another word
For nowhere else to go,
Nowhere ain't anywhere if it's here;
Moses and Mohammed, lordy,
Are no better than the Blues,
Watching the starry heavens
And writing poetry
Are good enough for me,
Good enough for anyone
Who's born free.

Floating inside a headache,
Six feet withdrawn from the world,
Pain subdued, coordination unbalanced,
Quick gelatin thought murking through.
Time goes by, I guess, the clock moves,
The sun shifts outside as does the breeze;
The mail comes, lunch and dinner,
Channels change on TV, old movies, reruns
And the news.  I sit, doing pain checks,
Sometimes lying down for variety as I'm waiting
For the moment of effortless clarity
When my body declares the earth safe and ready
For my life to proceed anew.

Bird clatter greets the sunrise
-- Greets the poet still well abed --
Trees vibrate with a million voices
As morning song bounds off earth and heaven.

Later, while I sit self-medicating,
A woodpecker poses on a tree
-- Black and white and orange spring feathers --
Our eyes meet, pause, before he leaves me.

The songbirds' quiet marks the afternoon
While raptors circle high above us;
The band will strike up as evening approaches,
Scoring our return to both tree and home.

I think I remember being younger,
At least I remember my body with less pain,
But the person inside, the one riding on my brain,
Feels like she's always felt the same.

I don't remember having less knowledge
Or not knowing I could read and write;
I've always been quick on the uptake
And no slower each day when I rise.

There is a continuity of emotion
From age five to seventeen to now
That suggests I am really the same person
Who covers better then when she was eight.

I, me, mine, and my,
However you wish to pronoun,
Has always been Lisa, then, now and always
No matter the exterior appearances.