Postcard Poem 31

The side-eyed glance of headlights
throws a long shadow, even
when paused, or when pivoting
away like warriors or
dancers. Even the fallen
blossoms, delicate and pink,
find they have shadows like swords.

Postcard Poem 30 #NaPoWriMo

The broken autopilot
approaches landing with grace
until the last moment, when
it pulls up, again, again,
and again. “Water boarding”
at scale, a giant pebble
skipping, refusing to sink.

Postcard Poem 29 #NaPoWriMo

It’s not the house that trembles.
It’s not the bricks that fall, just
a crumb of stucco, again.
Some petals are unfurling,
yet, despite today’s season,
some drop off in the rain, or
are cropped abruptly by deer.

Postcard Poem 28 #NaPoWriMo

At least I’m still a monster,
he says, so there’s hope. Besides,
I like the idea of
monsters vibing & jiving
in hell, he adds, shimmying
to show off all his slick moves,
his eyes cast down so shyly.

Postcard Poem 27 #NaPoWriMo

At dusk the whirring of wheels
grows heavy and thick, headlights
lining lanes north, south, east, west.
Pounding drums shudder, snarling
from a distance, or windows,
who knows? In a traffic gap,
hear the crickets, birds singing.

Postcard Poem 26 #NaPoWriMo

The closed-in life contains these
glimpses of life as it was,
the beforetimes: Coffee shop
conversation. Car cruising
slowly down unlit back roads
in the dark. A thumbnail scores
an orange peel whose fragrance holds
it all, everything alive.
The next day, it’s back to bed,
the three square yards where I live,
mostly; where I spend my life
these days, hunting more glimpses.

Postcard Poem 25 #NaPoWriMo

Miscellaneous angst
is the order of the day:
we’ve learned to bounce the wrong words
off of unseen enemies,
to be someone else’s wall —
a pinch of head-banging blondes,
a whisper of nervosa.

Postcard Poem 24 #NaPoWriMo

The “energizer bunny”
neighbor hugs me and my dog,
pets us both and begs a kiss,
grinning, breath sweet as liquor
::in this chill dark-shadowed night::
my friend’s cat brings her foul gifts —
broken birds, bloody bunnies.

Postcard Poem 23 #NaPoWriMo

The purple onions grow soft
inside, tough as leather out.
Poets collect names of words
flying loose from life, never
to be heard again in their
original voice. “Compost”
is only centuries old.

Postcard Poem 22 #NaPoWriMo

What makes this night different
from the others? I am here,
not on my couch, not at home.
I am with folk I don’t know,
or don’t know well. We all read
aloud together, question,
drink, eat. I take off my mask.