I knew a woman who advised

write your poems in the sea
write your stories in the sand

the moon tries to pull
away the ocean but

only scatters tales
through the sky like fireworks

or knives dulled down
from overuse

I knew a man who claimed

constellations are knives
that slice up the darkest nights

this morning I saw Aquila,
Lyra and Cygnus

sneaking up on spring

star violet
alone among primroses
and wind

cumulous sky
weighs down on swaying trees
bars on this window

The turtles came at night
and hid their eggs; the dog,
unwanted stray, came down to eat.

When angels hatched
he barked and stared, head
cocked and ears erect.

The first of the angels
lifted her goddess eyes
to this desolate wind-scoured
world of stony hearts
setting moon, roaring sea.

The dog considered the angel
a moment (which would count
as seven moments in human time)

then he trotted back to town
and lay outside the souvenir stand
where the owner usually left
a bowl of scraps each morning.

—

For Magpie Tales #112

—

Announcement: My book, Birds Nobody Loves, is on sale (15% off the paperback) throughout April in celebration of National Poetry Month. You can order it from Amazon or my e-store. I don’t know when (or if) the price will take effect at other retailers.

a single crow
shadows over distant treetops
toward the highway

Easter evening
a distant white-winged dove calls
clouds drift south

a pair of deer
stops grazing to watch us pass
daylight fades away

a blue jay flies
from the abandoned nest
half an eggshell
wobbles in the dirt
broken cup of sky

Growing up on an overseas navy base,
I got used to seeing things like fighter jets
and men (mostly men) in uniform,

and great gray ships bristling with missiles,
floating bombs wrapped in asbestos
blankets, and then the submarines, silent
sharks run by strange bearded men.

During the cold war this was comforting,
amid all that monochrome uncertainty,
but when I see grey fighter planes tear
so unfamiliar now across gray sky

beyond circling swallows and vultures,
lost in all that grey, I begin to wonder
if this is why the Queen paints her ships blue.

dry live oak flowers
a withered rain following
each southerly gust