—and then who would say anything?
Madness in a tea shop, can’t complain
(happy as a clam, really)
sugar snow prints on buttered pans
black currant & raspberry jam.
red kettles, spare pennies,
silver bells quell out
the lies of
"land of plenty."
There, on that stage—
the old theater fell into ruin
after the rock of ages rolled to a stop
but we’ll see what we can do with the place.
Hang a few curtains, paint a gaudy backdrop
that resembles India in a sweltering summer heat
or Vienna as the red leaves
begin to fall off the brown trees.
It’s no trouble at all.
Tread oh so softly
in this, my darling—
read the writing on the wall
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin
but that’s not what I meant
no, that’s not it at all.
Sure, Fridays can be nice.
Like a light, fluffy snow
that comes down as confectioner’s sugar
on a quiet, serene Christmas eve
and then turns into a three-month blizzard
In this murder of crows,
I will lose my soul.
Here, said the woebegone sparrow,
trembling in sinew and quaking in marrow,
this is the gilded cage
that will bleed my hopes dry.
This is where those sharp-tongued crows,
in black-sheened clothes
will pick at my bones
and peck out my eyes.
Tuesdays are for hot tea
the passive-aggressive kind
all curses mumbled under your breath
and fire & arson on your mind
with a smart, semi-aware little smile
that says “yes, I know I’m being a bitch”, and
"no, I won’t be letting this go"—
not for a long, long while.
Good Morning, Sunshine
Here’s a poetic expression
that makes a lasting impression:
goddamn him to hell
and back again.
Dragonflies in the hedgerow
crocus in the snow
pure silence (with smiles) this morning
at breakfast with someone you know.
Sparrows and Lilies
Give us a little piece
of good, black earth
warm in the dark green fens
where our wiry roots
can dig down and take hold.
Our clenched and knotted fingers relax,
to the rafters of a vaulted sky—
a place where we can thrive!
Not just survive.