Vortex

We were confused by sudden
spring: by warmth that forced
blooms open ahead of their
flowering—

And we were taken
aback by storms
that pelted pavements
with fistfuls of hail—

And in the east, a pall
descended on the city
in the aftermath
of flood—

In some places,
people clung to cross-
beams on telephone
poles—

And even the birds
held deathly still,
merely swiveling
their heads—

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Mindful of the mindset

Twisted rib:

The best cup of coffee I’ve ever had remains the one I drank in southern Tanzania after spending one of the least pleasant nights of my life (so far, as Homer Simpson would qualify) at a large warehouse-like structure near the Tazara railway station in Mbozi. After sleepless hours of giant fearless rats, lying over my rucksack to mitigate attention from fearless (if not giant) thieves, accompanied by a naked man with floor-length dreads dancing round a fire reciting verse in a mellifluous voice in at least four different languages (I only recognised the Shakespeare) all night – well, almost any fluid would probably have tasted like the nectar of the gods.

Four-Way Stop

Pulling away from the parking lot and crossing
the boulevard into 45th, I’m not necessarily
thinking of this morning’s early rain, nor of how
the sidewalks are stained with clumps of fallen
crepe myrtle blossoms. And while I have some vague
awareness of how, despite the way they stipple
the pavement like dots in an impressionist painting,
there are still such generous mounds of them massed
on the trees— I’m not necessarily preoccupied with
the idea that this might almost (if I forced it) work
as some kind of metaphor for the way there never
seems to be any permanent fix for our problems: two
solved, and five more pop out of nowhere like some
many-headed monster resolved to take the prize
for tenacity away from you… For instance,
having just recently figured out how to pay for
a used car, insurance, and sundry other items for
a daughter who wants to move out of state to go
to school, I feel sideswiped by the four hundred
dollar bill that comes in the mail for the stress
test the doctor ordered at my last physical. Out
of the corner of my eye I see the owner
of the corner coffee shop come out with a hand-
lettered sign listing the day’s specials; he ducks
as the boughs overhead spatter his head with leftover
rain, and just as I’m wondering When does it stop?
a cop comes up behind me and is signaling for me
to pull up on the side. Oh crap, I think,
as I roll down my window, and he tells me
I’ve failed to notice the four-way stop.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Listing

On the third floor,
rows of boxes lean against
one wall. I no longer know
what’s in them: cables,
books, picture frames?
It doesn’t seem to matter.

*

But today I unwrapped
presents we were given years
ago: one glass kettle with
a blue marble on its lid, a pair
of hand-painted candlesticks;
one hand-crocheted tablecloth
trellised in tiny daisies.

*

We went for a walk
as the sun scalded
the hulls of ships
vermillion, one last
time before giving
in to the dark.

*

Has anyone ever
given you an Indian
rope burn?
Voices
of children darting
through jets of water
at the fountain.

*

Quaint towns along
the coast, houses with
wraparound porches.
Perhaps a clearer
view of summer
skies from there.

 

In response to cold mountain (56): one thing.

Locust leafminer haiku

After posting a new photo on my poor, neglected photohaiku blog, I found for some reason the subject-matter—the depredations of locust leafminers—prompting a whole series of somewhat nerdy haiku, which I posted in the comments there. Let me repost them here. (If you’re familiar with this phenomenon, feel free to add your own haiku below.) I tried to take some additional photos of our brown black locusts this afternoon, but none of the pictures turned out.

locust leafminers
now the leaves get more of the sky
than just sunlight

*

the locusts look as if
they’ve been eaten by locusts:
leafminers

*

one million beetles
hiding under
one million leaves

*

locust leaves
skeletonized by beetles
hiss in the wind

*

already brown
before the storm toppled it
black locust limb

*

a leafminer beetle
lands on my thinning scalp
black locust grove

Screw

O screw
with your fine thread
your bugle head
your shank
your sharp tip—
you with your disinclination to slip
have taught me all
I need to recall
about politics:
go left & get loose
go right & tighten
into place
like dutiful screws
but beware the quick fix
the stripped thread
the buggered head
of those who are too
truly screwed.

Exchanges

Once, I wept long and hard for a prize I wanted so badly but had not won.
It’s painful to learn how skin after skin is shed, in continuous passage.

There was a game we used to play, to come back to ourselves: in the middle of fleeting
thought, someone would call Stop. We’d search within for a foothold, in passage.

The potter urges clay upon the wheel into a shape, then feeds it to the fire. Glaze
and slip applied under noon’s vacant heat: a body emerges out of the kiln, in passage.

From a hospital bed in upstate New York, my friend calls tonight to say she’s been moved
to rehab. After a stroke, her left side is numb; the simplest movement is arduous passage.

I used to take everything for granted, she says. Today it took me fifteen minutes to slide
a button into its hole. The man who made my leg brace lost one arm as a soldier, in passage
.

Am I selfish when I confess that sometimes I feel the ones I love most are the ones
that might do me in? My heart tumbles its load like a laundry machine: damp passage.

Crickets sing, metallic in the evenings. In the distance, lightning answers. We turn
the TV on to watch the late night news: chance of hail, thunderstorms in passage.

 

In response to small stone (118) and small stone (117).

Complicated compasses

A year of Mt. Tamalpais:

It’s hard to keep the focus on the ridgeline before us, isn’t it? We are so given to keep looking beyond. And we tend to look beyond not so much with our eyes, as with our feelings, whatever those may be, from fear to hope to greed. We set out to map that beyond with our complicated compasses: some of us look for adventures, while others for more territory to claim for our sprawling desires. We go from surveyors of experiences to purveyors of schemes in a heartbeat.

Critic

A male hummingbird
circles the metal pink
flamingo in my garden,
circles & touches it
with its all-purpose bill.
Amazed? Perplexed?
Combatative? Appalled?
The sun sinks behind
the trees & the first
katydids start calling
as the hummer zips
in for a landing on
the single rusty leg,
perching sideways
just below the tail,
& taps the pink wing
with its diviner’s
wand of a bill.