Yeah, Lights

       appeared in Poetry Ink.

This woman who is 93, she swears

That she was young once.  Silly as she seems,

She now claims she has been your age and danced

Under a fairy moon, whatever that is,

Some same-sex astronomical effect

Of medication, Alzheimer’s, and pain,

Perhaps.  She says she has the photographs

To back it up, but boxed away; she’s left

Them all to you because you’ll understand--

She told me just this morning.  Being young,

You know what colored lights can do and dresses

That crinkle when they’re touched by the right hands.

That’s what she said.  Talk about touched.  She said

She wishes fairy lights for you.  Yeah, right.

People, Get Ready

This morning I can taste the air.

It tastes like fall and resin. Spring
Is gooier. No need to share
This news with birds, who already sing
Insistently. The seed is swell,
They say. Bring more. And make it fast.
They sample the air. A guy can tell.
Black Bird is coming home at last.

A Centaur In His Dragon World

This appeared in The Flea, as I was reminded this week.

The sorcerers played in their own front yard,

Cardboard and crayon cutlery, no faith

Because no doubt. The little kings who lived

Regnant beneath the evergreens, concealed

By prickly leaves and bagworms, weren’t impressed.

The eldritch practices of kids on trikes,

Gray in good time, and teens do not recall

White magic. They require faith. They pray

To gods and spirits, wholly insincere.

Elder than all, and smaller than their sight,

The little kings bowed once and turned their hands

To caterpillars, lightning bugs, and soup

Brewed from a clover damp with morning dew,

Seasoned with berries poisonous to men,

And set the spiders watching, all those eyes.