Bonus Poem: Of a Different Kind

What was that?
"The old house, it creaks," he says as if he knows
And accepts.

I don't investigate.
I become a ball, wrapped up in forgetting
Cozy in not-knowing.

Huddled in for the long ignore.
These ghosts, they don't live
Outside.

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The Protagonist

She was more of an idea Than a person, yet Her arms reached through The wrinkled pages As I was planning Her defenestration. “Don't,” she said, holding My hand steady. Her typical loquaciousness Gone in a moment - being At the rim does that. Her desperate idea-fingers Grasping, trying to stop The Dusk. I brooded over her Resistance. This story Would be knee-deep In hardship, in never-before-felt Pain. How could I put her In the middle of this Vast dystopian wastebasket And hope she clamors Out? Perhaps I could give her A companion, a slobber-filled Canine or a not-so-kindred Spirit? I could fill her days With synchronicity, with a This-leads-to-that purpose, to fight through The drawl and the drudge, The beginning. In this oneiric world, More nightmarish than The last, she would find Herself at the cusp of Her Self. First demure, red lips Parting only for candy-laced words, And then later, only To respect a humble god or command Her hunger-ridden army To live. Yes, I see the smoke ...

Yins and Yangs

Just this minute, the white-tailed Magpies are finding themselves In the verdant glades of the Rockies, As the aspens, fresh green, quake in the wind. They know nothing of Jon Snow, Or the window on the second floor Where I look out, remembering, Longing for apricity, the sun on my face. But the gloam is settling in, And the magpies will soon be seeking Windows of their own To look out of. And I think the shadows on my page Are cast like dark rainbows - made of light And things in the way. Awe-inspiring shapes I couldn't see in the dark. Is it best to be inside or Outside? Or can I be moved To appreciate this Pedulumic cycle - To be tossed, fro and to, Between creation and decay, Between sunrise and Sunset? Do you feel the loam in your hands, How rich it is when you dig deeper? Do you admire how perfectly The lilac blossom, with its powerful redolence, Seeks your attention as if to say, "Stay outside for a while." As my colleague yamm...

Wisteria Vines

Sometimes I have to remember How gently the wisteria trees Sway in a sunshower. How the gossamers built with patience Must sometimes be built again, And again, and again without complaint. I have to listen for the laughter The one you'd almost miss if you were Too worried about the symmetry of the seams On the dress your mother sewed And you re-sowed. “Be at ease.” That lithe voice whispered, smiling. I imagine there on the front porch A child with golden hair and Sapphire eyes, planting a huge basium On the family pup’s nose, and they both Turn shyly and grin at my future. “Mommy, let's play,” she says, and I know it's everything. Everything I ever wanted. To play. To delight In words dancing on pages and Make the dirt at my feet into ballrooms. “It's not a tempest, my dear, only A little rain, swaying the wisteria Blooms.” My mother again holds my hand. The hand that would one day Write about what howl...

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