Habitat

At first,

I was discriminatory about it;

ripping out only the ground

cover and displaced Kentucky Bluegrass,

careful not to yank the horsetails.

Yet the rake only brushed these down-

these (knot supposed to grow there)

“weeds”.

Well, it may have been irrational, 

but I

grabbed the hoe

and took heaving jabs 

at just the top layers.

This explains the piles of dirt

just outside the front door.

Besides
all the beetles and spiders,

webs and trash, a penny here, some tinsel there,

a brake light piece, first impressions 

and never agains, all elements were there

for a dirty job.

Then,

I went in the very back
at the base of the green wall.

The bamboo reeds sway brezzily,
tall tips tangled within the canopy of

avocado trees-whose roots really reside
next door,

these dying spears bow down
over the pergola top,

stiff brown leaves like old fingers play

the poled roof as the xylophone,

and to those-
I take the “loppers”.

The green waste bin overflows before nine am.

Saturday,

an April in Spring.

The house still in sleep, the birds pass

playing with airwaves, lilting songs and

dramatic swooping screams, 

while I sweat, arch back

my back in the strong early sun
bearing down over my shoulder.

This dirty yellow hair
clings matted to my clenched jaw.

When he wakes, he says,
it was from my earth moving-

then looks around at the vast 

open spaces, an overhaul, my latest work-

a blending of dirt brown and sky blue,

I offer him a toothless smile, and some
black coffee wearily.

Admiring the pruning skills of an elephant,

he offers-“Couldn’t write?”

“I think I will go back to sweeping

the driveway,” I say.

Painting by János Thorma (1920) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bitter Me and Boris in February

Since it is February

my pens all lay in disarray atop my desk,

a box of tissues crouches underneath,

nearly empty on the fifteenth.

Twenty dollars, six gallons of gas,

radio streaming from Sirius, I try driving away the stillness.

Those bruised and patient pens will wait an eternity,

or February.

Nowhere are these thoughts not there.

I find serial murders of crows, low lying clouds 

hovering and bitter cold from below

all cast down in ochre light. 

I try to forget
any distinct lines

with clarity and save the cruelty 

for April.

Piercing eyes also translates 

into Truth

and the inevitable thaw, moving matters,

the fiery tears Fall with drowned dreams.  

Heavy, a serious wind is now winding down 

her watch and brevity makes beauty

of all passing. If you remember 

how purple was this February...

it must just be

Time

the words mixed

blood and ink.

Painting of Borris (Pasternak) beside the Baltic (1910), By L.Pasternak [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring cleaning

It was eighty degrees in April,
calamities abounding on fractured plates,
like earthquakes
and the old lady
wearing a black tank top, her arms propped on her knees,
sits on a curb
outside the white medical office
with her frizzy white hair
clenched in her hands...
and she quakes quietly,
her skin ripples in the white noon light.
Mexican fan palms crackling in the white hot breeze
seem to say
just another day in paradise.
The pollen has fallen,
she could smell it in the air
while dripping salt water on the blacktop.




Image of painting by By Carl Heuser (1827-1892) (Bonhams) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.