Born To Be Wild

BORN TO BE WILD

Old guy on a motorbike
parked at McDonalds
in the early morning air
with a latte in his hand.
Sets it on the sidewalk
while he pretends to inspect a tire
and think about where it is he wants to go.
About my age, I'd say, give or take a few.
White sideburns below the dark blue
bandana tied behind his head.
I wonder how many old guys I've seen
like this. Those same tatoos.
That sleeveless jacket.
Soon as I catch sight of one,
ponytail roped tight against his sloped back,
I see jungles like a Walter Cronkite newsreel.
I see Danny Maroney
in his bulky camo green,
tripping along campus in his too tight jeans,
smoking way too much of everything.
I see buckskin fringe flying as I dance
to the music in my head.
And Danny is long dead.
And this one must be retired, and tired.
Born to be wild nothing more than
coffee in the warm morning air.
For a minute, he looks up and sees me
in my SUV on my way to work,
and he thinks he knows me.
I'm that girl he remembers.
The one on the dance floor.
The one he came home for
all those years ago.

This is dedicated to my dear friend Danny Maroney who was killed in Viet Nam and died 40 years later. Rest in Peace, Danny Boy.

Metamorphoses

METAMORPHOSES

Stars and stones,
insects and animals,
everything undergoes change.

After long winter,
the dreaming bear stirs,
and the world is green.

The rotted stump,
uncovered from the snows,
thrums with the industry of living.

We grow old.
We grow old together.
We persevere.

What else really matters?

Location:Metamorphoses

On Cleaning My Mother's House

On Cleaning My Mother's House

This, too, is prayer,
is worship, adoration,
a purifying altar --
a sacrificial cup.
This is a song of praise,
a calming of the water,
a bended knee,
a holy benediction.
I run but do not weary,
for here, you raise me up.

The Lamb

This poem is a tardy response to The Mag 108 photo prompt.

True Story, mostly:

THE LAMB

Who is the man with the sheep, she asked,
The man with sheep over there?
She stared at the wall by the door to the hall,
Raised a face framed by white wooly hair.
He's holding a lamb in his arms, she said,
But the light is so bright I can't see.
I think he wants me to come to him.
I think he is calling for me.

Our House

Our House

In the cupoards
in our kitchen --
so domestic --
the dishes snooze
with gaily colored cups.
The checkered chair
converses with the stool;
they talk of home and country,
of bushes ripe with berries,
of elephants and leopards in the grass.
Meanwhile, monkeys climb the tables
atop each other's shoulders,
and the pears up on the mantle
leap for plates --
which are sleeping
in the cupboards,
preening in the mirrors on the walls,
and dancing with the bluebirds
down the hall.

Matryoshka

Matryoshka

If I could, I'd pop my top,
Push you down inside,
Be the hard outer shell,
Your first line of defense.
Happy as a clam, I'd guard
The pearl of great price inside.