Bristles flex against the flagstone.
Like Bruce Lee with his nunchaku,
she works two brooms at once.
she lacks fury and showmanship.
She’s oblivious an audience has formed.
Like Bruce, her body is coordinated,
capable of describing two arcs,
in two separate directions,
The soft scraping sounds
of two bundles of bristles
is the neighborhood’s wake-up call.
The hush whispers of leaves skittering
is the subdued scream
that cannot be ignored.
Like a demonic whisper,
all that’s quiet is not gentle.
[National Poetry Month, Poem #23]
She flips a sheet over the line,
smoothing it by pulling the ends wide.
Looking out to a vague and distant rumble,
she sees a wall of water climb from the sea.
A crazy person would smile at the idea of
putting laundry out to dry in a tsunami.
But, sanely, she runs for high ground.
Everything she owns is soon to be debris,
unclaimable, indistinguishable, and unsanitary.
But she doesn’t think about that.
She can’t think about anything.
Zen mind is her saving grace.
If she thought about how
tripping, struggling to her feet,
and resuming a limpy run
would spell her doom,
She’d trip, fall, sprawl
and be pummeled
that chunky stew of humanity’s refuse.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #21]
Step I: Sit in a crowded cafe.
Raise your hand to your face.
Stare into the palm of your hand.
Flex fingers until suitably awed.
Step II: Flip your hand over.
See the sliding subcutaneous tissue,
as you make and release a fist.
Continue to feel the awe.
Step III: Wriggle your fingers in
all permutations of one and two.
Cycle: grasp, release, and repeat.
Revel in the glory of manipulation.
Step IV: Continue as the summoned
Officer inquires about ingestion of
psilocybin, mescaline, ayahuasca, or
various three-letter substances.
Step V: Verbally, politely acknowledge the
Officer as you continue to note the
details of intricate hand movement.
Said Officer will ask, “So, what’s going on?”
Step VI: Answer truthfully and politely:
“I’ve never really seen my hand before.
Never noted it’s vast range of dexterity.
Tight enough to hold a sledge hammer.
Light enough to hold a bug harmlessly.
Fingertips can detect infinitesimal
variations in temperature and texture.
I can even tell a Vulcan–
should I ever see one–
to ‘live long and prosper’
merely by abducting finger pairs.”
At this point, the Officer will need
to consult with his superior to make
a determination about whether you
constitute a danger to self or others.
Now, if you put a phone in the
aforementioned palm, no one
will give it a moment’s notice.
Still, think you can recognize sanity?
[National Poetry Month, Poem #20]
Little kittens can’t get their legs.
Feet slide as legs sprawl wide.
Writhing amid a pile of siblings.
Wrangled and nudged by mama.
Tiny screams for leeway ungranted.
Bellies bulge with mama’s milk.
They don’t yet look like miniature cats.
They have neither the proportions nor the ears.
They could as well be puppies or opossums.
From any distance mama sanctions.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #19]
He awaits the sacred geometry,
but is greeted by the purge.
All is lost.
But then how come
a dragon comes sliding through
a nightmare too entrancing
to be terrifying.
There’s no slither.
Just a silent slide.
It slides, it slides.
On a silent ride.
There are two types of eternity.
Neither is cheap but one is free.
He just needs to discover
of what it’s free.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #18]