POETRY

 

How long is the snake?        10/21

Trying to measure the length of a riled up cobra will likely get you bit. 

It won’t hold still, straighten out and obey commands to stretch out long and be still.

It will thrash and hiss and strike. 

It’s nature is to defend itself when handled this way. 

It may do what you want when fully fed and basking in the sun,

but of it’s own accord,

not to conform to any request from you,

simply because conditions have changed.

 

How long is the snake?

That Blue        9/20

 

Fluorescent sky,

Bright face glow,

sterile screen. 

A tiny lap pool with pleated lanes, chlorined, floating sideways. 

A mouth-blotting, blank-slate blue. 

A barrier of blue

cloudless sky 

fallen in droplets of crisp rectangular patches to cover our mouths, shush our fear. 

A hue masking freedoms surgically removed.

 



 

Strange Shaped Being        4/21

 

A child is a strange shaped being. 

Being shaped and pushed by the world, 

growing from within, stretching more than just their outgrown clothes. 

Parents mold kids, kids mold parents. 

Pour in love and nurture their growth.

 

But some spots on the strange shaped beings are out of reach 

for shaping by moms and dads. 

Their shape is always changing. 

They don’t show all their sides to all their people. 

 

So other villagers are needed to build the little beings
understanding of how the world works. 

Only teachers can reach these places in children’s minds. 

Even through screens, from a distance,

teachers can impress furrows in fertile minds and sow seeds there. 

Cover them, shine warmth, watch them sprout and 

tend them with exactly what they need.



 

Feeding Time        8/19

 

Lip smacking, 

mouth chewing 

echoes in misophonic ear caverns. 

 

It’s dinner time again. 

 

Thlolp-plip-pup-lop. 

Clanking fork on plate. 

 

Drinking in sucks with no straw, 

a siphoning pool skimmer of a sipper. 

Sssssluuurp-skup-skittle. 

Gung gung gung. 

 

Monitor lizard mealtime, 

hunched, 

not holding over the table, every damn time!!!

 

    Rage fingernails! 

 

Just breathe... 

            Block, block. 

 

Don’t look that way. 

You are excused, 

escape!



 

America Is        3/21

 

Now that we’ve voted, 

we can see.

Now that we weathered that Wednesday in Washington, we know. 

 

What we are is a lopsided pair of conjoined twins.

Fed untruths, left exposed. 

Not completely divided, except in what we believe. 

Joined at the American Dream. 

 

Each

with its own organs, some stronger or weaker than its un-twin

 

Each 

operating with half a brain, half a heart, one lung, one eye. 

 

Not yet united. 

 

One is blueish, 

one reddish, 

Mashed together,

swirled at the center 

in a faceless smirk. 


Not completely divided, except in what we believe.


 

2020

 

Hindsight is clear, so we hear 

as we crane our necks back to peer.

Do we hope to see in HD what went wrong, how to fix, now redo? 

All the while our pace has not slowed,

run and run faster, not looking ahead.

What wildfire, virus, hurricane, oil spill, police injustice, political chasm will we smack into next?

2020 is not through with us yet. 

Still        3/20

 

Though we still call ourselves “United” we have never been more divided. 

Now isolated upon urging, afraid our freedom is lost, 

still we’re waiting for a real leader. 

We are wary of distances less than six feet, pushing apart like opposing magnets. We are still connected by a thread of our own making. 

We still have screens, now more dependent than ever, trying to abate the loneliness, work-teach-learn through suddenly overburdened networks. 

But we can still Zoom to see each other’s distant/close faces.

There is still comfort in knowing our analog neighbors, trading favors, 

helping each other.  

Still we gather on the block, sidewalk socials, a wingspan apart, hand sanitizer at the ready. 

Mail is still being delivered, brave grocery store workers still reporting for duty. Drive-thrus still say “thank you”. 

We still believe everything will go back to normal as we stockpile staples. 

How will we look at each other once we’ve tasted this virgin, dystopian cocktail, “Shelter-In-Place”? 

There is hope in “still”.



 

FRESH OUTTA CLUCKS        2/2015

 

It's a sad day when you reach the end of clucks you have left to give. 

 

You want to believe you have an infinite supply of ducks. You may keep trying to pluck another but…

 

No luck.

Dumbstruck.

You feel like a schmuck!

 

It sucks that you must admit all of your trucks are gone. 

 

It's especially painful when you have given so many chucks to one person
that you've depleted yourself and not given others you care about enough bucks. 

 

Some folks suck the pucks right out of you! 

 

YUCK!

 

Well, you must tuck away one or two to get you through the muck. 

 

Schuck the muck and yucks! 

 

Because...

You have to give a fuck about you!



 

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HAIKU