Squirrel!

Squirrels express frustration by twitching their tails ...

I don’t brake for squirrels.

I don’t swerve either.

I pray for them.

I plead with them.

I yell at them.

 

They seem suicidal,

Daring even.

They’re just doing

As told.

“Go play in the street.”

“Cross the road, or halfway.”

 

I stay centered

In the lane,

White knuckled,

Eyes forward.

They, one eye

At a time,

This and that.

 

“Make up your mind!”

“Move!”

“Squirrel, squirrel,

Squirrel!”

“Oh, for crying…”

“Please, no!”

 

No thump.

Nothing in the rearview.

No yellow pasted

Like the centerlines

They dance around.

I sigh and mumble.

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April Snow

They float down,

Those Individual wisps.

Periods which end

No sentence.

Quotations,

Bereft of content.

I press my ear

Do the dormant grass

To hear the sound

Of their touchdown.

“Shhhh,” they said.

Psalm or Face Palm

Only the fridge and a computer fan

Whisper their condolences

To the solitude sought.

 

My mind, plenty loud like

Headphones clapped on

My ears, cymbals

 

On symbols of reception,

The white noise of

My own pseudo conclusions.

 

Psalm 51 like area 51

Draw my curiosity

To the mystery of grace

 

Folded into mercy

As the pairing of woofer

And tweeter balance

 

Morning upon mourning

Of music, while the songs

In the night fade.

It

The walk and the wake of it,

The talk and the take of it,

This life is mine,

And filled with mines,

 

Yet Yours it is,

 

In the breathe and the breath of it,

In the deep and the death of it.

The grace and the grease of it,

The trace and the truth of it.

 

I lie down in it,

 

To rise and raise in it,

To prize the praise of it.

In the meek and the milk of it,

In the speak and the spilt of it,

 

On my knees in it,

 

To pray and plead in it,

To stay and lead in it.

The thank You and the Your of it,

On the dew and the shore of it.

 

Oh the gift of it.

Seasonings

When summer yawns,

a day break wedges

my thoughts between

the sun’s direct light

and its slanting

toward winter’s solstice.

As time wraps and warps

around my puny

gut feelings, a

prayer wends its

way through the

waning season

toward the bending Light,

an amen rolls

on toward equinox.

My Mole Went Missing

Actually the dermatologist took it.

He defaced my face,

plucked the mole hill,

and put a mountain of gauze and tape

over the three little stitches.

 

I googled Mt. Rushmore,

and there it was,

the size of a boulder,

that if tied around my ankles

would sink me to the bottom for sure.

 

If Abraham Lincoln could,

would he want Jack-hammer Jack

to remove the pronounced punctuation

from his righteous cheek?

We all take it for granite.

 

My mole went missing,

and I shall miss it indeed.

I pray for a scar of remembrance,

a Rembrandt, should I need to face it,

because I will never have that chiseled look.

Lifted

The clouds aren’t usually this quiet.

They’re trying to sneak by unnoticed.

No definition. Looking a little pale,

they scrape the tree-line like a hangover.

The cool night chained them to the low places

and now they slip away into the light of day.

With their dissipation I am thinned,

the heaviness of dark lifted,

shadows spilling as a remembrance.

Forgiveness as the dew,

mercy as the burning thereof,

and grace its antecedent.