Hammock Morning

It was my mistake
To think no heaven could be shabby--
That the rusted red star
Piercing the fence, like a tropical leaf
Sword of heaven, sword of earth
Could never have fallen
Cast by a breeze clogged with an accident of angels.
I didn't look for the shade
Or the bench under the pomegranate bushes
Where Eden lurked.
You have to work for it
You have to look for it
It's hot as blazes--even early--here.
Red wasps gobble the wooden fence like slow flames
Pitchfork rears dragging the morning,
Buzzing like a snag in the film.
When it catches, where it burns
These breezes could be full of angels.
At least, if the neighbor's dogs
In full morning frenzy are greeting angels
Then I'll drop no sour curses
Into the day-melt pool at their feet.
Bless this silence, bless this shirk

Cold Comfort Hoard

Dark dragon growling its nasal slumber on the last heap
Of these last days, on the paltry treasure of a feigned lunch
Wal-Mart low cholesterol Knight-on-a-Stick (vegan)
Carving talons through your wealth, into sleep.

Dark dragon feeling the floor and the dirt close beneath
Dizzy on the bright/dim rotation flashing like speed
Claws piercing slumber itself, all treasure ground to sand
Each spiral of your body drilling out of sleep.

She Told Me

She told me about the woman
Who thought beans on the vine were free
Who took what she needed from the vine
Everyone had planted, watered, weeded, fed.

She mentions her sometimes
When HGTV murmurs and I'm at the backdoor
Pointing out those five tomato plants
The dogs & mockingbirds ravaged.

She remembers the fields, the family;
Some of them on the couch, some,
Like the birds, have swept by,
Brief shadows on warm skin.

Raise me up like a vine with the sunlight,
Fly me by like a thief on the wing,
Drop me like a prayer on the good soil,
Lift me into the long summer green.

----

The above was written during tonight's WordCrafters prompt exercise in response to the painting The Angelus.

Bleed the Wires/A New Sphere

When they shatter the glass
When they connect the field
When they bleed electrons into the street
I will carry them
Into the wire
Into the glass
Into the cable

They have shattered the glass
They have melted it thin; buried it
They have animated the world
For touch, yours, mine
Along the wire
Under the glass
In a new ether

What will your bread be now?
What will be crushed for your wine?
What will you whisper
Into the mike
Beneath the tongue
Into my tower?

How shall I answer when I...
I--a thousand desires of I--
...
Angels sing.
Wires sing.
...

In every wrist,
Vault,
Wall,
Sewer,
and skull
So shall I.

The following was inspired by The Sunday Muse The Muse #1 and also linked to Poets United for Poetry Pantry #398.

Backyard Shivers

Once Upon the Park

Come on, sit down. She's harmless--not a rabbit, are you?

Do you have kids? I have a daughter, son...several grandkids.
That's why she's here, keeps us all safe under the leaves.
My oldest granddaughter just went back home.
Pacer.
Pacer Bentley. Do you follow the soccer teams?
She's going to be on the track team one day.
Loves to run with that one
All through the streets near me.
Are you a runner?
Safer if you are...but I understand.
Don't run so much myself, these days.
Pacer has been learning how to run--
Not to be chased. She doesn't flee. Her mother...
She had to go home. I'm so glad to have met you, dear.
Mint?
Are you chilly? Lots of shade just right here.
She likes to sniff in around the toes of the trees.
Well, you came into the woods, didn't you?
Nice, safe trees. And they put those shavings on the paths.
Absorbs sound, everything.
Let her have a sniff of your palm, dear.
That's right.
Oh...wolves...family-centric. Loyal. Do you like the collar?
Red is easier to see than dark fur.
The buzzing? You've come on the best day. Wearing your ponytail, no less.
Well, you were worried about Daisy.
Named her for the first granddaughter she ever ate.
No, no, I'm only kidding.
It is. You know the red wasps?
The ones living on your porch? Nibbling on your fence?
Red as rubies...
Pacer had to leave, but I'm glad you're here.
I've never had a horse in this race before.
Well, the Wild Hunt. It's shifted.
Most of the old riders have come to the benches
To watch the steeds run under others.
All the jockeys with their prods, all the girls with their dreams
Of horses.
You'll learn to pace yourself
After the first sting.

Thanks to Carrie for the above image prompt and to Lizbeth for the name Pacer Bentley, which I want to use in everything now. :)

Itinerant Wizards

May I Share the Hero's Journey With You?

The wizard came to tea last week; he's older now and impatient.
If you don't answer the door...well, what's wrong with tea?
We keep ours in a pitcher in the fridge, never warm it up this time of year.
Don't fuss with it--just pour it in a glass (Ice? No ice?) and there it is.
Drink it while we talk but don't make it precious.
Of course, I'm always interested in hearing about "adventures."
I'm not adventurous, personally. I'm the left-over-receipt-for-a-forgotten-tchotchke sort,
Not the kept-in-the-back-pocket-for-emergencies kind.
Well, yes, I've heard of the hero narrative...
But our heroes are more--political. They march and protest or battle online--
Online? Real enough.
Outside, you mean? Like, down the block?
Oh, and on to the wider world. The city? Across the state, maybe?
I mean, you could. Get lots of online followers, probably.
Enough of them and your quest would be funded...underwritten by ads.
But few actual doors would open. And people here own guns, not swords.
You'd probably be confused with LARPers. Or worse.
They'd be critiquing your costume. Sending surveillance footage
Of the "creeper with the cape" to the news.
Yes...I mean--but good and evil? Distilled into one person or another?
As in the War to End All Wars?! That's on TV all the time.
Black and white burr of gunfire and commentary.
Would you like to see it? 
Sorry. Of course you have.
No, it's nice to get to talk to someone. It's lonely here.
Not many people around during the day. And I don't mind a sales pitch with my tea.
I can't see that I need a quest right now. There's the dogs to feed and protests to like,
Memes to deplore...and I get so angry about all that stuff.
But who am I to get angry? This is a nice house, good neighborhood.
You have to bank your fury right down into contentment.
I know. Useful to one side or to the other. There's no middle ground with you questers.
Don't argue library shelves with me. They're not altars, just...shelves.
Books.
Please don't turn into one of those jackasses who sell magazines---
Sweet until you're refused.
Then they're all pissed that their cheap-assed pitch (which we've all heard a million times)
Doesn't inspire me to rip out my wallet and start ordering magazines
That are ALSO trying to sell me something.
I'm not grabbing my tennis shoes at the first mention of good versus evil.
If I can't afford to replace my tires why would I buy Total War Fantasia?
I do have more tea. All those deep breaths before closed doors
Would make me thirsty, too.

d...d...d...Decade LXX: Saturday Night Disaster

There's a click and you can smell something warming the wires,
plastic wood, and metal; someone tells you to back up
Before She thumps to a stop, blonde hair uncurling in a gust of wind.
A voice fuzzes over her walkie-talkie:
Dis...aster at the...ant
She clicks it, calls into it,
sits down in the sand and clay against tread ziggurats--
you feel grit under your palms, too, as you lean into the same sound.
Her sneaker hits the hard base of a solidified tread, stops.
What?
A chill falls from your spine, pooling around your shorts,
as if the tile was a pond. Despite the summer vibrating behind you,
beneath that yellow light, thumping against the glass. Behind you.
You're the one in the glass-light to it.
She's wearing a coat.
The a/c makes you shiver.
The tile reflects kitchen light, shadows swapping cards.
Everything hums--it's not a digital decade.
It's a disaster decade.
70 miles an hour, 70 yards from safety.
She begins yelling into the walkie.
No one responds. Cards slither in the kitchen.
The house's skeleton pops, creaks.
You remember pink fluff behind the sheetrock.
These walls are parka-thin.