Icicle Daggers
Bicycling in the snow;
yes, there are implications
in that when cloaked feet
or huddled hands could hang
on to ladders tipping across
canyons, or balance hot chocolate
on the tip of one’s nose.
Skateboarding in snow;
yes, flipping the wheels makes
it into a sled unsuitable
for wide hips,
sweatpants that fit a little
too snug when left in the Dryer
for too long. A high pitched
squeal in the dark, the ice crunch of
metal. Driving in the snow
can be a difficult thing.
Landing Strip
For they have motors that sound like Harley’s.
For they interrupt my afternoon nap.
For they rattle the windows.
For their windows are dark and I can’t see inside.
For I imagine the occupants are peering into my windows.
For they fly in irritating circles.
For they look like they’re going to crash into the trees.
For they interfere in the hawks’ flight patterns.
For they intrude on the rooster’s sleep so he cries morning, noon and night.
For they rupture the silence.
For they persist until the sun goes on hiatus.
For they never flew over where we used to live.
For their interference is perpetual.
For they make the ground shake.
For they make me sick on my stomach.
For they took my cousin Pete for a ride and he never came back.
For I hate to fly.
For I want to live like a movie star and get a Pilot’s license.
For I want to shoot them down with my power washer
because they’re having more fun than me.
Non-Paper
1.
Fresh sheets
crinkle to the
touch
like the
feel of
cracking a
new book,
opening a
magazine,
popping the cap
off a beer.
2.
Fresh sheets
all blank
with possibilities
that no one
wrote
that no one
claimed
that no one
ever read.
3.
Fresh sheets
with all the
facts, the
trivia, the
complex issues
broken down
into little simple
bits of understandable
useless information.
Thin Soil
A summer day
in July
hotter than I
remember
not unlike the
garden which I’d
forgotten until
now. It was
fruitful with squash,
cucumbers, corn
and Tiger Lilies just
for decoration.There
was a secret path,
winding under trees,
leading to the water
pump, the old red
barn, the tire
swing on the old oak tree.
We played hide and
seek, chased the dogs and
horses, and spied on
spats between our siblings
and their significant others
wondering what it meant.
The house is for sale,
the garden wiped out. I’d
forgotten it until now.
Bicycling in the snow;
yes, there are implications
in that when cloaked feet
or huddled hands could hang
on to ladders tipping across
canyons, or balance hot chocolate
on the tip of one’s nose.
Skateboarding in snow;
yes, flipping the wheels makes
it into a sled unsuitable
for wide hips,
sweatpants that fit a little
too snug when left in the Dryer
for too long. A high pitched
squeal in the dark, the ice crunch of
metal. Driving in the snow
can be a difficult thing.
Landing Strip
For they have motors that sound like Harley’s.
For they interrupt my afternoon nap.
For they rattle the windows.
For their windows are dark and I can’t see inside.
For I imagine the occupants are peering into my windows.
For they fly in irritating circles.
For they look like they’re going to crash into the trees.
For they interfere in the hawks’ flight patterns.
For they intrude on the rooster’s sleep so he cries morning, noon and night.
For they rupture the silence.
For they persist until the sun goes on hiatus.
For they never flew over where we used to live.
For their interference is perpetual.
For they make the ground shake.
For they make me sick on my stomach.
For they took my cousin Pete for a ride and he never came back.
For I hate to fly.
For I want to live like a movie star and get a Pilot’s license.
For I want to shoot them down with my power washer
because they’re having more fun than me.
Non-Paper
1.
Fresh sheets
crinkle to the
touch
like the
feel of
cracking a
new book,
opening a
magazine,
popping the cap
off a beer.
2.
Fresh sheets
all blank
with possibilities
that no one
wrote
that no one
claimed
that no one
ever read.
3.
Fresh sheets
with all the
facts, the
trivia, the
complex issues
broken down
into little simple
bits of understandable
useless information.
Thin Soil
A summer day
in July
hotter than I
remember
not unlike the
garden which I’d
forgotten until
now. It was
fruitful with squash,
cucumbers, corn
and Tiger Lilies just
for decoration.There
was a secret path,
winding under trees,
leading to the water
pump, the old red
barn, the tire
swing on the old oak tree.
We played hide and
seek, chased the dogs and
horses, and spied on
spats between our siblings
and their significant others
wondering what it meant.
The house is for sale,
the garden wiped out. I’d
forgotten it until now.