the poetry nugget

 It has been quite a year— Clauvin knelt on George Floyd’s neck till his breath gone. He acts like it is acceptable, part of procedure, learned in training. It is not. He came to it on his own, such a clever man.

On the couch flanked by my two dogs, watching tv, my cell phone buzzes emergency tornado disaster warning. Brow-knitted weather-folks circle radar maps, paint-boxes of angry colors splash across screen, pop like pinball machines on ritalin. In midst of language of meteorology, I hear velocity couplet, full stop poetry? Heavy rain, thunder, lightning bolt blows transformer, pyrotechnics illuminate, our house goes dark. I search for flashlight, pen, paper— yes, a tornadic sonnet!

Autumn on the cusp, crickets mute fiddling, birds&squirrels scrap  for crumbs, weeds wild, unplucked, foliage paused awaiting briskness, temperature gauge falls, moon one shade bluer. Losses, endings I cannot fix. In my dreams, their voices-- drag,   shift,  frighten,  free.

            After  Catullus' poem, Ave atque vale,   written upon the death of his brother My dear friend is dead, h er shell abandoned. I speak to her ashes, to her vibrant spirit. She struggled against paralyzing disease,  carried  raw pain on her narrow shoulders, worn thin. Her  flame passes   into wisps of smoke. Absent faith to anchor me, habit tilts my face skyward, I whisper  peace. Of this, I am certain, the world is less without her.

It began as a spat, sparked into an argument, ignited-- we raged against each other, hurling lightning bolts, crackling through opaque india-ink, jagged shards piercing, moon and stars languishing before our pyrotechnics, our rumbling thunder drowning night-songs. We broke each other and walked away, discarded by the side of the road, as cars swerve and flatten.

A pianist, an artist, a linguist, a professor, so many talents,  like her younger brothers, but she lacked the XY chromosome, when few women worked outside of home, few women envisioned another path, few women stepped away. Her father treated her differently, replied to her differently, “you don’t really want to”,  his catch-all phrase, repeated till she believed it, too, believed she couldn't, shouldn't. She pushed aside her ambitions, molded herself into a new, narrow shape, that of wife and mother, she made those roles her whole life. There was nothing left of the other woman, unable to even imagine what might have been.

I startle into awake, the room dark, yet in the shadows three figures gather by my bed, three figures unmoving, unspeaking, hands together, hands uplifted, in prayer, in blessing, in admonishment? Fog heavy in my head, fear looms, patience thins, I reach toward the nearest light. A floor lamp with its wide shade, one of the trio, a momentary comfort, but what of the other two? Angels, aliens, two Weird Sisters with a Macbethian prediction? Cocooned into sleep, caught by a vague whisper of a tangible somewhere within.

N eon blue, inspiration of R othko, I run my fingers through it, streak my face, my arms, a Scottish Pict preparing for battle. My friend is wounded, in need of protection, I channel the spirit of the she-bear. Nose skyward to catch the scent, claws unsheathed, carnivores exposed, towering, tossing the prey, light as salmon, slashing belly, innards sloughing, the snow bleeds into pink.

Who knew the myth of Icarus was so popular? Barely an acute angle left. So what if Icarus lived, found among the seashells on the shore, would he survive joking about wax and feathers? teasing in the classroom, in the hallways, on the bus? looking for the spines of wings in the locker room? repeating why a son should always listen to his father? Oh, to erase his folly. Yet how to be a common man, he who touched the sky. They say his words captured within the whorls of seashells, for boys who dream  to fly. He whispers take the risk, how could he not? *According to Greek mythology, Ic arus flew  too close to the sun, the wax of his wings melted a nd he fell into the  sea.

Neither tiptoes nor arms straining, I cannot reach. Like a fairy tale city with cobblestones, canals, centuries-old structures, in a gray-green haze, obscured. I am on the edge, I am on edge to touch the whispers in the margins between awake and asleep, new words, creation.

The flowers stand tall in an August heat that strangles the breath. They toss a corner of shade, flaunt themselves before the sun. In this triangle, a battle-scarred cricket  chirps  his victory over a foe. Today is their day, tomorrow,  weeds and  hardened shell.

At the start, hopefulness, sweet as honey, golden, sticky and  endless. In the midst, bees buzzing. The drones attend the Queen, the females indeed the worker bees, the brood grows. Busy, so busy, the constant beating of wings distracts. At the end, a noticeable absence of sound. The muscular arms of time press down, vision sharpens to the decay, not a glistening drop left.

The rain soaks, atonement for the drought. It pings against the metal canopy, percussive, syncopated, cleansing, purifying. Like a metronome ticks a rhythm, a melody in a minor key about sin-tainted souls and second chances, running hard to catch the last train homeward bound.

His breakfast smells like ripe tomatoes and promises, pledged in youth and romance, a starter home, a child or two, a job with promotions and perks, naive happiness. We are older, each creak and crack in the house has a name, unlike our shadow children. He works so hard, by end of day face without color, dragging heavy-footed over the threshold, listlessness engraved into his bones. Desire distills into an uneasy companionship, his hand restive in mine, his shoulder sharp, I do not hear the word love, only silence  and the foundation settling.

Passed from hand to hand, the quilt is bleached, worn, stitches loosening. Like faith in god, once bright, strong, turns tarnished, thinned by illness, partings, death,  loveless lives. When callous time halts, we cling to random threads of hope.

The gazing ball promises good luck to those who tend the garden, the poet chooses her words carefully, with her muse. Time passes, the magic becomes random, fickle; weeds sprout wild, choke blooms, the poet  challenged to fashion bouquets of such rough greenery .

In the midst of the summer garden, the shiny ball, sign of good fortune, reflects sun rays,  moon beams, bends them at odd angles, strands of white light, strings of opalescence, threads of Fate. Time   passes , flowers   gone,  age  and weather tarnish, who will tend the magic?

The-mother-of-all-bombs hit Afghanistan, isn't mother-bomb an oxymoron? While in a meeting to plan a new poetry collection, an exciting beginning, fresh voices to be shared, poems in 12 point font,   a glossy cover, to crack my depressed mood, to widen  my narrow life, to distract me from the dark of American politics. Talk of the call for submissions, start dates,  stapled   versus   bound , decisions made,  they seemed important, until I glanced at my phone, saw the news, hopelessness is like the-mother-of-all-bombs.

My tears swell without release, like waves tease the shore, a watched pot refuses to boil. They marinate my soul, leak around my edges. I fidget with anxiety, bark impatiently, compassionless. Dark as a thunder cloud, a reservoir for another day...

She wrings the fullness from life, restlessly; engulfed, devouring, she licks the sweet, the sweat; words to caress the nape, to choke the breath; salve to her wounds, healing to her soul.