Dripping from a dead dog’s eye

some days, more than I would like,
I wake up and think of Jude.
I feel the pain,
but can’t take the sad song and make it better.
I am too quick to anger.
too busy, parrying bullets of anxiousness.
you cannot reach me,
though I am not at all sure if I am worth reaching.
I have made you exhaust your bag of tricks,
and now, we sit. we sit. I cannot…..
I must go for a walk. I won’t be long, okay?
Watch your hockey game. Feed the cats chips.

it’s cold, and I didn’t bother with the woolies tonight.
I download that step counter, then head out the door.
Brisk, brisk, keep that pace brisk, like the doc said.
The doc that wouldn’t sign me into the gym.
I courageously or foolishly decide to take the long route.
forty eight hundred and ninety five steps.
something to proudly enter into my blood pressure log book.

all that I see and hear tonight
presents itself to me in the grey light of negativity.
aggressive dogs barking from behind fences.
someone detained by the Police. They are crying.
an escalating domestic quarrel for all to hear.
further along, a bunch of young toughs competing for belligerence.
their vile dialog making them big men in the schoolyard.

I remember there’s something I need at the store.
I stop there to take a breath and warm up.
there’s a lady behind the cash, my own age I think,
and I feel that she sees me, more than I would like to be seen.
there are people behind me waiting, but she wants to chat me up,
touch her little glow of kindness to me.
Christ, If I had had a business card with my number,
I would have slipped it to her.

a few blocks to go, and there is a screech of tires, then screaming.
a girl’s dog has run off leash and been run over.
she is bent over, crying so hard she is gagging.
someone is trying to comfort her.
I go to the small group that are trying to help the animal.
but he is dead, the darkness oozing from his eyes.
I do not know what to do.
Home now.
How was the walk?
Cold, I say.

A capricious eviction

in autumn’s overture
a freak breeze
a crossdraft, close to the ground
slides the solitary oak leaf,
brown and curled,
along the dampish grey sidewalk

and I, stewing in sophomore thoughts,
am waywardly drawn to this
wanting to mummify the moment
to get clean of the unclean
to idolize this blameless thing
this memory of a hand
or of a shelter with many entrances

so, fool that I am,
out comes my pocket camera
I kneel, the breeze on my knees
don’t move.  don’t move!

but, at the moment of button pressing,
before the thought becomes the action,
upended is the leaf
a sail unfurling, carried afar
but leaving a tenant now

a surprised, evicted caterpillar
all stripy, hairy, spiny
and I imagine it perhaps feels
like a skinny old man
who has accidentally dropped his towel in the sauna

I put my finger flat beside him
a bridge to somewhere?
in a slow spiral, I feel
the nibbling of a hundred tiny feet
as he curls around the heat
and heads for the shelter of the sleeve

yes, okay, I will take you home, buddy
put you into that empty aquarium
vacated by my lonely goldfish
mulch you some leaves
humidify your room

what will happen next?

radiant

In my morning tent
the flaps still zippered
I wake in the chill
sitting up, I draw my cocoon around me
and I see

my fabric floor is splayed
with linear palette
of rust, turquoise, mauve, orange, ochre

now I must unzip the flaps
and shed the cocoon
to find the author
of this thing unlooked for

I dress hurriedly, still cold
and part the canvas curtains
stunned, I stand
in these organ chords of light

straggling snowflakes settle
seeping into my denim
I do not move at all
the chill matters not
nor does the camera
dangling loosely at my side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Painting “Radiant Sky”  is by Erin Hanson
https://www.erinhanson.com/

Darkened eyes, little lies.

i have seen it
in the dead eyes of the doped singer
goaded onto the stage
to do on cue
what once was natural.
the circle of viciousness.
unwillingness,prodded.
needs the dope
needs the big money
for more dope.
the crowds melt away,
except those who cling to a lost legend
who has long been gone.
a shell remaining,
sunglasses covering fish eyes.

i have seen it
in the starving artist
appreciated by the discerning
at his first flush of beauty.
his canvas children snatched up for a pittance.
rumors fly
the hungry close in
paint me this, just so,
to go with my decor.
and he needs, he needs to live
and paints with panache
produces on schedule
affects an artist’s persona
becomes a parody of himself
and the first flush of beauty
is cheapened.

i have seen it
in the writer who gives his work to the publisher
he needs to live, too.
and so, he has to eat his words
when they say
cut this or that out
and, by the way, we want to change the title.
so, what was once pleasure and pride for him
is now just an ignominious job.

The whistler

“The Whistler”

Some say of the singer
He can really carry a tune
But the whistler, he is carried by the tunes.
On them, he depends.
Akin to birdsong, he utters unconsciously,
And without effort,
The warbling melodies.
They stave off sullenness.
They are linear, lonely, lyrical.
In company, or in solitude they flow.
A precision of the tongue and breath.
Not learned, but somehow innate.
Unwilling are some of his listeners.
Glowering glances they give.
Others are drawn,
staying close but feigning indifference.
Furtive but friendly.
Embarrassed by the spell.
Then there are those who openly lavish praise.
They ask for more, and tug their friends over.
The Whistler has unwittingly woven this spell,
And is surprised, abashed, taken aback.
Suddenly silenced.
The kind and blameless people look away.
Perhaps they know what they have asked of him.
Like one who would look over the shoulder of a painter
transfixed,
And say “Continue. Continue.”