Mass

When six days long a lifetime seems to pass, a bomb held like a kitten in a glass.

The second glance becomes a look that lasts, while fat cats count the vowels during mass.

Tiny Feet

The feline crept along the wall the ivy brushing up against her fur

she was seeking a small mouse which she saw run

in the shadow along the wall

The garbage trucks and puddles splashed

but it did not dim

her determination

in the street light

she could still sense

the rumbling of his tiny feet.

The Rats

I totally get that figure of speech

I get it like a fig being eaten by a monkey

and lost to the rats...

Next one is my call. 

Peachy Earth

The Earth has just split the apple in two

down to the molten core

as it turns out

the world is a peach.

Looking

I looked closely at the coral, each tiny hole and divot

imagined the diver that picked it up from the sea floor

then put it on the shelf

I looked closely at the book, each letter and curve of the b

imagined the writer that slaved over his desk

then put it on the shelf

I looked closely at the tiny box

full of jewels and designs on top

enough to make your eyeballs spin

opened it up and saw that it was empty

turned the tiny clasp to the left

and put it on the shelf

I am a curious soul

but as it turns out

I should stand in the wind and just look at nothing.

Another Bird

Your passionate attitude will need to be curbed

we've thrown it all away like sawdust

Your mindfulness retreat will need to be postponed

it turns out no one needs your advice

Your cunning methods to manipulate the mindset

have turned a good heart to stone

So long, so long

another bird takes flight

into the starry night.

Ode to Shiny Cats

Deep in the valley of the mind

Far away in the shadow of the soul

Near to the nuance of the night

Towards the faucet to get a drink of gin

Push the handle back to get a taste

Throw caution to the tornado

Hurl the Bible at the broken glass

Toss the nickel into Buckingham Fountain

Holler to her as she walks past

Mutter something made for magazines

Swallow the bitterness 

Saunter like a shiny cat

Pillowcase Pirate

The pillowcase on the bed is smoother now

than when the moon shone

stoned in the sky

reckoning me before I even knew what reckoning was

now the ship is sailing

into the black night

I had no idea I was the pirate

gold tooth and all

put an eye patch on St. Therese

the whole building is about to fall down

Permission

The permission to flip the found objects into art

the allowance to shop for the shoes that will sit on the shelf

the soiled letter I wrote and then ripped up

The toast I made to his health

The floundering fish underwater so bright and shimmering slowly

as she swam into my mind and I swallowed

under the cover of darkness

the pirate swims out to his ship

Forgotten Jewels

Where are the jewels? Have you forgotten them?

   Strewn around your wrist and neck

   The pearls and rubies from treasure chests

Where are your shoes? Are you going to walk around in bare feet?

   Those yellow silk slippers, your leather boots

   Your shoelaces tied tight with truth?

Where are the clouds? Where is the sun?

   The billowing majesty breaking with light

   The glaring lamp in your eyes

Late at night as you read French literature

melting into your chair 

the Jell-O of your soul wobbling

with each breath

do you remember her?

Genocide Games

Inside the inside ring of fire

outside the torch bearing running shoes

amidst the flames of glory the fanned

fainting fans

and the heart pumping jumps

there's a darker side to the game:

When you look at the stance of nations

with their colorful leotards and spinning gymnasts

there's this nationalism

which can get so dark

there's no color

it can get as dark as the shadow in rubble

as the night falls

and a child half alive 

keeps thinking of the bombs

and remembering the home

hoping someone will come

is she the hero?

Or is the gold medal holder

on the podium among the cheers

what we prefer to think of?

Oh, nationalism on display.

Wisdom of Words

I call myself a poet but why use words? Words hurt.

Why spend time, weaving them like blades of grass into wreaths?

Words hurt.

Words hurt more than anything else it seems, 

although bombs and bullets likely are worse.

Still, there's something stinging and ringing about a harsh word,

a harsh phrase. 

It's more than the pen being mightier than the sword.

It must be wielded more wisely.

Pull Back the Curtains

 The sunshine is kind of a necessary thing.