Hiking to the Holy Place

Every fern unfurling

Each tiny aster bursting

all the way up 

to the ridge

Says I give it all again

just like last year

says here, take, eat

Feast on this life.

We don’t care if you ride 

the Harleys roaring 

in that wolfpack way 

to the next bar

We don’t care if you drive

tricked out tractors 

hauling trailers 

of what we cannot

wait for one more day

We don’t care if you drink

too much bet 

too much

on the wrong horse

groan all night in your bed.

We don’t care from where

your many greeds arise.

We just keep on giving.

Sitting by the stone altar

I made, the right

crystals in all the right 

quarters wanting only

to protect this valley

I hail all my relations

and do not care

if I am finding

the right words

I am finding

these words.

© Bill Prindle, 2015

Fern unfurling
Photo by Tony Russell

Things That Break

I am the owner of plenty of broken things. 

My shoe sole has a tear,

My right eyetooth is chipped,

The window in our sunroom has that crack 

Diverging in two distinct lines.

The computer’s broke down, 

The printer won’t work,

And all those broken habits:

Working out, eating right, going to bed at 12,

Using words to say sorry and love you.

Mr. S., the father of my friend, 

The one who told the corny jokes

And took us bowling and to Olive Garden 

When we were eight and twelve and fifteen, 

He’s breaking down 

In the mind and motor skills.

My friend, she takes care of him. 

She can’t fix the broken, 

But she sits with him on long blue days 

And holds his hand that shakes, 

The one that filled her bike’s tire with air. 

She loves when the words come through wrong.

She looks and doesn’t see him quite the same, 

But keeps loving. 

In the mess of things that stop, won’t work right,

He is the broken thing that matters. 

© Emily Brown, 2015

Home in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Precedent

Helming the room 

Masked in black lace;

Ashen brick and specks of candlelight.

Quieting at her gavel.

At snapping fingers 

She stands slender, raven, and bare armed.

And I long

Like black seeds stuck in gums, 

Like wax dripped slowly on paper.

I rouse

Inky, slate rising,

So sanguine lipped and proud,

The staunch judge orders

And I serve.

© Malcolm Bare, 2015

Masked Woman
Photo from Pinterest
Masquerade by Belina Starscream