Tuesday, December 29, 2015

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

Monday, December 21, 2015

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

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

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