Original Sin

I try to grab it just behind the head, but it’s  too quick for me; as my fingers close on the slender body, it whips around and grazes my hand with needle-sharp fangs. I drop the young black snake onto the laundry-room floor and gather a container and some stout cardboard. Eluding my clumsy efforts at capture, the snake vanishes beneath a cupboard. I crouch down just in time to see the tip of its tail disappearing through a narrow gap in the baseboard—back into the crawlspace whence it came, no doubt seeking a dry haven from the waterlogged yard. 

That evening, I watch the news: as Typhoon Mangkhut batters the Philippines, Hurricane Florence continues to dump Biblical rains across my already flooded state.  The coastal city of Wilmington, with virtually every tree and power line down, is completely cut off by rising water.  

A torrential downpour drums on the sheet-metal roof, drowning out the newscaster’s voice. As I reach for the remote, I notice a curious strip of glossy, black-and-silver metal lying along the wrought-iron trim of the gas fireplace. I take a closer look—and meet the unblinking eyes of a small snake just as it slips behind the fireplace facing. 

a drop of blood

seals an ancient covenant . . .

our debt

to fellow travelers

on a planetary ark

~Haibun Today 12:4, Dec. 2018

A Thousand Oaks and the Tree of Life

thoughts & prayers

for Parkland . . . and so many more

seventeen more

black arm bands

on a nation’s soul—

yet the guns stand erect

as the coffins go down

NRA

blazoned across his back—

I look

for the blood

on his hands

on foolscap,

I write letters

to my Senator—

thirty pieces of silver

jingle in his pocket

~Atlas Poetica 32, spring 2018 

whistling in the dark

a meeting

of the Flat Earth Society

in my state capital—

looney birds roosting

in the Land of Trump

from the throne

of a naked emperor

torrents of words 

like day-blind bats

twitter across the sky

on the radio

the usual blather

about causes

of gun violence—

a wren burbles in the frost

worshippers

kneel in a river 

of blood,

lifting clasped hands

to the god of guns

bereft of words

I kneel and listen:

lullabies 

in falling snow 

the silent sparrows

emptiness—

the discarded bottle

in my hand

sings at every step

the wind’s low note

deer entrails

at the meadow’s edge—

I divine

the will of the gods

in a chickadee’s whistle

~Atlas Poetica 32, spring 2018 

Gossamer

the thinning

of the leaf-green veil

at Samhain

the colors of another world

break through

hummocks

of golden grass

let loose

a volley of birds . . .

thoughts tumbling skyward

one white stone

plucked from the gravel—

again and again

I toss it into the blue

to catch its fleeting gleam

the lines 

of a poem I’ve yet to write

tangled

in the silver ribbons

of a lost balloon

splitting 

the silver milkweed pod,

Pandora lets loose 

upon the autumn earth

a raft of spindrift wishes

~Skylark 4:1, summer 2016

canticle

driven

by shifting winds

a crow

with white-barred wings . . .

my yearning for omens

who am I

to lose what little 

faith I ever had . . .

the redbird still sings 

in the apple tree

leaf shadows

shimmer and pulse

on an orb web

shining in morning light—

the clerestory of my mind

she flees

along a silken thread

to lie hidden

in the curve of a leaf,

whoever wove this world

the song

of  blade on whetstone

as the meadow 

falls to the scythe . . .

nunc dimittis

~Skylark 6:1, summer 2018

Harbingers

a trickle

in the long-dry creek . . .

chorus frogs

piping a memory

into the heart of winter

I fell under an enchantment when I was only a small child. The sun warm on the back of my neck, I would stand stock-still at the edge of a marsh, waiting for the voices to begin. I heard them first in the distance—one, two, then more and more until they merged into a sound like a million silver sleigh bells.  Even when a voice pealed out right at the toe of my boot, I could not spot one singer hidden in the reeds.

still seeking

what I cannot see—

a mystery

haunts the marshes

of a wayfaring mind

Half a century later and halfway round the globe, 25 new species of frogs have been discovered on Mount Oku in central Africa.  But as fast as their voices are heard, some fall forever silent.  Nearly half of Mount Oku’s amphibians are threatened with extinction as people cut the forests and poison the water . . . as the climate heats up and diseases spread.

found and lost

in the space of a song

the spells

of an unknown weaver

undone by hexing hands

~Skylark 5:2, Winter 2017

the streambank

another death . . .

I follow a path

thick with oak leaves

turning into soil,

nourishing the roots

rose hips 

and holly berries 

glistening 

in deep green hedgerows

winter quickens its wings

the brook

vanishes beneath the earth

to rise again

in a spatter of bluets 

. . .  this runnel of hope

~Ribbons 12:2, spring/summer 2016

trees in winter

filaments of snow 

       drifting sideways 

                 on the wind--        

                            old pines 

                                     shed their ghosts

                                                                     

                                    ~tinywords 17.1, 2017

the oak stands

stripped to its bare bones

half the year—

I lay my naked words

in homage at its root

~Earth: Our Common Ground (2017)

beech leaves

clinging past midwinter

sing on the breeze

there is only the dance

of sunlight and shadow

~Ribbons 13:2, spring/summer 2017