Friday, May 27, 2016

Weekly Worded

       Still, Life

I will sit
in this chair
and stare

at Sunshine Mountain
until the daylight

washes this stone
palate clean,
as if the artist

threw her brushes
into the trees
and shouted,

To hell with it,
it's too perfect
to paint.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Weekly Worded

            Not What You Eat

You are not
a frozen pizza
waiting in a dark freezer

to be warmed,
nor are you a bowl
of granola,

a grilled chicken breast,
or a potato
twice baked.

You are light waiting
for the right moment
to be visible,

an eddy in a wide
stretch of water,
a breeze

kicking up a devil
of dust before
fading away.

You are
and you are not,
that simple.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Weekly Worded


Eagle sits
on her perch, not grand
as an aerie but more
like a porch

at the top
of a dead cottonwood,
surveying the field below.
Cows ruminating

on patches of green,
dog chasing its tail.
Foolish man
shoveling dirt.

Eagle sits,
her circle of light
like water

her white head
swivels, yellow beak
like a crooked finger --
Come to me...

or wait,
I will come to you.

Friday, May 6, 2016

Weekly Worded

           Fight or Flight

Gray like the gravel,
four eggs cached in the driveway
beside the tiny red marker I’ve placed.
The plastic flag flutters in a gust
of spring while the killdeer shrieks,
flopping one wing open
as if she’s crippled:
Come and get me she taunts,
I’m helpless, I can’t fly.
It’s a ruse. I’ve seen it before,
just walking to the mailbox,
but what I haven’t seen recently
is her eggs, cloaked in invisibility
like alien pods from a stealthy bird-ship
circling above the newly budded trees.
I stoop, the mother scolds me again,
a cloud slips away from the sun
and the eggs materialize
like four perfect jewels,
sparkling and speckled, so obsessively
polished by this feathered breast
that stands at the precipice
of instinct, uncertain what comes next.

Friday, April 29, 2016

Weekly Worded

      Meditations on Mona Lisa

I’ll assume Mona Lisa
always smiles, that her smile
is more captivating in person
than in a book or on a postcard,
that her poplar wood panel
is still comfortable
after 500 years,
that her oily complexion
hasn’t cracked,
that long museum lines
haven’t tested her patience,
that 9.5 Euros is a cheap date,
that Leonardo isn’t smiling,
that an Italian painting
can speak French,
that a hanging
is different than a lynching,
that at night when the Louvre closes
other paintings are relieved,
that having no legs
may be a blessing.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Weekly Worded

            The Name Game

    “Jean, your order is ready.”
    “Excuse me, but my name is Jene.”
    “That’s what I just said.”
    “No, you said Jean, but there’s an ‘e’ at the end.”
    “I’m sorry. Jeanne, your order is ready.”
    “There’s only one ‘n’.”
    “I only said one.”
    “No, you stretched it to two.”
    “Okay, Jeane, take your damn order.”
    “And there’s no ‘a’ either.”
    “I didn’t say an ‘a’!”
    “Yes you did. I’m a very close listener.”
    “That’s Jen, not Jean.”
    “I should know how to pronounce my own name, thank you.”
    “So it’s pronounced like a unit of heredity in a living organism?”
    “Except it starts with a ‘J’.”
    “You know what that is?”
    “A bad gene.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I serve ‘em like I see ‘em.”   

Friday, April 15, 2016

Weekly Worded

          Twin Moons

Rising in the east,
reflected by both the window

and the mirror
hanging on my west wall,

the moon
takes a quick glance,

adjusts a crater or two
and winks at itself,

confident that by midnight
it will be up 

wooing the stars, pretending
to know the names

of all the constellations,
looking good.