Friday, February 24, 2012

Weekly Worded

Reading Poetry to Geckos

On the lanai, a tall glass of relief
within reach, I pretend not to notice
the geckos weaving their spell
                                         around me.
They are crouching
under the chair, hanging up-side-down
from the railing, mounted
like picture frames to the wall
                                         behind my head.
I’m not sure where to begin.
One has climbed to the surface
of a glass-topped table
                            and is staring, as if into a lake.
The bright green one
with a red spot on its back
has vanished.  Just start, I say,
and the book falls open like a flower,
                                                every page trembling.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Weekly Worded

Immortality Projects

The meaninglessness of my death looms,
so I craft a wall out of perfectly incompatible stones,
thinking it will outlast me.

To fit each stone in place, its edges must be chipped,
corners smoothed, the hammer and chisel clinking
like a clock in an old bell tower.

Ruts from the wheeled cart will be absorbed
by the grass, and the stones which I pried loose
from where gravity had once deposited them
now have centuries to chide me. 

Friday, February 10, 2012

Weekly Worded

Chat & Mouse

    Before pushing the send button, corrections already surface in his mind.   Maybe he should talk, not text.  Maybe he should just stop over.  God, how he wishes one of his phone’s Gs stood for Genius. 

    She places her phone on the table in front of her, waiting for the tiny screen to light up like a birthday candle.  Would he text or call?  Of course, he said he “might” if he had time before leaving for the airport, and maybe he won’t have time.  Oh wait!  Did she turn it on?  She was pretty sure she had turned him on. 

    He backspaces over every character he typed into the screen until the field looks as empty as 40 acres after a blizzard.  What can he possibly say to fill the void?  But it’s his emptiness that makes him want to say something to her, something deeper than text can express.

    At least wish him luck, but if she types GL he could mistake that for Get Lost.  She doesn’t have to say much, just a few well-chosen words.  Or maybe she should wait.  Wait!  Did the phone just vibrate or did she bump the table with her knee?

    He’s going to call, that’s the best way.  He glances at the time, wondering if she’s up. Would it be romantic, to be jarred out of a dream by his stutter in her ear?  No, he’d better text.  He’s that type.

    She should go back to bed.  A watched phone never vibrates.
    Concise but sincere.  TTFN.  Too corny.  Backspace, backspace.
    As she decides not to waste the entire morning, the phone lights up.



Thursday, February 2, 2012

Weekly Worded

Shadows Heard, Not Seen
      (for my brother, Paul, on his 60th)

Sun or shade, the groundhog
wakes wide-eyed from a state
of hibernation as early as January,
rolls over in its burrow and listens
to the dark sounds overhead.

A fox stalks a pheasant through brush,
two deer flinch as the wind
knocks snow loose from a limb
and the owl’s head pivots
like a latch, unlocking its wings.

If a shadow could be heard
it might sound like a shovel against
frozen earth, white with its timpani of thrusts
until the unyielding surface
shatters and surrenders to the light.