Friday, February 22, 2013

Weekly Worded


    Superstition

   “They say it’s going to be an early spring.”
   “Who’s they?”
   “I mean he, Punxsutawney Phil.”
   “You believe in superstition?”
   “Well, I don’t not believe in it.”
   “I detect the shadow of a doubt.”
   “All I’m saying is that traditions ought to be honored.”
   “And would you sacrifice an animal to please a god?”
   “Certainly not.”
   “And can the entrails of sacrificed animals tell us anything about the future?”
   “That’s disgusting!”
   “No, that’s tradition.”
   “It’s not as if anyone tortures groundhogs.”
   “Phil’s hibernation is disrupted annually.  He’s yanked out of his den, forced into the glaring daylight, and required to look cuddly before of a crowd of onlookers with cameras.”
   “That’s not cruelty.”
   “That’s what the Paparazzi did to Princess Diana.”
   “You think that was a conspiracy?”
   “She was pursued in a dark tunnel, and she did have rather prominent front teeth.”
   “Now you believe the Princess was a groundhog?”
   “No, but she may have believed it.”

Friday, February 15, 2013

Weekly Worded


    Tribute

This Valentine’s Day
she made an appointment
for a mammogram.

She also ate too many
chocolates before penciling
3 p.m. into her calender.

Being responsible
had everything to do
with extravagance.

Her friends were
disappearing one by one,
and all the flowers

she sent these days
decorated hospital rooms.
She planned to

devour all 32 ounces,
one piece for every
woman she loved.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Weekly Worded


    Day and Night

          “Every moment readjusts the coordinates
            of hope and despair.”
                     --Lance Morrow


Because true north is just a sliver shy
of its magnetic impersonator,
my compass holds to one fixed point,
supposes it is right.  I am attracted by
such certainty, I go that way without
looking back, straining like the sun to
rise and set along its seasoned path. 

But if I catch the moon cut to a sliver
amid the multitude of stars trickling
their secret histories into the pool
of night, I can't help being taken in
by such complexity, my belief
that starts each journey no more
dependable than a calculated lie.

Friday, February 1, 2013

Weekly Worded


    To An Old Environmentalist

Parked on Main at the hardware,
hay bales instead of bicycles
strapped to the back of an SUV,
a shade of green you’d never expect.

I’d stand at the curb and wait,
tell you who comes out of the store
with a bag of nails, or a length
of pipe that might get added

to the load, but the wind’s bitter today,
and ice has made mischief of this sidewalk,
and the snow is drifting like forgetfulness
across the pastures north of town,

turning impassable into impossible:
such patience of hooves at the checkout.