hollyhocks

last house on the dead end,

no house across the steet

cos the one that used to be there burned down before i was born.

in the field there were old bedsprings,

allergy grass,

and tall big-leafed hollyhocks with pink blooms.

i decided they were the ghosts of old church ladies,

bent-backed from slicing pie at receptions.

every morning in summer, i waved to them,

wished them a blessed day,

and waited til i was out of sight to, as mama called it, start up with my bullshit.

ampersands

a cardinal and a rat at my feeder

dead porcelain doll in my hands.

people no one can see on the wraparound porch

like a row of ampersands.

dark bird

the dark bird is back

bigger than before, not as big as when she’s done

what made you think, little chick,

that you were anyone?

the dark bird is back

meaner than before, and hungrier by half

what made you think, little one,

you were getting out of that?

the dark bird

the dark bird

she’s back.

red

in a gray house

under triangle trees

with blue leaves

 

i had a red cradle.

 

santa, i want

a red revolver,

birth control,

a red hat

and a fuzzbuster.

 

off to my new life

in my red car

with the fish on the back bumper.

it means,

 

fuck ’em and feed ’em fish heads.

 

i got red hair

and a white dog

with pointy ears

and a red collar.

 

gtfo,

lady coming through,

too cool by half for you,

and red

as red

can do.

_____

 

art by Gerda Wegener. written for my challenge at Real Toads.

Two Dogs

i got two dogs.

one’s nice, one ain’t.

them two’s my babies–

called skillet and shotgun.

come springtime,

if the road weren’t muddy, sometimes i wouldn’t know where i’d been.

there’s my tracks, and theirs, one to either side.

skillet got burrs,

shotgun caught a pellet,

and my dress was torn, but i can’t recall how.

best as i can guess,

it was the same old song–

should’ve left the mean one home,

but one gets lonesome without the other,

so i turn ’em both loose

when the moon is full,

and the usual cautions don’t catch hold.

bus stop

i was at the edge-of-Detroit Northland bus stop, minding my own,

reading the novel i’ve crawled into lately.

figures he’d pick me out.

figures he’d hassle the one middle-aged white gal in the whole place.

It was a long ten minutes

with his ugly face in mine.

with his nasty lips talking shit in my ear.

i can still hear his dumb-assed air of non-existent authority:

“i asked you a question! are you stupid?”

i would have loved to fight him,

and younger me would have.

instead i had to sit there saying “leave me alone” and wishing the bus would come.

I’m glad two young men finally helped me out,

let me escape.

they looked like trayvon martin or michael brown.

nassy-man looked like cliff huxtable.

just goes to show, somethin somethin, but i’m too jangled to put it clear.

meanwhile, i’ll have this cut on my cheek and nick on my lip

for a week or ten days, i guess,

to remind me of my vulnerability.

_____

a poem in three tenses for Real Toads mini challenge.

 

 

oliver larch

don’t bother looking for oliver larch.

he didn’t die.

he’s been here with me,

counting frogs that fell from the sky.

mama washed out my mouth with soap

for tellin a lie,

but oliver larch

calls and cries

from under the snow where no footprints go–

with a look of surprise

instead of eyes.

______

herotomost says write about something that was “your thing” when you were young. I used to scavenge the bookshelves at home, in hopes of finding paperback books about strange and creepy (but supposedly true) occurrences like the disappearance of oliver larch, or rains of frogs, or such like. i found three or four, over time, and would curl up with my new find and devour it. i never forgot those stories, and have never lost my fascination with the unexplainable.