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Sunday, March 30, 2014

Planting Heal






Planting Heal

“Why?”
 she asks,  nose to the earth
“does is take so long to root?”
shivering in the chill morning
of her mending –
Running barefoot from her bed
to the bare patch where she had
scattered her seeds that unspeakable
morning in the snow remembering to
pack the uncovered soil softly with small cold fingers
“When?” 
she asks, nose to the earth
peering, waiting, in the early morning
of this still late winter
“will the plan unfurl and burst those promised
pinks and whites and yellow rows of pretty blossoms?”
and with a tiny growl of her belly – she turns and runs back to breakfast with
grandma – back to the warm kitchen and her mama’s empty chair

~



The Sprouting of Seedlings






Scattered

                                                                                s 
                                                                                   e
                                                                                      e
                                                                                         d
                                                                                           l
                                                                                             i
                                                                                               n
                                                                                                  g
                                                                                                    s

pack, huddled
beneath the frozen earth
of her broken life - taking tenuous
root within the cracks of shattered time –
As the earth turns and turns and turns again
fissures fill, heal and gently, with a growl of never-
to- be -restrained - life, crackle-burst into shivering rows
of mending - reaching to suckle starlight from the navied heaven
Finally, finally stilling to quiet peacefulness the constant paralytic thrumming
"why?"
there
is
only now -
a soft simple seeded smile
spreading radiant from inside out –
shimmering the once sere savannah
with hope's green shoots sparkling wet
in the light of this golden newly risen dawn


Friday, March 21, 2014

soul murder music


Vera Kratochvill



soul murder music


a sudden broken quartet - you and I and our soaring 
shimmered selves  - scattered notes breaking suddenly 
over the green ribbon foreshortened  course of our youth
obliterating the would-be-us  slicing cruel cuts in those velvet 
fields exposing the smashed mirror of slivered hope beneath
flung fragments refracting, reflecting, sharp shards of bright despair

like the sting of flashing riotous wasps
moving into tender skin without warning
your string of words – yep - plenty blunt
burning a brain-brand -your response to my pleas  

like a rival of sea salt on an opened bloodied
wound - your laughter lifted its knife blade again
and again as though it were natural to slaughter my proffered innocence – 
natural to grind my soul in your indifference – 
natural to mill my heart into so much chaff blowing in the wind –

like so much nearly invisible, insignificant flotsam
I lay a dismantled, disoriented, destroyed Job, - lingering on
remnants of the summation of my imagined addition of our one plus one – 
all that remains of the us that never was, and never shall be, is this
broken uncoupled cacophonous quartet
distilled to a single tenuous, tremulous whistle, breaking 
in the darkening sky 





Sunday, March 16, 2014

Dust to Green Apple Dust


background-green.jpg+George+Hodan.jpg


Dust to Green Apple Dust 


She strips-standing on a wicker chair
strips for him holding his green bottle by
its neck – easy as he’d hold hers - telling her
not to fuss not that she would when he done
gone to plop spread-eagle, slack-faced ready
to squeeze the life out of her throat if she stops
moving – standing on the wicker chair creaking with
her bare feet –
as might falls and the tower lights come
up in the city sparking light after light until
they shine like a tiara in the distance and she
can pretend, as his eyes shutter-shut sleep rolling
the bottle from 
ham-fist
unfurled
she can pretend that maybe God did make
little green apples and maybe it won’t snow
this year in Minneapolis when the winter comes
and as she pushes the chair back to the table and
pulls on her jeans and tee shirt moves to the baby
crying in the other room – she can pass him sleeping
now – a stray lock of hair falling on his forehead and
believe that she sure was just giving him a bit of fun and his
love is as sure as the sweet green apple dust from which they
both came and where they will all return some day –
some pretty sweet day –
some pretty sweet day –
soon  









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