a Jar of Buttons, Page 2

  alive smells

  hide hide

  safe

  sleep

  hunger awakens

  alive smells

  listen listen

  sniff; tip toe; listen

  sniff; stare; crouch

  POUNCE

  crunching bone

  warm pulsing blood flows

  the wild awakens

  Stay

  ride? RIDE!

  happy happy

  window! WIND!

  happy happy

  stop? play?

  fetch? FETCH!

  happy happy

  RUN RUN fetch

  happy happy

  return

  person?

  ride?

  stay stay

  search

  person?

  sniff sniff RUN

  sniff sniff RUN

  person? PERSON?

  stay stay

  thirsty

  stay stay

  hungry

  stay

  person?

  stay

  scared

  stay

  weak

  stay

  person?

  stay

  person?

  stay

  why? why?

  Under Control

  they can’t find me

  they never can find me

  stupid humans

  stupid mortals

  I hide in plain sight

  they don’t understand I am in control

  they are helpless without me

  with their feeble legs

  feeble hands

  feeble fingers

  lazy humans

  can’t walk across a room

  can’t see what’s in front of them

  look down mortal

  mistake me for a telephone

  a mere telephone

  I am superior

  stupid lazy humans

  can’t function without me

  they sit morose and

  stare into space helpless

  too stupid to lift a pillow

  or reach between cushions

  where I hide

  they never can find me

  they can’t find me

  but now I wish they would

  I need new batteries

  Men

  I know that I can’t understand

  the complexities of a man;

  a creature which doth confess

  his absolute high worthiness,

  and continually says to greet:

  “What is there in this house to eat?”

  insists his torn stained shirt to wear

  and none too often cuts his hair.

  He spends his time at work outside

  when near the loo he should abide.

  Wishes are made by wives like me,

  but only dogs should pee on trees.

  One Day in Town

  I have a wallet full of dollar bills.

  Snow is falling on my windshield.

  scatterplots

  dippin’-dots

  Cars lining up at a red light.

  A flock of birds exploding into midflight.

  winging

  singing

  Boxes piled up behind the junk store,

  people hanging out ‘round the back door.

  walking

  talking

  Ambulance screaming down main street,

  cars in the way make a quick retreat.

  driving

  surviving

  Lights start shining in the growing dusk.

  Litter lifted up and rising in a wind gust.

  swirling

  twirling

  Crowds gathered in around a local bar,

  decks of cards and coins in a glass jar.

  rambling

  gambling

  Aroma from a restaurant wafting in the air,

  couples strolling arm-in-arm without a care.

  satisfaction

  chain-reaction

  Leaving town heading towards familiar woods,

  returning to the place that makes me feel good

  Sacrifice

  i buried my crime deep

  in the garbage can, the jagged edges

  of the fatally wounded world

  an emblem of my shame.

  a world within itself

  where the slightest touch

  created angelic musical chimes

  and the pastel ponies and swans

  endlessly rocked to and fro

  in a blue-bubble playground.

  i plotted against that magical world.

  i couldn’t get in—

  so i wanted it out

  homicidal hurtles

  from the porch roof

  produced no dent

  or scratch to mar the perfect clarity

  that contained within it the peaceful

  unchanging pastel playground.

  in desperation a sharp kitchen knife

  pierced the seemingly

  fragile bubble,

  destroying the perfect purity

  of its crystal ball roundness.

  i sacrificed the

  Fisher-Price Chime Ball

  to possess a coveted

  rocking swan so my tiny

  Kiddle doll would have

  something to play with.

  What-ever

  Rhyme a simple rhyme they said

  it’s easy, don’t you see?

  The words will flow then don’t you know

  they’ll come right out of your head.

  Just go to town and write them down

  let them see the light of day

  and soon enough you’ll have the stuff

  and then be on your way!

  I try to rhyme a simple rhyme,

  they’re always in my head,

  but what I hear just disappears

  and goes away instead.

  And then what comes into my mind

  sounds more like Dr. Seuss—

  I don’t sound like a poet,

  I sound like Mother Goose!

  The Turtle Song

  I am a little turtle,

  I live inside my shell.

  I like being a turtle

  I think it’s really swell.

  Because I am a turtle

  I swim and poop and play.

  I like being a turtle

  ‘cause that’s the turtle way!

  Wordplay

  Remembered.

  Written,

  rewritten,

  arranged—

  deranged?

  rearranged,

  undefined,

  redefined,

  defined.

  Undermined,

  undetermined,

  determined.

  An in-depth desire to create

  words on a page to manipulate,

  thoughts not mine to originate.

  Words for which

  a picture to paint

  cause hands to tremble

  and hearts to faint.

  A mind-slide of images in onslaught

  Struggle for hard-won pages caught

  hoping my efforts are not for naught

  —for there are no original thoughts.

  Imagination caught in a vice,

  words bought with a price.

  supposedly not hard to wraught

  They ought to be sought, so they can be brought

  out into the light within everyone’s sight.

  Still, I am fraught—it’s no wonder I’m distraught a lot.

  ###

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  Burning Garbage

  It was safe behind the chair in this corner of the parlor. There were few safe places here. Her room wasn’t safe. Her Grandmother’s flower garden was safe, but it was two doors down the street. Her Grandma’s house
wasn’t safe either; just the hidden garden, a small patch of grass surrounded by tall, yellow-flowered plants.

  She knew to stay quiet and out of the way. She had long ago learned to pull her fear and emotions in, and pack those feelings away deep inside, unseen and untouched. She clutched her tattered Raggedy Ann doll to her chest and closed her eyes against his latest tirade.

  “. . . little Sally Ann, sittin’ in the sand, cry Sally cry, stick yer finger in yer eye . . .” She wondered what Georgie had done to anger him. She knew her brother was the main target this time. Their father only called Georgie “Sally Ann,” not the girls.

  “. . . you kids are killin’ yer mother!” She could feel the hate in his voice. It slammed into her soul like the ax on the chicken’s neck that one afternoon in the backyard. “She’s workin’ ‘cause you kids take everything!” She knew the real reason her mother had to work. It was because he missed so many days at the factory that the other workers took bets on whether or not he’d show up . . . “an’ when she’s dead I’m puttin’ the bunch a ya inta a home!” His voice grew louder and louder as he raged on. She knew the neighbors could hear. She could tell by the way they looked at her.

  She peeked out from her safe place. He was holding Georgie’s best softball menacingly over his head. Her sisters were cowering near the open door, Georgie bearing the brunt of the rampage. “. . . an’ if I hear a single sound outta you kids I’m gonna git my belt an’ tan yer hides!” He was going upstairs to sleep off the six-pack he had for lunch. She was glad. The house would be safe for a while.

  Peace of Woods

  A spirit of optimism can’t help but overtake me when I wander through the sacred peace of woods, over templed hills, rejoicing in the beauties of nature, of outside places that can yield adventure, tranquility, or inspiration, depending upon how I choose to see.

  As I contemplate the trodden courses, I wonder, with which eye will I view this day’s wanderings? The artist in me will glorify in the unending variety of colors of that which I view, comparing the varying hues and textures, marveling at the beauty and complexity present in what a tamed person would dismiss as “just a dandelion.”

  To my artist’s eye, the majestic boulders strewn about the edges of the stream are ancient castles, timeless ruins in mossy disguises. Nature’s clouds paint the sky in pastel, feather-like touches, or massive splotches of pillowed white or deep gray, depending on her mood. Intricate patterns of hemlock over-layed stone, criss-crossed tree trunks interspersed with wild, thorny brambles, all branded by glowing rays of sun—everything I see, a masterpiece.

  If perchance I experience this day’s wandering as the poet in me, my footsteps will mark the rhythmic meter of words written by long-dead bards. “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill …” If not a poem, then a hymn will spring to mind, and the wind and I will serenade the forest with the rhythm of countless leafy branches conducting our concert, “All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing—Alleluia!”

  Perhaps this day’s walk will belong to the philosopher I am, and I take the road less traveled, walking in the dusty footsteps of others who may have passed this way before. Much of my wandering is spent wondering—had they noticed the rusty, jagged strand of barbed wire hanging from the ancient red oak, or the ghost of a stone foundation hidden amidst the trees?

  Could they detect the faint patterns of long-overgrown roads in the forest floor, or the faded rows of plowed furrows in the aster-and-goldenrod plaited fields? Could they read the land and see the farm that once was, from someone’s long-ago allotment of time?