Hummingbird War

Ants trail up the shepherd’s hook 

under the shade tree 

outside the bedroom window

hypnotized by the scent

of a sugary water concoction

mixed for ruby-reds to fatten up

before their September journey south;

Miso the cat is on look out-

still, paws on the sill

ready to advance on

the needle-nosed morsels, 

who chirp and flutter 

just outside the screen.

At night, all is quiet.

As morning arrives, the blind opens-

Miso jumps to the tower 

to site her target-

the nectar’s brew master,

in horror, sees the feeder 

has become an ant tomb-

sugar bloated bodies float

after a Kamikaze dive of glory.

Rest in peace little ant-scouts, 

bon voyage my tiny, feathered delights-

may your next campaign

avoid any casualties in flight.

 

Storm Warning

On a cold morning
it’s  hard to move
when a warm cat
sits on my lap.

Tired of the open window

and business of monitoring

birds returning

from the Southern sun,

she finds me in repose 

under a blanket

staring at a screen

ignoring things on a list.

She has the right idea-

curl up, purr, nest

to melt into the comfort  

of the small shared space.

Life off of the couch

isn’t safe anymore-

war rages and

a madman leads with impunity.

Better to tuck in,

lean on the memory

of a mostly steady hand

rather than the coming storm.

Floating

 

We floated on rafts, drinking beers

at our apartment complex pool;

quiet, no one around-

the few friends still in town

during summer break working

or doing something else.

He was older. I was 22.

We had a friend in common, 

which was friend enough

to stare up at the fading sun

together to reveal 

quiet parts of ourselves.

He had as many beers

as we could drink and

if we said too much of 

anything at all, I don’t recall. 

But I remember floating-

the borrowed blow ups

colliding to create little ripples 

of placentic calm.

When I was 42, he was still

older, I saw him on the street

of a leafy, sun dappled block.

We went to lunch in an empty 

cafe- he ordered wine.

I was on summer vacation-

enjoying each day as it came.

He was writing jokes.

What if I were God? he wondered,

not anticipating an answer.

God could be a woman or

Jewish. Wasn’t Jesus Jewish,

I asked him. Yes. So God 

being something else would

be funny, don’t you think?

The bottle emptied-

he ordered another.

He’s 65 now. I’m still younger.

He lies sunken into the bed 

connected to machines

that register any sign of life.

I tell him the story of the rafts

stroking his yellowed forehead.

He tries to respond to the memory-

a whisper. I hear God in his breath.

I hold tight to his hand, kiss it,  

and we float.

A Drowning Man

The wife brought home one, then two

and finally a third dog- big ones-

to live in the lanais on the washable rug 

amongst a few sticks of furniture 

that didn’t fit into a shared house.

He didn’t have a say in its acquisition-

the belongings he carried in were few,

suits that he would never wear again

and his collection of beer koozies.

What was hers was not his, though

he was put in charge of the beasts.

She bought the dogs thinking

that she would loan them out to hospitals

or nursing homes to comfort the old and infirmed.

Instead, he would walk the dogs to the beach 

littered with holiday makers’ trash- broken toys,

half-eaten sandwiches and bottles.

He brought a thermos filled with gin and juice

to pass the morning before it got too hot

and the late summer stragglers arrived.

As his only companions lazily sniffed sand, 

waves rolled in taking out summer’s leftovers 

and he was left alone with the dogs

on a beach too close to the water.

Ashes to Ashes

 Ash built up on the end

of the cigarette 

in what seemed to be 

an engineering marvel-

how did it not fall off?

It grew untethered yet attached

as he held it between

thumb and forefinger 

like he must’ve done

long before he knew me.

But something else was going on.

I could only fixate on the ash

while he held onto the moment

before a drag would knock it off. 

His eyes on me. My eyes on ash.

A deliberately long puff and 

the ash fell to the concrete.

It was not dramatic like a glass

spilling contents of a drink

and breaking into sharp pieces

that could cut.

It was quiet. And swift.

The particles were lost

without actually touching ground

in the softest whirl of air

that came from the door 

opening and closing.

For It Is Spring

The cold that steals a path still

into my house on the exposed corner 

of the street it sits on

isn’t aware of the date, instead

pushes through on a gulf stream

still running down from Northern climes.

But the sun, uncompromised by drifts of air,

balances the chill with a sideway stare

through the blinds that has altered

how the day begins, confirming that

the season has changed, moving

light from dull to bright.

Just months ago, I wanted for dreary

when now it feels too heavy;

gray and gray and gray has tempered

any color that imagination inspires

and kills the flower, wilts the green,

and pulls all energy underground.

On this morning, the sun illuminates

all of winter’s debris found in dust

on table tops and corners and among 

the bric-a-brac that accumulates, 

the chore is happily attended to 

clearing the way for its landing.

Months from now as the sun drones on

showing itself as summer’s dog days,

I’ll wish for shorter days to return

to dim the light so that work can stop

and I can bundle up again to ward off

the inevitable cold and darkness.

But today, on this first day,

in the excitement for a new thing,

I will revel in the fantastic turn

of the Earth as it gives a closer look

at the Sun and what it has to offer,

for it is Spring.

Last Days of November

Dark fell quick and
a dead of winter wind
found a pitch and blow
that screamed as it
squeezed into small cracks
in newish combination windows.

The howl of it

circled round and pushed

supernatural energy into

tight places that

hide the deepest secrets,

pierce sleep and tell all.

The three nights that end

the month are suspended 

between the day of the dead

and the birth of a savior;

quiet on the books yet

pull old souls into dreams.

 

Like Dickens’ characters,

one is dead and gone,

another alive, omniscient,

the third a whisper

who lives beyond 

what might be.

Morning raises the shade,

legs twisted in pillow

and blanket knots,

withered tendrils of 

dying greens rooted in soil

but dead on the ground.