Care For an Apple?

Premeditated flickers 
beneath lifeless eyes

whisper, “come here.”

As fangs display,
she leaps away

from the striking snake.

Shouting encouragement to her hoe
she swings, reflexively, reactively,

righteously in response to preemption.

As dead eyes flicker out,
she weeps,
wondering of fruit and trees.

Jumping Track

The whistle seeps through my barely open window,
pushing fretful sleep
off the tracks.
The locomotive weeps with me about,
being restricted to rails,
preferring to reject prescribed paths.
The more it longs to escape the iron way,
the tighter it clings because,
it jumped before and
starred in the wreck.
So, it mourns on out of earshot
as I fall back to sleep.

Summer Chorus

I sing of summer on the street
of laughter echoing happiness
up to the third, fourth, even, fifth floors
filling corridors of town so full
that people throw open windows and doors
to let joy spill in.
Let flags and banners snap and flap.
Let flowers bow with courtesy to each other and others.
Let the breezes warm and cool.
Let even the traffic purr contentedly.
Let sunlight’s shadow graffiti mark walls,
and streets and me, as we join the summer chorus.

Bridge Out

Bridge Out  

Road Closed Ahead
Find Another Route

Highway authorities
cast me adrift without a
suggested detour.

Maps offer too little
detail to be helpful.

GPS warns, "Make a Legal U Turn or
plunge to your death on the road ahead."

What next?

Road Closed Ahead.
Set your life in order
Try prayer.
Send up a flare.
No goes there.

Last opportunity for
Last Will and Testament here.

So, I stop, just before the bridge
to pray at Larry the Lawyer's
Last Will and Testament Stand,
decline the offer from the kid who 
knocks on my window selling flares,
start back,
ignoring the sign that says,

"Turn Around Now
You Missed It."




On The Grass Tracks

Gentlemen and Lady start your engines.
No one sings the anthem but
laps begin.

Green bluegrass flags the start.

Most track back and forth,
gnawing tops off the fescue,
relentlessly reducing the blades

that never quite make it to seed.

Some rebel and chop diagonally,
one mower etches his “X.”
The old hippy, who tried a crop circle,

got alienated for his artistry.

She, with the degree in design,
opts for the Fibonacchi spiral but,
the turn ratio on her Toro

sculpts only fractured fractals.

When the roaring machines are silenced
on Saturday afternoon, the tree-hugger
stands raking the victims of his

motorless, non-mulching, rotary mower,

contemplating,
with each scratch of the tines,
eco systems, the fall of lawns,
the rise of sustainability.

Highway Miles

Always happiest on the highways,
from the age of sixteen until now,
dotted lines provided clear boundaries,
solid white warned caution to the right,
for yellow, be advised, don’t go there.
Sweet pavement rolls on to forever.
Forever is coming so quickly,
but don’t be too sure this trip’s over.
I have traveled, mostly, highway miles.

As Pretty As a Speckled Pup

For a writing exercise, I was asked to take a common saying like, “Silence is golden,” or, “You’re never too old to learn,” and write a little something about it. I chose, from my Grandfather’s repertoire of sayings, “Pretty as a speckled pup,” as in, “She’s as pretty as a speckled pup.”

As Pretty as A Speckled Pup

Having not seen many speckled pups,
I was unsure of their universal prettiness.
Still granddad, in appreciation of beauty,
said, “Pretty as a speckled pup,”

often enough to etch it in my brain.

Not thinking it an appropriate compliment,
for the sophisticated girls of sixties,
I must have thought it a thousand times,
before that date when I let it fly

in front of her mom and dad.

“Audra, you’re as pretty as a speckled pup.”
Her dad growled, “What?”
Her mom wondered, “Huh?”
As we drove, Audra said, “That was sweet but,
never say it again in front of humans.”