Sunday, 3 July 2022

Five Poems by Fay L. Loomis


 

Longing for Rosebud Matches

 

green and red box

snug in my palm

stylized red roses

tucked around words

sturdy wooden stems

bulbous inflammatory tips

 

no longer homegrown

manufactured beyond the seas

spindly sticks, daubed in pale pink

stutter, do not light

pile like kindling

useless as the box

 

my container is fragile

content frayed

fire burning out

silver cord will snap

body cold

iota of cosmic dust    

 

 

No Handkerchief Man

 

Dad blew his snot into the wind

spit tobacco juice everywhere.

 

He was a hat man, as were men born

in nineteen hundred and one.

 

He cursed most every word, unlike Mom

who never took the Lord’s name in vain.

 

Quick to anger, Dad reviled, cut to size

anyone different in color, belief, or way.

 

His mother knew him as Orrin Earl

never forgave him for changing to Jack.

 

Nor did his first wife forgive him

for abandoning her and their little girl.

 

Court records detail how she tried to find

the man with the changed named, force him to pay.

 

Depression in full swing, he flew the coop,

worked the pipelines out west.

 

Barely able to buy a coffee,

pay room and board.

 

Found a Kansas woman

who birthed a baby girl.

 

Seldom sent money to the pair

sheltering with parents in Ohio.

 

Six more kids, many homes

no place he ever set to for long.

 

Dad died in a nursing home

—alone.



Passed By

 

my friend moved away

didn’t say goodbye

 

our twinned life

cast aside, forgotten

 

touching toes in the sandbox

tucked between our houses

 

backyard sleepouts, tracing

the Big Dipper wheel round the North Pole

 

giggling, scarcely able

to get through our Dr. Seuss books

 

marked each birthday with a bangle

for our charm bracelets

 

I took a lonesome ride

to the swimming hole

 

glimpsed the glistening girl

jumping rope in her new yard

 

stayed palm on handlebar

clamped my mouth

 

peered into the future

passed on by



Prickly Eyes

 

evergreen garlands

protrude from eyes

twine round neck, head

 

arborist-mother

removes prickly branches

unwinds time

 

child turns toward father

comforted by limb’d arms

 

child turns back

red-eyed horror

eyes there, not there

skin peeled away

raw anatomy

 

muffled sobs, crazed sounds

cross blind chasms

 

mother beseeches ancestors:

pull mote from thine  eye

when beam is in mine own?

 

tangled roots, thorny branches

twigs, splinters, family tree

 

sturdy heartwood 

greening sapwood

cosseted by bark

 

 

Rock-a-bye Shaman

The shamanic tree of life or axis mundi, center of the earth, universe or cosmos links the shaman's consciousness with the underworld, the middle world and the spirit realms of the upper world. Art Stories by David Paladin

I

mother earth cradles shaman

in crack between worlds

 

II

iced tree

silvered by sunlight

 

resplendent ladder

piercing upper world

 

wind blows

bough breaks

 

down comes shaman

ladder and all

 

III

massy roots

blackened by moonlight

 

tenebrous ladder

penetrating underworld

 

earth shudders

root snaps

 

up comes shaman

ladder and all

 

IV

rock-a-bye baby

on treetops



wind blows

cradle rocks


bough breaks

cradle falls


down comes baby

cradle and all




Fay L. Loomis lives in the woods in Kerhonkson, New York. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and Rat’s Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous publications. A stroke, combined with the pandemic, have woven quietude into Fay’s life.

 

 

 


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