Muses
the muse shows up
puzzling from where
other times I call it
from its lair
Oriah Told Me So in the October Sunshine
Elisabeth meets
Elizabeth
so the belly
of Frank
will burst open
in wild laughter
these are things a mother
can't imagine — but her
son did
with Lois
who believes the truth is
a wise old grey wolf
finding the way to a rainbow ending
Nothing's Perfect, Really
frenetic isn't
a bad
state to be
in
even if it’s
impossible
to sustain
with dignity
Now What?
I just graduated
from a ten week
course in domestic
violence
from my city's
battered
women's shelter
I learned
that what I
experienced
was violent
abuse
even if I never
knew it then
this was
extremely
helpful, appreciated
and enlightening,
so I asked what
post-graduation
course I could take
only to discover
that the non-profit
had not thought
ahead
to anticipate my
ongoing
questions
Thieveries of Time, Moonbeams of Patience
standing on her tippy toes
arms up to reach the lip of the box
a tear slides down her cheek
landing at her feet, beside the roll of postage stamps
grandmother said to wait patiently
Isabetty feared never waking up again
she rubbed her eyes each morning
as she read
words scratched into the soft wooden
walls of her prison
"Wings will come to take you
if the ground doesn't swallow you whole"
after Gramma fell asleep
drifting to the dust of her ancient spirit
Isabetty counted the days
notching the smooth cedar floorboards
three times the box
had been lifted, once moved
twice the lid opened
again today
sudden – like the first time
Isabetty scrambled from behind
the Queen's head wound
‘round the postmaster’s cardboard core
blindly waving at the bright expanse
the lid creaked on its hinge
its deafening shrieks rebounding
from the walls
she covered her ears
fell flat
like a hat pin
straight on the floor
her grey school uniform, flaming red hair
piled up in a halo of curls
spilling over the jagged edge
of the crown long since hidden
a fiery red forgotten girl
laying beside the stamps
no one used
the likeness of a dead Queen
Gramma's words scrawled
dust markings
Isabetty began to cry
quietly at first, then louder as hours passed
a toy soldier stood on another bookshelf
holding his post
after the move to the library
from the boy's bedroom in the old house
standing guard
unsure why
the boy was a young man in college now
graduating in June
Garrison Commander Johnson
used to hold a regiment
before the unit was scattered, got separated
he could shoot a man from ten feet
with his standard-issue musket
his bugle tied to a twisted brown cord
hanging down his back
for morning reveille
Johnson took his bearings
the small box on the top shelf
of the bookcase across the unlit room
desperate weeping
coming from where the maid
with the rosewood-handle duster
worked earlier
stopping to look inside from her perch on the ladder
moonlight shone now
through the far window
and on clear nights like this
the flowers in the vase on the mantel started to dance
the paintings of horses on the hunt
swayed like pendulums on heavy embroidered ribbon
anchored to their picture hooks
while the carpet swaths of blue appeared like a lake
Isabetty's tears filled her wooden prison
and three stamps fell away from the coil
quickly floating to the surface
slipping out on the cascading overflow
through the crack
between the lid and wall
over the edge
down the length of the bookshelf
a pair of Queens caught on the frayed ends
of tassels holding
the heavy green velvet curtain
wet glue stuck to loose threads
and outside the window
wispy clouds parted on the night breeze
the full moon
wafting its magic inside in syncopated gusts
the Queen's faces
smiled more broadly
even as the saltiness continued to pour
Isabetty sobbed unaware
her sounds now buried
deep under the water
Commander Johnson watched
the curtain billow like an unfettered jib
he grabbed the loose threads of the closest tassel
as the stamps, catching a puff of the breeze
sailed towards him
he leapt, swinging his legs up
above his head
like a high jumper
one push and a fierce grunt
crashing down in a heap
two shelves below the pouring lidded box
scrambling to his feet
he grabbed the tendril of potted ivy
rappelling up its slippery, speckled arm
to heave onto the top shelf
crouching to move sideways
orienting himself on the far side of the box
away from the waterfall
scooting under the imposing clasp
anchored firmly through a hole
with a silver button
holding tight with metal-on-metal friction
a short distance away, Johnson saw
three spools of thread and a thimble,
he rolled them under the clasp
two standing upright, side-by-side
the thimble as a stepping stool
kneeling on top, leaning over,
he grabbed the third spool’s thread-end
secured through the edge's locking slit
hauled it up to the top of the tower
laying flat on his stomach
he hoisted the thimble in a bear hug
repositioning it to step on
Johnson popped
the clasp open
shoulder-blade leveraged
against the box
water dripping down over his stiff soldier’s cap
his epaulettes taking the soaking
the lid jumped up an inch
on its old hinge
pulling himself up to the lip
he dove straight in
diamond tears, sparkling
bounced wall-to-wall in the water
Isabetty's golden crown
shone below her billowing ruby curls
Commander Johnson picked her up
pushed off from the bottom
clearing the surface
he grabbed the edge
left arm still
around Isabetty's waist
she woke with a start
as fresh air hit her face
sweet dust of grandmother
suddenly glittering in the moonbeams
Thank you for these poems. You beautifully (and awkwardly, when called for) experiment with the use of white space and condensed lines. Well done!
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