For Quickly’s October 3

October Composition #1

With her eBook closed and moonlight watching her sleeping husband,
she returns to planning the book she will write in November. Last night
the protagonist and the bass-playing love interest followed the rules
and made love at last. Because the broad strokes of the story should be firm
in her mind, she will now replay the scene. Why should fiction have all the fun?


The morning sky will not appear to be blue. Unless  blue is flannel soft
and Confederate gray.  The river may show lavenders, pinks, a trace 
of something like yellow, and in silhouette the great blue heron 
flying from home toward his favorite breakfast place. The train will 
call from the bridge.  The mud bank will always give sound to the water.

For Quickly’s October One

Goldfish on Jupiter's Nose

like a princess whose tiara is sunk in the mire
like a pacifist, high on Liberation wine
like a pail on a fence post, envelope unstuck
like an marching army singing Jambalaya on the Bayou, I

have been questioning my position here and where and which
flip of the coin or crack in the sidewalk is to bless
or burn. Not that it's answers I'm in line for:
just reviewing my companions in fate.




For Twiglet #245

/

Shall I Go Mad? Should? Would? Will?

Shall I spend this drippy end-of-summer day
watching yellow birds flutter down
from high branches to low and then
flutter up? I could clean house. I could pray.
I could sit with my loved worthy spouse
drinking hot or tepid tea, exhuming
Hume, Pepys, Cervantes, Lyndon Johnson, Ian Fleming;
pausing to wonder why those crows are grousing
and in such loud numbers. High-density chaos speakers
on this semi-rural dead end. I could go to town.
As if there were “town” to go to. The center
did not hold. Bake. Eat. Fantasize myself thinner, smarter,
able to leap tall buildings-er. Is this a brown study?
Yesterday there was a red and green rainbow. Tomorrow
is the first day of autumn. Where does time go?

for Twiglet #226

Faith Came VIA Rail from Quebec City

Summer was in Destin with Jack's family, playing
Parcheesi when the call came. 
Half an hour, and she was backing 
from the parking slot, 
more rain forecast, 
Verdi on NPR. 
While Jack's mom waved 
from the condo window
Dad still tried to inhabit 
his body. Charity, 
in the hostel in Bremen, 
was sleeping. For her, 
hope was aloft 
for a few hours more.



Reaponse

/Appointment with Death

Or rendezvous, if you please. And while searching
that reference I forgot--oh, yes: my original intention:

A few years ago I was (only mildly) crazy,
and spent all my time doing nothing but
playing video games and adding my name
to mailing lists in hopes of becoming rich.
I also had symptoms and doctors. There 
were tests and procedures to keep track
of, and they interfered with my self-
administered anti-anxiety treatments. 

I began by being early for appointments 
and became so troubled that I lost track
of the day and showed up at the wrong 
office once, a day early. Why I feel need, now,
to recount this may or not be worth exploring, 
but no--the days of suicide are long past.

April 16

Definition: Character

Clarice Starling has been subsumed by Jody Foster,
who somewhere learned how southern and mountain differ.
Any East Tennessee drama teacher knows a fool can fake
the mountain drawl by locking down her lower jaw. That
doesn't fix Scarlett O'Hara, bias of any sort, chronic
unemployment, or the skin and teeth of inherited poverty,
but verisimilitude is an inch in the right direction. You
see: I was taught you could beat the past with increments.
Now, though, I'm old. My spotted skin and all my flaws
sashay across the stage sporting one-piece swimsuits, spike
heels, and satin labels: Miz Bigot, Miz Hypocrite, Old Miz
You Can't Get There From Here 1947. Still I sigh at new
SUVs bearing heirloom Confederate flags and flaking Trump
decals, knowing all reaction's a tale about chicken v egg.








for NaPo 4/1

Chord and Discord Sat on a Fence

A man who could translate Water to Wind
met a woman who only spoke Fire.
He cooled her. She sparked him.
He fanned, she inflamed: desire
with no earthly understanding.
But they slept in each other's arms
like two lullabies, demanding
nothing, content to share dreams.
The Fortune Deck fool is born again
with every breath taken and given.
A body trusts that air, sun and rain
will continue. It only knows living,
and life will or must derange.
It’s reason that's  strange.