Poetry

So Politely and Nimbly             

They say you cradle creation,

but I think you cannot stand

to hold in hand

such senseless suffering

as we deliver daily

        to the downtrodden,

as we bring to bear

        on innocents of field and forest—

like those luckless lambs

                (of God)

we so politely and nimbly

pierce with petite points

        (after a brief blessing),

                chattering as we chew.

                Expectation                                                                                                                    

Snuffling snout,

        wrinkly wattle,

bended ear over amber eye—

                                        the wee one smiles.

Peace on Earth

        and mercy mild

  only if we love

                like that baby-child.

Third Thursday

Sinews of last summer’s sunflowers

        stood silent,

                contorted,

                        and colorless,

as we walked the golden-gone grass,

                sharing thoughts.

Across the creek,

        we noticed our neighbors—

                also walking,

        though they went along

                under a sheen of shiny black feathers,

                quietly clucking. 

November turned away

        as we traipsed

                over stubbled slopes

                on long legs

                with knobbed knees,

                talking the time

                        as we traveled.

Being There

The neighbors thought their children

        should witness birth,

                but Missy picked our house

                    for birthing,

                         nursing,

                                weaning,

                                aging.

Across what seemed abundant years,

        I someway felt Missy

                as forever,

                until the day I found myself

        whispering into wispy fur,

                watching mottled eyes mist

                and glaze to gone.

                        I wonder,

                why such ballyhoo

                        over birth

                and yet so little interest

                        in the commitment of caring

                                that lasts a lifetime,

                        which includes being there

                                to speak softly

                                        as spirits grapple

                                                with going?

Sharing Space

I watched you scoot a scurrying spider

        onto a scrap of paper,

into your protective palm,

        then across the hallway

                to rehome her

        under the protective cover

                of our colorful kitchen curtains.

You sheltered that bundle of being

        as we might once have tended

                beady-eyed Bramble Cay melomys,

                grazing quaggas,

                trusting dodos,

                gentle thylacines,

                sleek Baiji dolphins,

                gregarious passenger pigeons,

                solitary black rhinos,

                prehistoric Yangtze sturgeons,

                eloquent dusky sparrows,

                        all of whom we now find to be

                                                                                                                                                missing.

Beyond the Wall

Do you remember windblown grasses

        waving at pale blue heavens,

thick clouds of dust

        holding the sun’s rays captive,

mud-baths on the savannah

        in the company of community,

        and the time-stopping scream of your mother

                as she rushed the men who stole you?

Pantanal Piranha                                                                         

In a bluish boat on a brown river,

visitors in bright blouses and khaki shorts

peer through bulky binoculars,

        pointing at purple plumes

        and knobby orange knees

before steering to wider waters

        where they dangle rattan rods

                rigged with beguiling barbs.

A fierce pull hoists a frightened fish

        (notorious for tearing teeth),

who has snatched a death-catch

        that slips between incisors

                and out through an eye.

Gasps and squeals of surprise and delight

        supplant the gentle lapping of liquid

                        as I turn my back,

wondering why we are so willfully unaware

        of what is blatantly clear

                in a fish’s eye.

Thicker than Water

Platelets and cells

course thick and warm

through tiny tunnels

that wend and weave

        through wombat

                and yellow-wattled bulbul,

        bluefish      

                and black angus,

                        reminding that

                                blood binds.

Forgotten Fishes

What did the river-fish think—

trapped in paltry pools

        as the irrigation ditch drained,

defenseless when coons came

        to nibble their nubbed noses?

What did frightened fishes think—

pulled from those puny and putrid ponds,

plopped into colorful but cramped canisters,

        and rattled over a rough roadway to the river?

What did flurried fishes think—

tipped back into flowing waters,

stunned and still after turning to face the flow,

then seizing that singular second

        to shoot back into the life-strong stream?

What did left-behind fishes think—

        their liquid lifeline

                slowly sinking

                        into sand?

And this is what I really want to know:

        Why don’t more people wonder

                what the fishes think?

Swaggering Salamander

Dressed in colors of caution,

        a tiger salamander

surged over the rough roadway

        with such certainty—

tacky toes pushing pavement

        with tail-powered torque,

                wrinkling with each wiggly weave.         

I hastened to hoist that fine amphibian,

        holding her between tentative tips

while her rubbery limbs

        perpetually paddled.

She looked back at me

        with shiny brown spheres

                that bulged like May buds—

        lenses located for wary-watch

                when submerged

                        (with legs lax and

                                long tail trailing).

I took her to the perimeter

        of a picturesque pond

and tucked that tiny traveler

        under a fallen leaf

                for careful keeping,

all the while pondering

        what her peepers might perceive

                and why our paths had crossed.

In time—

        given how busy she was with being,             

                and the wrongness of roads

                                (and of so much more)—

                                I came to see that I was there

                                                        only for her.