Regular Poem: A Rosebush for Emily

there’s a moth
that nests in walnut trees
makes a web
in which its numerous young cycle through
their nascence and adolescense
and then sneak out in adulthood
leaving entire branches
silken and draping and drooping
with gauze-covered crispy vacated cocoons
the tree is no worse for it
but it has a look about it

it has a look about it
like the brick wall of a house
overgrown with ivy
the same ivy creeping
all the way around back
up the porch
engulfing like lava
slow and steady and so much

it has a look about it
like dead honeysuckle
which is itself
like a tumbleweed that doesn’t tumble
just a sad carcass on a wooden fence
instead of a ghostly drifter on a forgotten highway

it has a look about it
like a gnarly rose bush
all briar and no beauty
the red seeping out of the flowers
into the vine
or maybe the blood of its victims
pricked on its cacophony of thorns

it has a look about it
like rusty lawn ornaments
and gutters full of accidental compost
and faded furniture
and dust on tile

it has a look about it
of abundance then neglect then decay

it has a look about it

but those moths never hurt anybody

it has a look about it
but don’t we all

Regular Poem: A Smell Of Fall

A smell of fall
weighs lightly on a cool breeze–
a whisper, a secret, a prophecy, a ghost,
and it’s a little smell,
miniature but
diligent.
The day continues–oblivious–with its humidity,
aching heat and stretching sky,
proud and stupid:
summer still, summer still
the sun says, laughing.
But the night swallows it–
a yawn and a calm.

Regular Poem: I Can Feel It

I can feel it
starting.

(Is this
how a werewolf feels
as the full moon draws near–
hears its bones creak in a new rhythm,
smells its pheremones change,
notices its senses heightening
and its hunger increasing,
itches in its nature,
chafes at the cacophony inside?)

I can feel it
starting
with each glimmering day
and each gooey night.

My skin is changing. Soon
I’ll be red, and I will smell
like sunshine–
equal parts butter and fresh grass and a
sweet salty sweat,
a dash of copper,
half a honeysuckle blossom,
burnt brown sugar.

It flew south for the winter–
vacationed on another girl for a while maybe–
but it’s back–
or it’s coming,
and I can hear the train it’s riding in on, chugging
down the line fast and hard and steady.

I can feel it
starting and stopping
on a chilly night,
the train pausing at a crossing,
rolling back for a checkpoint.

But I can feel it
starting.

Regular Poem: It wasn’t a good day

It wasn’t a good day
to wake up angry.

There were turkeys
in the ditch,
doing silly turkey things together
with their big rear feathers
pointed toward the highway,
mooning everyone driving north,

and the sun
was smiling coyly
through the lace of clouds
that made the veil on its Sunday hat.

There were things to do
and people to see
and songs to hear
and rain to smell

and nothing to be angry about.

Maybe it was a good day
to wake up angry.

Regular Poem: Waiting

A still wet night
a fire
pants are sticking
to sticky legs
and the sticky metal
of a sticky chair
the smell of lavender–
it’s potpourri, and
it’s seeped into
the pores;
it’s not warm enough yet for the
smell of honeysuckle–

it’s too chilly
for night hammock
night biking
night convertible
night anything

but not chilly enough
not to be here
outside

waiting

for the season
suddenly
to leapfrog.

Regular Poem: Before the Mosquitoes

Before the mosquitoes
but after the frost
between the gales
and under the foggy moon

there’s something
wet and brief
smelling of trees and mud
tasting of metal–
but the kind that’s been
submerged
in a man-made lake–
feeling like a heavy blanket
smooth and clean and cold
like when you’ve just
slid in bed
after a long day.

It’s something,
and it flickers
like lightning,
and it haunts
like thunder.

Regular Poem: Real Spring

fog over the moon
and steak-and-butter smell
an orange sky
a far-off rain

it’s spring
but barely

the first mowing
the first tornado

all the firsts
brown and yellow and green
wet and gross

strange plants
you’ve never seen and
don’t care to see

when is the green
the real green?

Regular Poem: spring is the weirdest

spring is the weirdest
season good thing
it’s short

who could stand
ugly green-brown
wind
and hot-cold
flickering lights
and flickering lightning
quick storms moist air
gone and there and gone
“70-mile-an-hour gusts debris:
trash, tree limbs, and tumbleweeds
pea-to-marble-sized hail”
(as the only radio station
that hasn’t lost its signal would say)

for the alotted three months

the answer is nobody

give us our four months
of heat rising palpably
on a car hood

and our four months
of middling frost
with occasional blizzard

and our two and a half months of
orange-brown chilliness
dry hair and dry skin

we revel
in the weirdness
the fog
and wet dog of it

but shortly

Regular Poem: The Biggest Mystery

She’s from Florida,
and her perpetual refrain goes

Is it like this all the time?

Well, yes and no,
we all say–
we’re all so wise and old
about the weather here.

We give her facts and anecdotes
and tell her things that start with
Typically…
and end with
…but you never know.

It’s not
Sunny California or
Rainy Seattle or
anything else that’s ever on tv, so
she’s perennially flabbergasted
at the vagaries
of the wind and rain and heat.

And she always asks
as though
Kansas weather
is the biggest mystery of all.

Regular Poem: We expect commitment from our fog

The cloud
vying for the coveted position of
fog
must be hearty,
must bring salty spring smells,
must be able to withstand severe wind.

We expect
commitment
from our fog
here in Kansas.

If you want to just linger in a ditch on cool mornings
and laze around until noon,
move on out.
We’ll wait

for some cloud
who will bring its own sandbags
and hunker down
to blur all the streetlights
and roll up its sleeves
to endure 50 mph wind.