Asides

At dusk 
there’s comfort in a staggered row of lit-up doorbells  
cars stuffed in parking lots like sardines 
the neighborhood prepares for a new week to begin  
I’ve been writing letters by hand  
Trees are shedding 
leaves loosely hang on 
like ghosts of heavy fruit 
rust, yellow, scarlet 
Isn’t it amazing how words, a few scribbles on a piece of paper, can change your whole life?  
High-pitched barking, muffled from inside  
raindrops as fine as pinpricks 
You’ve left an impression on me like a watermark 
it’s getting too dark to read it  
A cluster of mailboxes lit up, a beacon 
a deserted island 
the air turns minutely cooler
the smell of chalk and dirt  
the rattle of a lone car down a country road 

Two trailing Vs of geese 
like rows of absentminded needlepoint 
Are you coming or going? 
through thick mist 
calling to each other 
calling 
Will you fly all night? 
through the orange glow the city gives the night 
Where is your raincoat? 
Where is your mother to keep you warm?  

*This poem was never ‘finished’ and the raw material was later converted into this haiku. I recently came across the original poem and liked it the way it was.

We stamped a rain dance in circles 
recited nonsense chants  
we just liked the sounds of the words 
lifted our arms to the accumulating clouds 
wore paper headpieces decorated for the occasion 
lifted our faces to the rain  
It was something to pass the time 
we were just playing 

Sometimes, in the in between hours 
when daylight colors have settled in their rocking chairs 
rocking to the rhythm of crickets 
I remember the old dances 
I can hum the old songs 
I remember what was sacred 

Let’s be red this year 
blood-red lilies 
pushing through a crust 
relentless 
blooming for one solid day 
born 
to the rhythm of flamenco 
layer upon layer of ruffles dizzy, gasping 
swirling and flapping 
jingling like a caravan 
heavy with pots and pans 
every banged-up scrap of metal  
reflecting the blinding sun 

It’s like she was born brokenhearted 
each song a just-lit fuse 
heartbreakingly beautiful 
You could crush a brick wall  
with your voice 
you could crumble a mountain 
with the force of your silence 
I would walk through acres of sunflowers 
to show you the color of your soul 
dazzlingly yellow 
Is it light? 
Is it love? 
Is it breathless hope? 
It’s in there 
still 
like a jack in the box 
ready to spring out 
at the highest note 
If only you could taste it  

The tree across the street looks like a Bob Ross painting 
you can see the layers of paint jabbed onto the canvas 
first, the color of forest in shade 
thirst quenching, almost black 
next, a regal pine green 
serious, quiet 
then a bright grass green 
overflowing with life, like summer itself 
silvery sage green highlights the very tips 
capturing each change of expression 
the end of each upright branch ignited by yellow 
turning the tree into a candelabra 
drenching the evening in mood lighting 
each brushstroke a beat in Bob’s meditative cadence 
out here, his soothing refrain replaced by a horde of insects 
buzzing like wind-up toys 
maybe they are saying the same thing, just in another language 
anyone can make a tree 
it’s easy 
you can do it 
if you believe 

She used to play the French horn 
Sometimes, at our request, she would open the case 
ceremoniously 
slowly unsnapping the clasps 
opening the case like a huge, black oyster  
revealing a velvet interior 
once blue, it had faded to a dusty lilac 
She would gently lift the shining curlicue from its nest 
play a few scales 
her fingers hammering the valves in patterns I didn’t understand 
a shard of some robust orchestral number 
from memory 
She taught us how to blow into the mouthpiece  
to produce a quacking duck noise 
tinged with the pungent, metallic taste of brass 
Not long after, she sold Monsieur Chanson Bleu  
Sometimes I wonder where he is now 
Is he languishing in the window of some music school storefront? 
Is he singing someone else’s blue songs?  
Has he been melted down into a doorknob 
the music still inside him 
emanating a silent soundtrack 
welcoming someone home? 

The wall of sound 
undulating 
almost sounds mechanical 
one group syncopated with another 
might as well be its echo 
the laborious breathing of heavy machinery 
katydids almost like a train themselves 
the shuddering of a steam engine 
climbing 
metal against metal 
a series of levers  
painstakingly revolving wheels 
the katydids have propelled themselves 
through the forest 
over the Smokies 
across state lines 

Heat bakes the headache out of me 
construction trucks thud over speed bumps 
a massive plunge of solid metal 
dropping toward the center of the earth 
straining to accelerate up the hill 
reminds me of the collage of 
New York’s prelude 
windows open  
waking up to the sounds of the city 
honking horns, 
the huff of air brakes from city buses,  
foot traffic 
it’s already light out 
the world is bustling 
eager for you to join in