Poetry
Ssh-hhə
Ssh-hhə whisper fringed forest and fowl with foliage and feather. Wind regales through stories each passing. Ssh-hhə hum puddles above earth beneath sky of darkening cloud. Dry is dwelling as droplets descend. Ssh-hhə breathes sea on moonlit night releasing tidal diaphragm. We who imitate are lulled to rest. Ssh-hhə declare I when I listen: no more say. Ssh-hhə. Poor Fortuna! (A sestina) You choked at your seat ’til your face was fuchsia, All brought by a small bite of that honey lime Tuna. You had gasped at air while our friends’ chat Was the topic: ski slopes, Vail, planned this winter. O Fortuna, had laughing not distracted Focus, I’d see you, flailing, beneath sun-hat. Poor Fortuna! Your Red Purple Straw Sun-Hat! Any color unblended thee, but fuchsia: Not was that. If, but a lighted distraction, Could have ceased our evning’s formal meal—sublime. When finally came signal from a wintry Stirring gust, shrill cries, attesting, ceased sup chats. Poor Fortuna! Lacking speech! Your chattiness Had parted. Shadowy face, darkened sun-hat: I could not watch, as you were fallow in turn. The doctor stooped, determining your futur, Hardly giving a sign. Oh, you honey lime Tuna: gently lodged in her digestive tract! Poor Fortuna! Dead: by man’s distractedness! How could one resume their eatery?—Chatter- Boxes! The whole lot! Draped you were, upon lime- stone walk, loll’d without breath. Color: not sun-hat, But paler pink had thus returned. “Foo’—Shut-up, Foo’!” I pitied, like Mr. T, the Wynters. O Fortuna! Could it be? You may winter Not in heaven?—the doctor had detracted From her: rubb’ry piece of fish! Very few share Such a luck, Fortuna, to live at Chateau Vail for some months. Lift up high that fine sun-hat, Knowing you had once its purple shade! Well, I’m At a loss with how events have turned! A lime- rick ought to be made of fool-hardy Wynters! Fortuna’s near-tragedy, regard some that Were rash, but finally eased, from thoughts distraught, We all can laugh and eat and merrily chat Again—Fortuna, you’re no longer fuchsia! Had we not seen fuchsia, from a limey piece Of tuna, had chat of wintring distracted More, had rose sun-hat veiled face: Poor Fortuna! |
Out, of Santa Fe
In her monsoon she billows—pillowing cloud; draperie o’r western sky. Her billow bulge Undying. Touch it, feel it. It is dry—alive. Alive with endless skies, endless cloud thunder. Her Soil, withered ’face—so cultured. By bright sun and naught above. Her diligent, piney hedges; Diligent, tiney fauna. She rolls, her air. A thick and stagnant: love, she don’t tear away at. Her Breath, alluring all landscape. She blossoms like dead (life). But her fragrances, one who ’passes On her cheek; she (is) always stop for you. Beaming skin of every color—all same shade. Rich In mineral pores, not for; to seek. Her sonorance is everything (nothing) steps, and staring. Farthest decibel is nearest neighbor is the crow, the dragonfly. Breathe, blink, sniff her always. She desert is your mother. Keep the pot primed since the vacuum’s in the skimmer, turn valves shut for full suction. Vac head settles below, wheels churn, slurping obscure plaster depths. P u s h t h e p o l e with gentleness. Watch each leaf, spot of algae, layer of debris pass coiled hose. Filter’s sand, plugged with silt, laden in service… Backwash-- release impurities, restore flow. Peer along concrete edge into wet expanse-- curve, corner, crevice ~spotless~ for now… Next week’s visit brings another cleansing-- what shall we withdraw from unfixed waters? |