Scribble
It is like something you wrote in pen and scribbled out
To try to hide the letters. No matter how hard
You press, it still leaves an indent
On the next page, tangled and heavy
And half readable. It has all the permanence
And all the ethereality of memory;
Fades but bubbles up from time to time,
When the mind is idle and passes the hours
Going through its many mangled lives.
It shines out from behind my scribbles
Like a moon behind dark clouds.
A Winter Jubilee
The chickadees shot across the overcast sky
Like firework bees, zigzagging loop-de-loops
And figure-eights until they went so fast
Yellow halos bloomed around every shard
Of air they touched with their little wings.
They danced in fairy circles laughing at
The biting cold and the icy wind, they sang
Whatever songs they felt like singing and
They didn’t care who heard them or who
Didn’t. They were free as daisy petals, they were,
Flickering flashing until they became
Winter’s daylight stars.
Thoughts at Dinner, Guinevere
I’ve been with Arthur for as long as I
Can remember, but it was only
Recently that I quit lying to myself.
Looking back, I think a part of me
Always noticed that
When he kisses me his lips never move
And all he does is sit there at the table
With his men, stupidly noble with
His blue eyes always clad in armour.
They laugh, toast him
For pulling Excalibur out of a rock.
Conveniently forgetting that he’s
Pulled it out of the thousand heaving chests
Of a thousand dying men.