A Murder of Crows

object to the cats in their
dawn hunting trip
across the brittle lawn

dry, dry

a crow the size of my
St Francis statue
surveys the scene
from the birdbath

his wire legs bend as
he takes a crow-hop
off the granite bowl
onto the bone-dry lawn and
struts toward the cats

who, being no fools,
head for the patio

crow companions skrawwwwk
their approval
the cats embody
insouciance
in the face of the insolent crows

an elegant unspoken balance
in a dry land

Anatomy 101

Some days i'd settle
for someone to just scratch my back,
reach that one delicious
point of relief when the itch
you didn't know you had
is scratched.

Not rubbed. This is no massage.
But scratched
where i can't
reach.

Scratched across shoulder blades
and that spot where my bra
sits all day long,
then lower, right at the bottom
of my trapezius
and down lower
and i bend to offer the length of my latissimus dorsi
and the curve of my obliques.

Then up and down, moving across
scratching the length of my back
just above the gluteus medius
and a final
gentle
rub
and a pat.
There.
Better.

J Alfred Prufrock Scuttles Across the Floors of Silent Seas

I saw you again tonight,
a new girl on your arm,
stroking your wrist, in the local
bistro

(well, it's a coffee shop with intermittent
music)

'We grow old, we grow old,
we shall wear the bottoms of our trousers rolled.'

The music doesn't change much,
and the girl looks a lot
like the last one, with a little more meat on her bones -
a good sign, I think.
She's too young for you, but it's not as if
it's a long conversation
with an old friend.
It's just a distraction.

'In the bistro, people come and go,
No one speaks of Michelangelo.'

The earth turns and the coal train
moans around the south end of the lake.
I'm glad I saw you tonight, my friend.
There's a continuity that should be maintained
among those of us who appreciate the river
and the rhythm of inland tides.

Starring...You

it's a real pisser when
your life can pretty much be
summed up in the chorus of a
country western song

having all the originality
of a bad script that you don't
remember writing
and it's too late to edit

but then you find some poetry in it;
the melody's a bit ragged, but catchy

and you realize:

they're playing your song

You can do everything

but you have to get up really early in the morning.

jan elizabeth

Run, Lola, Run

you are an open
wound - as if
yet another toy, another boy
will staunch the bleeding,
will better define you
somehow

the latest trip, the latest fall might
produce a crystal ball that reveals
only the present
and a prism of unrefracted
hope

you stalk your prey: a night
a day spent like
small change in a penny
arcade,
magnified in the fun-house
mirror...
but what's behind you?

you cast no shadow

The End of Things

There were angry moments
when no kind word was said,
love unspoken;
no embrace tendered.

We cry bitter tears
making and un-making vows,
plotting our escape.

Till we find no peace;
till we take no prisoners;
till we break apart.

And nothing is ever
the same again; nothing is
ever
quite the same.

The sun disappears
each day behind the mountain:
but yet he returns.


Red sky in the morning.
Sailor! take warning, for the
day holds quiet skies.

Angels on our Shoulders

Angels sit upon
our insubstantial shoulders
as we pray for help