Ensconced under the bridge in makeshift shelters of salvaged rusty metal
like rolling stones that gather no moss
Nearby moss appears as an innovator
attached to buttresses supporting the weight of the world above
The moss appears to
challenge the rust
to stay alive and avoid immobility
Scattered yet organized
among the crag and concrete.
There has to be a story among the debris.
Dumped from despair?
Flung in frustration?
Scattered in silliness?
The collection not yet worn enough
to become a castoff for those in transition.
Metal not rusted
Ink pens not dried
Toothpaste not emptied
Plastic not stretched
A closer inspection reveals
a scattering of true trash – cigarette butts and broken acorns –
parts of wholes not present.
Contemplation of collecting the display
there is no coconut and pear balm –
necessary as the days become colder and blustery.
Days get shorter
Overnight darkness lingers longer
Walking at the usual time
Days, in fact, seem never to begin
Nature’s clock calibrated to
time not matched by the light
Walking at the usual time
Over and under bridges
Along the boardwalk
Beside the open theatre
Morning greetings from
Robert, Charles, James
Rosemary and Sarah
Days, in fact, seem never to end
Homeless clocks calibrated to
time not found in the light
Worn reluctant brown and early morning blue
She dared him to continue with his chosen task
His freedom reduced to this –
Finding relief between the evergreen and brick
Tired reluctant brown and early morning blue
She accepts his need but requests patience
He acknowledges the request with a slight nod
And turns his tired brown eyes to the oleander shrub
For so long
she’d been on the straight and narrow –
Carefully keeping to the right of
the double yellow lines.
Solid success for the most part.
Now, at 60, the road ahead
has a distinct –
not to be ignored curve.
What the heck – live a beautiful life –
Why wait until the proper moment?
Despite her hesitation,
she presses on
and meets the curve with aplomb –
speeding full on
into her golden years –
Her head thrown back
as gales of laughter and
her perfect life
are tossed about as the wind
completely ignores the solid lines
meant to contain the coloring of her days.
Broadcast granules do absolutely no good –
not delivering death as Bengal’s powder could.
Devil ants – worse than Fibonacci rabbits –
set world records in their multiplying habits.
Armed with a round container of Ultra Dust x2
she creeps lightly across the fast-fading dew.
A sprinkle here
A sprinkle there
Hills are covered in a light dusting like new-fallen snow –
those fire-red ants tunnel wildly around and never know!
Each morning she will continue to persevere
until, at last, there are no more angry ants here.
Rushing with wild abandon,
muddy brown water
crashes over hidden boulders –
Making crescent waves
reserved naturally for tidal bodies.
Over time and distance,
deposits of debris
create new unhidden boulders –
Skillfully adding nature to concrete
Among the remnants,
purple flowers nestle
precariously in fragile dirt (and litter) –
As they wait for the next
rush of untamed water (or wind)
to move them further downstream.
colorful and fragrant,
scrambles toward the
clarity of the sun.
The story, merely
a seed planted from
memories of moments
buried deep in
the obscurity of time,
suddenly pushes upward –
fertilized and nourished
from the warmness of the present.
A story easily
develops from roots
maturing sturdy and secure
in their rebirth
from the forgotten seed.
Calling our professor by her first name, well, it was just not right.
Sure, we all knew she was never going to be a friend but only a fright.
She drilled us with nouns, adjectives, verbs, and a preposition or two;
Over and over and over again until parts of speech were all could spew.
Despite our fear and our loathing for the subject matter at hand,
we nevertheless learned all the content she had for us planned.
So, thank you Professor Bonita for all that you taught us.
Even after all we endured we know that grammar smarts are A+!
Deep in the empty pine forest
of the valley of the Chattahoochee
well below the Mason Dixon
the crystal droplets
beginning high in the clouds
warm upon descent
and end in puddles.
snow angels –
only muddy treads
journey on this planet.