It is not commanded.
Not peaceful nor calm.
Not the warriors clad in white
trained to protect their queen.
She doesn’t wear a robe,
but an apron of pale blue
and listens to her advisor speak
not of devotion, loyalty, or love.
Instead he has a warning.
Their purpose forgotten,
her soldiers attack and
her bed floods with blood.
Villa Philmonte
Near Cimarron, a scout camp sprawled—
a smorgasbord for my virgin lips.
The dusty, cracked shrub encased perfect
bluegrass and a terracotta villa
with trophy heads of gazelles, buffalo hides,
and an ivory keyed piano.
But outside someone not so exotic attracted me.
My finger curved, beckoning the faux-cowboy
to follow me down a dirt trail to a dead
tree grove. Famished hands wandered up my back
and I pulled them away. Mouth clamping,
teeth carved my lips. The cowboy
only held back because of a black
tag and white garments.
I left for my tent, trying to hide
my swollen face.
My Turn
A book leaves, slips,
never ending
nothing in the out
one, two, three pale
papers meticulously
meandering through
my eyes on
the face in the page
and their eyes
are on me
Ode to Vitamin B12
My terminal ileum—a stricture
half-digested eggs,
milk, and meat, neglecting
nutrients I need. Without
the strawberry red
liquid vitamin B12, my brain
disconnects
and shuts down.
With a 1.5-inch needle, I extract
the 1mL vial and plug
into its battery
as I stab my naked
thigh, installing the vitamin,
rebooting neural networks.
This amped little 1mL vial,
taken once a month,
keeps me at full capacity
so I won’t be defunct.
The Arborist
Father tied them up
in the home—
just for a dirty
kiss dragged out too long.
But they seemed content
as he was pruning
their dreams so
the rustling family
tree could live on.
RWB Yarn Bomb
Life Lines (or Queue)
There’s not a place her footsteps won’t tread
across—the lost valleys, through trails
of experience, the fools’
purple mountains crumbling
under, up to peaks of triumph,
and into purging tombs—to heed
the echoing cries of loss
and longing playing repeatedly
inside us all.
of experience, the fools’
purple mountains crumbling
under, up to peaks of triumph,
and into purging tombs—to heed
the echoing cries of loss
and longing playing repeatedly
inside us all.
Crushed
(PATRICK sits on a couch in a room with a door, and an open window in the back. One of the cushions is removed off the couch and he’s reaching his arm into the cracks, looking for something. PATRICK is waiting for LAURA to come home.)
(LAURA, a young veterinarian, walks on stage through the door, looking haggard. As she enters, PATRICK stops his search.)
Patrick: You haven’t happened to see my cellphone, have you?
(Ignoring him, LAURA lets her purse drop to the floor as she kicks off her shoes.)
LAURA: Not even going to ask me how my day was?
PATRICK: I take it, it was rough.
Aerial Peeping
(In the middle of a family picnic being held to celebrate FRANK’s 85th birthday. FRANK holds a photograph of a group of air force pilots posing together.)
FRANK: See this picture here? I know, you can hardly believe that’s me. I had a full head of hair back then and that was the only reason why Mary Lou decided to have me, you know. My hair was straight n’ blond—nothing that great in my opinion – but it sure beats my current gray n’ sparse. I’m sure you agree.
The Caterpillar Tanka
The caterpillar
snacks on the crisp green leaves of
sun-centered daisies.
My cucumber salad might
taste more delicious than his.
