Poetry

Hermit crab

The day is warm on my face, so I emerge from my home

to track down supplies. It shouldn’t be too bad, I can enjoy the breeze

and how the sun trickles on my limbs.

Scuttling along, intending to be content.

Do I really need my shell?

There’s nothing to bruise my soft body here–

whoosh.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

What is that? Those startling things

all herded in groups or alone with noses in black mirrors?

They don’t even see me.

Feet stomping, arms swinging, brows furrowed.

Blind to a little crab trying to find food and appreciate the air.

Better be getting home, before they extinguish me with their ignorance.

Poetry

Anxiety

The paces quicken; Lori chatter

down the phone as time expands and collapses

in a moment of sirens and panic and onlookers who don’t know how to react.

Of course, it’s all in your head

as you raise your hands in surrender

to that great barrier:

the front door, the bus, the road, the airport.

Rubbing shoulders, no air, no space,

condensed further than canned milk

and becoming even more jelly-like,

melting against the heat and fear

until you

 

scream.

 

And then they look at you.

Crazy.

And walk away.

 

Poetry

Bee quiz

How busy are the bees you see

When you see bees,

If you see bees?

Are bees the bee’s knees

At being busy bees?

 

I used to see them daily,

Buzzing to and fro,

Watching the nipping sips

They took from flowers

When they tired

And began to slow.

 

Those busy bees,

Those bee’s knees,

Have they busied themselves away?

Or have their tasty flowers

Given them death’s kiss

With a pesticide wave turned stray?

Poetry

If we were a map

We drift.

We wave.

We high five

those we always see

those we’ve never met

those we’ve met but don’t see

those we’ve seen around but don’t know until we meet.

We wonder how many times

our lines have crossed

in the chaotic waterfall that drowns everything,

focused on the X that marks the path

but not life.

We steady.

We beckon.

We say our goodbyes.

Poetry

The demise of a splash of green in an otherwise grey world

The hard droplets pound

away at the pavement;

the dainty daisies growing in the cracks

stand no chance

against this sudden onslaught.

They fall flat,

squashed not only by the weight of the rain,

but crunched by wheels and feet,

all rushing past as though

they

are the ones

whose petals

are being washed

into the dark drain.