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the umlauted sky
evoked by a photograph by Sharon Suzuki-Martinez

two birds make the smallest formation.
abreast, small against huge tapioca-patterned clouds,
they add to the sky an umlaut,
a diacritical mark that makes all the difference
in heaven.

when we form an alliance
with a friend or a partner
or helpful neighbor or determined sweetheart
or any permutation thereof,
we umlaut the horizon
or the path or purpose
we are trying to acquire,
and though at times it makes more sense
to be a dot/beauty mark/vertex
than half an umlaut
or semicolon or colon,
teamed journeys
against a daunting sky
or looming thicket
are force multipliers
of the story
and its outcome.

don’t you love an umlaut
celebrating an anniversäry?  

chunks in the salad

here is latelife in miniature. / coffee cup, coffee, / salad vessel and salad / are all as new as this year. // thanks to a career change / a prep cook’s sensibility / put the grater aside / and used a food chopper and a ten-count chop / on the carrots / to ensure there would be chunks / in the salad / and not the mundane confetti / that is the norm. also, / organic blue agave sweetener stood in for splenda / and the raisin-to-carrot ratio / was upped approximately 20%. // it was a quiet, spectacular treat, / drinking sumatran-blend coffee / and eating a poshish salad / from vessels made recently / by the prepcook-poet-potter-bonvivant. // life changes us when we change / our lives.

(First published in the Facebook group Poets All Call on July 18, 2023)

reshuffle

any card
discarded
makes the deck
defective.

even the three of cluster
and the seven of love
may fill a sequence
or buttress a structure.

now if you think
you have a bad hand
because your foot of jewels
or your prince of stems
tingles with numbness now,
nay. the tingling is your informant
of valuable intel. you now know
the game is changing
and if you dig deeper
you discern that cards the world over
may be added to your deck
if you but claim them
and make them your own.

there are more than four suits
to pursue, higher numbers than thirteen
in the sequence.
try the bus of possibility
or the bus of tranquility
or the hot tea of bloom
or the wildebeest (lighthearted
but no joker).

searches are easy now.
wish well.

this joker wishes you
the four of fulfillment.

without all the makeup the wine birthmark shows ° without donning kevlar the soft flesh is pierceable ° without our pretense we aren’t so quick to pose ° the naked and shaven take so fierce a toll.

so ready your lipstick, foundation, concealer ° your narrative, ringlets, plans b through f, mask ° negotiate warfare ‘gainst foe/friend/revealer ° and say you’re just peachy, should anyone ask.

(First published in the Facebook poetry group Poets All Call.)

signals

the front room has quietly
gradually darkened
and this slice of the world
is concluding its business
and preparing for slumber

but cicadas make noise of protest
they have become loud with the dusk
and other nocturnals emerge
to hunt or travel or mate
without glare

independent of night and day
an attractive lady nudges into my news feed
and tells me she is not human
but a facilitating ai who can help me
find a special someone

now in a soft darkness
my face eerily lit by this phone
I tell you all
special someones, unknowns, friends, beasts
that i am old and frightened

egg

i intend today to throw
most of an egg on a potter’s wheel
and then sculpt a hummingbird

when the almost-egg is leather hard
I intend to cut its base at a bias
to give it a jaunty axial tilt
then perch the hummingbird
at its apex
absurdly out of scale
with the huge egg
it is valiantly attempting
to incubate

it may show how heroic
motherhood is
or how ridiculous
life is

the egg may have cutouts
to give it a windowed interior
or embossing
to give it a muralesque exterior

it is impossible to say yet
sometimes we just have to see
what happens
when it hatches

fyb

first you burst
from the pudendal starting gate
or were pulled into the world
by modified salad tongs
or you were sprung from amniotic limbo
via incision and extraction
(“hey, rock! watch me pull a rabbit
out of my hat!” “again?!”)
or even
as urban legend has it
you were launched by a mom
about to be t-boned by a mac truck
through the window of the doomed car
onto the soft grass
on the side of the road.

it was your birth.
you came from the there of maybe and hope
into the here of the sensate.
you have Now-What?ed your way
through a most improbable journey.

and now you have the grace and leisure
to read a few words about beginnings
from a friend.

thank you for ending up here
and now
with me,
my friend.

that’s all
but only for now.

hale

memorial day is for remembrance
of soldiers who died
serving their country.

“hale” is both a description
of a person in a state of robustness
and a surname.

george washington needed a volunteer to spy
behind british lines and get intel on the brits.
captain nathan hale alone stepped up.

hale was a bright kid, a yale graduate at eighteen,
a schoolteacher at twenty. now he was a spy.
alas, he was soon recognized and ratted out.

a british soldier who witnessed hale’s death
wrote in his diary “he behaved
with great composure and resolution.”

on the gallows he supposedly said
“i only regret, that i have but one life,
to lose for my country.”

but his brother enoch asked around
and was told that nathan gave a longer,
spirited speech,

and said among other things that
if he had ten THOUSAND lives,
he would lay them ALL down for his country.

today, America’s memorial day, I think
of that bright, patriotic kid of twenty-one,
and of his courage and dignity.

National Poetry Writing Month 2023, day 7

the funny thing about sorrow

sorrow visits us all our lives
for a weekend here
and three years there
and at least a little every single minute

but it can make you laugh
as with a funeral
where the best friend of the deceased
tells funny stories
and the gathered are grateful
for laughter’s relief
and the brief escape
reliving ridiculous episodes

when you have a good cry
an ugly cry or a soft cry
it’s funny how it sometimes seems
you just had a bath or a baptism
and sins or street grit
seem to have been washed away

my mom helped my aunt zilpha cry in 1965
while kid-me watched from the next room
they were looking at letters from her brother
my grandfather
who’d been institutionalized
and died in 1963
funny how later that day
aunt zilpha was so cheery and aware

i have a little sorrow going on right now
and it’s funny how i am sort of celebrating
by not talking about it
but posting a new profile picture
with my sorrowful face on display

it is good to smile
but it is also good to cry
good to let friends know you’re not ok
but will be ok soon

and so it will be with you, my friend,
at certain times of loss,
or adverse circumstance

Shakespeare’s Falstaff said a funny thing:
“Who hath [honour]?
He who died o’ Wednesday.”

beware wednesday
says this joker
cracking wise
because sorrow