Gertrude

A grandma tall among cousins walking down the railroad tracks
eyes searching for the oldest date nail amongst the ties,

with arms stretched out we walk the rails
like high-wire artists; our mouths tight in concentration

swaying back and forth we seem destined
for the roadbed with each uncertain step.

In an hour or so our slow train pulls into the army navy store,
thick with the smell of dank canvas and old lubricant.
She does finally reel us in and it's time to settle up.

Gert discreetly turns to retrieve her tobacco-sack,
her "grannie-money," safe from thieves in her brassiere,

for she is the quartermaster for our summer war machine.

With one crossed eye, she never drove a car
or wore pants and kept her hair braided in a high, tight bun.

She walked those cinders past old Judge Parker's gallows
in hooked shoes and glasses that were already old when I was born.

She never napped as I recall and cooked like it was a career.
Her laugh was quick and had the best rope swing in her walnut tree.
Time stood still in her house and nothing ever changed till one day
she just wore out from livin' every day till long after dark. Gone.

{Move  up?}
The small town girl from her dreams 

quilted and built caskets during the war,

and her older sister dipped snuff and  spit
in old coffee cans throughout the house.

{Move ?}

Whenever we stayed with her,
the faeries dressed up like fireflies

and protected us at night while we slept.
She said so.

My Seasonal Calendar Clock

My seasons are laid out a little differently than yours,
perhaps, they look like a familiar clocks face but

they travel counter-clockwise through the year.
Around and down through fall, to winters darkened cold.

Thanksgiving sits about eight, then Santa arrives around seven
and then down straight to six for New Years, resolutely living at the bottom.
My newly diapered years take the first tread from the basement
on the upward rise, towards the birth of spring.

Somewhere near number four, March or so I think,
that's when the world begins to wake.
May sits on three and opens the door to warmer days.

Summer lolls between two and ten
spread all across the top nearest the sun
finally giving way to autumn just before nine
and the returning smell of rain.

It's just the way I see it. Can you?

Porched Again

My new year has begun,

settling and getting comfortable
in the cardboard continuity
of my newest moving box fort.

It shelters me on a new front porch
from thunderstorms,
gawking eyes
and driven drops of loss.

Each splat is wet and heavy
on my newly unpacked roof.

Turtled in my shell,
safe and suckled
by corrugated walls
in this new
promised land.

Crocus

Somehow the crocus
found their way,
almost too soon.
Scattered stippled eruptions of tender heads
dipped in lavender and maize.

They giggle while reminding us
the promised birth of spring

has arrived
at last,

just now.

The Wolf

The wolf of the blue light
gnaws at my ears and eyes.
Many watch his screen in gladness
wearing their newborn fear.

He devours the brotherhood of the world,
other souls are gladly offered by the sheep,
tossing their black lambs
to his sharp-toothed jaw.

He feasts upon the different,
their blood satisfies the fear;

for they did not believe.

He chases them in his shepherd’s robes,
consuming the shunned, the slow,
the dreamers of a different world.

He speaks in tongues,

entrails hang from his every word.
Their cries of the condemned are

clipped and muted deep within his belly.

He calls the dance he preaches, "Escape."
Away from those that must be culled,
for the saving of
the flocked.

Not the all.

Run.