THE TRICKSTER IS STILL AROUND

THE TRICKSTER IS STILL AROUND

Not Loki or Enki,

not Coyote who stole fire

or Wakjunkaga who made

himself some women’s parts 

and gave birth to three sons. 

 

This one carries his tiny penis

in a jumbo jet. His wives

and daughters are plastic dolls,

his sons the undead.

He eats honor, shits coal.

His houses are built of bones.

 

Make no mistake:

somewhere under our nice

we want to be like him—

possess without limit,

rule without shame.

 

He shows us, uncovers us.

Unless we change our lives,

he will never go away.

words VARIATIONS: FOUR WORDS, THREE STANZAS

bear

grace

raven

point(ed)

VARIATIONS: FOUR WORDS, THREE STANZAS

1.

The raven has been flying to and fro 

over the earth. She has returned.

I think it will rain again. 

 

Do you know the meaning of grace?

The word you say before you eat;

the way a dancer walks in her pointed shoes.

 

The bear has been seen again.

We say “the bear” as if there were only one

running through the woods between our houses.

 

2.

It’s enough to make me believe

in Satan’s test of Job.

How much more can they bear?

 

The talking raven will not be silent.

Over and over she says 

“What’s the point? What’s the point?’

 

Like Hecate preceding and following Persephone,

grace precedes and follows us.

The question remains, “When?”

 

3.

Once I found a raven grazed by a car.

I set her in the grass, covered her with leaves.

The next day, in the same place, 

 

a raven circled me three times. 

The acknowledgement was almost more 

than I could bear. And I’ve wondered

 

since if the point was not gratitude but

taunt. “You cached me in the grass,

foul human, but see! I live.” 

 

4.

A raven pair tumbles over the yard

and the dog will not stop barking.

A bear climbs the fence and the dog is silent.

 

Raven is a trickster.

Bear is a god.

Is there a difference.

 

Walk the shore to the farthest point,

the place where sand turns to stone.

There is no limit to grace.

STORYTIME

 

STORYTIME

 

If you don’t have fairy tales, how do you live?

The Miller’s Youngest Son answers the riddles.

The Serving Girl rises from the Cinders 

to marry the Prince. If you give a cup 

of cold water to the woman at the well 

you will receive a jeweled reward. If you don’t,

you will spit serpents for the rest of your life.

If the odds are against you, you will win— 

the youngest, the fool, the poorest, outcast, 

the least likely to succeed. Isn’t it

what you want to believe, you, who like me

are all those things and more?  If you finish

the witch’s tasks and don’t ask for  answers,

she will give you all the light you need.

words: SAME STORY

orange

happiness

shallow

line

SAME STORY

I’ve known the story since second grade,

that terrible year. The teacher checking

our fingernails and handkerchiefs,

teaching nothing but tedium. Gray

and marcelled, as chained as I 

to that small-town school.

The stench of hot-lunch goulash.

White bread spread thick with margarine.

The shallow patch of backlot gravel

where we tried to play. 

 

Reading was my happiness.

Sometimes I was allowed 

to sit on the windowsill with a book.

And where would I have found

such a thing in that barren place?

I can still see the drawing clearly—

the line of the girl’s dress,

the dragon’s orange flame.

And the prince—not St. George, I think—

but it was the same tale—

the monster demanding sacrifice, 

the unexpected release. 

 

words: TO ARIADNE, WITH APOLOGIES

 

fractal

born (or borne)  or bourn, for that matter.

manipulate

stoic

TO ARIADNE, WITH APOLOGIES

Winding small and smaller

into this fractaled labyrinth—

this, and this, and oh yes

this again—I know this path,

this curve, this color.

No center, only pattern,

the bourn approached

but never reached.

If Platonic, I’d re-form

the beast, Cynic, manipulate. 

Stoic, I’d pay it no mind.

If there were a beast, 

something here not myself,

this endless ball of string.

 

 

PROVERBIAL

I’m reduced to looking up old prompts and combining them. This is the result of two: “make up the world,” and “new proverb.”

PROVERBIAL

 

In this world, nine stitches

hold Time together.

You’ll  need waxed thread,

a curved bookbinder’s needle.

When you have finished

sewing up Time’s spine,

all the eggs in your basket

will hatch at once. One swallow

will settle on your hand

to twitter up the summer

and two will call from a bush,

then lead you on.

Follow them to a meadow

where a red morning sky

is opening the roses. 

All the horses you have wished for

will thunder from the mountains. 

Choose one and look in its mouth,

but don’t believe a word.

IN ISOLATION: AN INVOCATION TO THE OTHER ANTONY

IN ISOLATION: AN INVOCATION TO THE OTHER ANTONY

 

I am beginning to understand.

Alone among the tombs,

in the cave, in the fort, 

you had nowhere to hide.

Did every pebble in your path

become a boulder? Every

bitter herb a reproach?

Deprivation is the door

to the demons within.

 

We see our grandchildren

only on a screen. I have not

had coffee with my friends

for four weeks. I cannot go

to the studio to make things

no one needs. My husband

left the cellar light on. Again.

I want to read and the dog

wants to go out. I want

to go to bed and the cats

want to play.  We have 

run out of bananas.

Oh woe!  Oh woe!

 

Antony, remind me

that little devils are the hardest 

to catch. Teach me 

that this path is not untraveled.

Show me that even my darkest heart

is loved and forgiven.

Antony, pray for me.

GIVEN

 

The poem that I wrote this morning, for “poetry month” is pretty ghastly, even by my daily poem standards. So here’s one I wrote awhile ago.

 

GIVEN

God so loved the world that he gave. 

Please stop there. Don’t go on

about belief. Remember

 

what Jesus said before

conditions were applied.

A pearl. A treasure in a field. 

 

A banquet open to all who’d come.

The father who released it all—

Everything I have is yours.

 

The Samaritan gave. The fig tree didn’t.

Uncautious servants took a chance.

Take what is yours and go your way.

 

Give to Caesar his silver and gold.

Forgive us our debts as we forgive.

A dishonest steward did.

 

Some bridesmaids claimed

there was not enough. 

A lad assumed there was

 

and gave his lunch

for thousands to eat.

Twelve basketsful of crumbs.

 

A sower’s wild casting

made more and more.

And more: lilies and ravens.

 

And still: your cloak and coat.

Another cheek, another mile.

Blessed are you who are poor.

AND NOW, A LOOK AT THE WORD “NORMAL”

AND NOW, A LOOK AT THE WORD “NORMAL”

 

Routine, yes? Common.  Usual. Ordinary. 

No surprises, no unplanned happenings. 

Nothing up this sleeve. 

 

No secret compartments,

mysterious strangers,

unexpected doors behind bookcases.

 

No white rabbits with pocket watches.

No huts on chicken legs.

No novel viruses, homemade

 

masks, curbside shopping,

No fairy godmothers. No friendly giants.

No geese laying golden eggs.