I saw Odysseus sprawled on the sidewalk between The squalid little deli and the boarded-up All-night video place whose weather-stained Posters advertised GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS Amid obtuse indecipherable graffiti and A fallen constellation of multi-hued shards of Broken glass that crunched underfoot like Bone fragments The patina of snow about him Pristine in its absence of footprints from Passers-by as if the stench of his Existence had formed an unseen barrier A half-moon DMZ buffering His world from ours And ours from his And seemed to accelerate those who passed As if sling-shotting them along their snowy Midnight trajectories by means of his own Anomalous gravity And he was invisible This shivering, coughing Odysseus This Odysseus of ancient rheumy eyes and Filth-caked garb of indeterminate color and Dirty twitching fingers destroyed by age and arthritis That latched onto Nothingness in the inhuman chill
Eagle led me into the woods yesterday after school. Read to the end to see the poem our hike inspired. A forest grows between the golf course and the bike path following reclaimed railroad tracks half mile (1K) from the school. Oak trees, standing and fallen. Those that were horizontal were covered with half moon mushrooms.
We walked a kilometer through the woods and the city disappeared. A sacred quiet descended. I felt uprooted from time. When were we? Were minutes in motion? We arrived in the spiritual home of the mushrooms. Was it once named that way, rather than by the family name of the owner…?
The mushrooms took many different shapes, as they did their work returning nutrients to the soil.
Silent workers, recycling trees, feeding tree children grown into the canopy above.
On Christmas Day after the excitement of presents Dad lies on the living room floor on his side, head on hand as baby brother leans backwards and forwards rocking to and fro on his chubby bottom against Dad’s stomach, absorbed in his new playskool toy with a rolling barrel, levers to push.
He thumps on one lever, laughs at its loud tinging noise, stares in fascination as the barrel rolls and rings, thumps the lever again, murmurs excitedly to himself.
Dad watches as baby brother plays, grinning broadly at this intent little fellow, so engrossed in his fabulous new toy.
Buckets of lobster shells empty into a half-dozen 50-gallon drums distributed among tables scattered across the familial lawn.
A momentary dragonfly hovered over the mourners’ heads, lingering only long enough so that half of those who witnessed it mistook it for a hummingbird while everyone else, awestruck, mistook it for a monarch butterfly, the recently departed’s favorite.
—————[|||]————— dVerse Poets Open Link Night ~ OLN #297 ~ ———[||]———
In steady light rain low clouds compress the light’s dull glare. The blackbird’s feathers sparkle under their fine cloak of minute droplets. His chuckles, shrieks of glee from the clothesline pole fill the garden as he raises his head half spreads his wings in the sensual joy of tiny moist diamonds.