Pale without light

Words
that call with each inhalation
some lacking crisp meaning,
instinctual or flavored with
their appropriate use.
Careless with my definitions
I throw them about me,
laying seeds for a garden.

And when inspiration falls inopportunely
when I cannot reach for a pen
my words sprout messily, and
clump without regard for what's around them.

They start their life still in their packets,
locked away from a light in a drawer--
somehow the steady leaks of
watering emotion
trickle down into the crevices of
my notebooks
to cause these kernels to seek out and
grab onto each other, like slithering
hands in all directions.

Spiral and swerve

Spiral and swerve
It doesn't matter that it happened.
Not that you were ever much good
at fighting it.
No, it slips in with your excuses,
in between your disappointments
and what-might-have-beens
Much like an ant colony discovered
one day under the floor boards,
or the way your neighbors
cheese-and-cauliflower casserole
odors crawl in along the plumbing;

oh how the cold presses close to you,
enough so that it gets inside your toes
to where they feel much like someone else's.
The things that you thought you'd gotten rid of
dumped into the trash bin
along with the ravages of dinner.

It doesn't matter that you're back
same as if you never started--
like reeling in a large fish from the
rolling waves of the oceans;
a few feet in, more out.

Membership quotients

The scores I possess for entry
to Mensa are non-applicable
according to the website's lists.
I pondered submitting the money
for a home test in order to better
understand what the local society's tests
might be like.

The smartest person I know says the
sample questions in the work books she has
entertained herself with are beyond even her.

I think in my whole life the only IQ test I've take
was practice for a neighbor who was studying
to be certified as a TAG instructor.
I was videotaped because her children did not want to be.
And even now I wonder what my non-applicable
test scores (sample) turned out to be.

Now though, I think I would rather spend my time
pursuing other things more practical
rather than sitting in a room with desperate people
for another line on their resume.
I guess that membership in the AARP is more easily attained,
and garners more benefits.

Pied piper sirens

But how can this be?

I turn away from myself when I should spiral down,
following the ambulance scream for my attention,
barreling through the tollways of my mind
like an ice cream truck for the unconscious.
While it twists back itself
I want to skip behind it
back to my childhood memories
scampering along deeper into my unknown,
a subconscious ambulance chaser.

Instead I hear the ambulances and
fire trucks pass by while I consider potentials
over a course of dirty dishes and soap water,
waiting for the coffee to brew and
pondering what I will write today.
Ambulances alert civilians to danger,
racing towards despair and destruction all the while
announcing their presence to the flames.

No more colors until spring

It is in my interest to take note
of the draining colors of the world
and notice the hues that take their leave
as light fades slowly from the skies,
only not so for the trees, the leafy trees.
Their colors warm while everything else cools,
except the autumn vegetables.
The light now less bright
as if the chill in the air somehow
removes the dazzling sharpness from the sun's glare,
like winter has finally caught up with sprinting summer
pulling warmth and effulgent vegetation back behind
the dawn of winter's recalcitrance.
I imagine the oppositions of the year,
and dream sometimes the sun matriculates
like a child with a private education,
flying away south with the squawking geese
while annuals furlough
in the call of the ground swallows.

And then in a few months, when winter, darkness,
and rain have had their way with me,
the grey-dark skies slapping my face with wet fingers
reaching down between my layers,
suddenly the crocus and the blue buds on the trees
will cool as they emerge, when temperatures rise from
beyond the ground, light inflorescent at last.
Just like a stray image from a forgotten dream,
or a stranger that promises to stay for a time then
disappears with hardly a word or a gracious note.

Cosmic parking tickets

She left a ticket underneath my wiper
while I was sitting with coffee
and an open notebook.
She was also writing,
citing the squandering of my gifts
and assigning a fine:
The continued dissatisfaction with my life
and everything in it.

She put a smiley face after her signature.

How was I to know what the meter maid
had secreted inside the searing yellow envelope,
"Violation" displayed boldly across the outside?

Stained by god

I am a tiny tea bag steeping
for a moment in the warm bath
embrace of the cosmic waters,
The concentrated flavors of my dried leaves
drawn away for a few moments to return
in the teacup curve of infinity.
Just as easily dipped as drawn away,
carried back to the cabinet to seep away
what my leaves can no longer
stay in my absorbent paper; only a
small amount of the dissipating heat remains
swollen and stained by god.