Huge Dead Beasts (Image Poem)

Driftwood like bones on the beach

Sand like the ashes of large creatures

In mounds underneath

Eerie light sifts in

Through the treetops

The lake a thin film of glass

Over the valley’s fishbowl

A cool breeze

Feels sleek on my skin

The smells of algae and mold

Waft up the rise from the shoreline

I try to skip a rock

But I am surprised to see it sinks,

Narrowly missing a slender, flashing gold body

Beneath the surface

Ancient beings are too far gone,

Washed up on shore,

They have missed out

On this bright and scaly meal

Henry Darger

We hardly ever see him

He shuts himself up in that tiny apartment

And people say they hear him talking to himself

Some say

It sounds like

Others are in there with him

But no one ever enters or leaves his door

We assume he’s crazy

When he does come out to pick up a newspaper

He smells

And is dressed in ragged clothes

What else would you call him?

He has trapped himself in his tower

Because he has to get the stories out:

Wars between little girls and grown-up men

Red and yellow paints, flowers and butterflies,

Swords and gore

Illustrated volumes upon volumes

Of his world’s creation, history, and heroines

Is it strange for us to wonder if ending his suffering

Would be wrong?

He has tortured this prodigious epoch out of himself

He has translated his torment into beauty

Without any sort of influence

Diamond from coal, ice from vapor

He has made visible to us what otherwise

We would be blind to, with our limited vision:

Art about what’s inside a trapped survivor,

The art of a genius

Fishing Shack Canvas Haikus

My cherished painting

Small, blue, nostalgic:

Seaside fishing shack

Canvas makes shore sounds

Water ripples, seagulls call

The white moon observes

Cove water slaps rocks:

Large, talcum-white shore side beasts

Placidly resting

She painted the moon

And birds the day she

Gave me the painting

On the bottom of

the canvas: to Alicia

Sister M. Lucy

Grace Under Pressure

A honeybee in a jar

Is muffled vibrations

Wired, fuzzy energy contained

Behind breakable glass

It ricochets off the lid, threatens to sting

Searches for a hole to squeeze through

Resigns itself to planting its sweet treat

Where glass meets tin

Break Room

There is not much inspiration to be found in a break-room

With fluorescent lights overhead

And sickening sweet smells from today’s cake, cupcakes, and fruit

It all gives me a headache

And yet I remain here

Determined to write

As my view consists of garbage cans and recycling bins,

“Please! No Food In the Drain!”

And white wallpaper with tiny green hedged trees all over it,

Lime and awful

Cubbies (“mailboxes”) close in corners,

And coffeemakers scatter on counters

Door locks click open, complying with security codes

Carts roll noisily in one door, out another

And I am left to listen

To boilers in the distance

And the refrigerator running,

A drone that’s not quite peaceful enough

And yet, I persist to stay here

To write and make something of this place and this page

Instead I will focus on my cup of green tea,

The placid, blank sheets in my notebook

And the message the cake used to read entirely:

“Congratulations, Mike & Kathryn…”

My headache feels fainter,

Remembering a new baby is on her way