Pearl plant, precious, verdantly vellum.
Breathing quietly amidst humbler greenery.
Poetic eyes it aims to please, not prosaic.
Sage, somewhere between its beady lines.
Brightened, as if catching glimpse of a newborn.
I do not own, but yet I wrap my heart around.
Winsome pearls do not drop; raindrops remain.
Grey, hairy, beady eyes,
Scuttling away, spinning,
Webs of perversion,
Sticky tendrils wrapped,
Around my walls,
Breaching boundaries,
Like Halloween romp,
Long held fears,
Diverse, scary feelers,
Sqirting surface spray,
Their mandibles merge,
Guess we're all human,
But loathe spiders and pimps.....
Triangular ears, cone shaped nose,
trapezoid body, coil of a tail.
The abacus of your black beady eyes
speaks of arithmetic, calculations.
What algebraic mind sends you barking
down the hall seeking out equations?
Licking your paws in algorithms
you breathe in cycles of in and out,
plus one and minus one --
napping in the zero of your bed.
You sweet, small mathematical creature,
I love you to infinity.
A Bloody Tale
a vampire bat in the weeping willow tree
hanging upside down created an impasse
a fat faced full moon highlighted it
its beady eyes focused on my warm neck
in hopes it could get a taste of my sweet blood
I needed to deliver the brown leather satchel
with the Irish curio—a stolen sample
of the Blarney Stone tucked neatly inside
my way blocked by this flying mammal
I needed to distract it
my back pack contained a rare beef dumpling
for a snack while on my way
I pulled it out—some blood dripping from
its cold center
I tossed it to the side of the trail
mr. bat took the bait
I exhaled a sigh of relief and
resumed my trek. As I left
I heard a chirping sound behind me
I turned and saw the bat waving its webbed wing
in gratitude. I had to pass this way homeward
I hoped he would remember me
who is holding these animals up? Someone asked me.
we were at a six-ring circus, but too far away to see.
The elephant was on the top, which looked rather odd.
heavy hippo holding him gave me a rare nod.
I nodded back and caught a weird ugly smile
From the next joker down, a grisly green crocodile.
Under him was a spoon-billed pelican with beady black eyes.
A super mouse was holding them all up, a huge surprise!
They say it isn’t good for them
To feed them moldy bread
But it always makes her giggle
When they Bob their heads
Teeny tiny boots upon the waters edge
The sun is shining warmly
As she tosses out some bread
She talks to them like people
Though their eyes are beady and dull
A little slip and almost wet
But on hee shirt I pull
She falls not in the water, but her little foot is wet
Teeny tiny boots will dry
And dryer socks I’ll get
Once the bread is gone
To the playground we will go
She runs and laughs and screams so free
As she flits to and fro
The other kids they play with her
I watch dutifully
Sure to bring a special kit
In case she scrapes her knee
These are things fhat bring me peace
My child wild and free
A smile upon her prettt face
A face that looks like me
A bright afternoon lunch, a darker shadow wraps around
your leg. Not clawing, just yawning. Yearning for a twitch
in its way.
You sit terribly still.
Your mother urges you to shoo it off, your father chews
absentmindedly at the way too bloodied meat, gazing through
your forehead. The clinks of the neighboring tables annoyingly
in sync. Your foot turns to face it.
The waiter gets your sister's order wrong, she curls up to a ball
as so does her stomach as she pipes down the vanilla milkshake,
an excuse to leave to the bathroom. To leave here.
The edge of your eyes catches the figure 8 being woven
along your cramping shins.
The heavy grimace of your brother, your mother fixing up
his collar, clearly not ironed. The setting bores you,
you look under. Beady eyes staring at you too. A plea
for what you should do.
The sinful act of feeding a noir stray cat.
With the steady grip of a football player, a knowing smirk
a bright eye glint, you hold it close,
the pitch-dark abomination–
and toss it onto the table.
An approving purr.
A feast for all.
An Owl sits high up in a tree
Looking so forlorn
Icicles hang down from the branches
His hat and scarf well worn
The Snow is falling relentlessly
Feet are almost frozen to the bone
His beady eyes glare constantly
As he braves the storm alone
His thoughts return to his old barn home
Which is not so far away
So off he flies through the forest so white
To return another day
As the snow falls on his feathers
He shakes to clean
Back to his safe abode high up in the barn
To wait for more clement weather
She spreads the butter
on a square of toast
with scratching impatience,
smearing and slapping
the hardened bread
with a dainty butter knife.
She uses a fork like a harrow
in the jelly jar,
leaving lines across the top
where she dragged it across,
then glops it on
unevenly.
She uses a fork.
because she likes to lick the bits
between the tines,
and feel the hard metal
with jelly in her mouth.
Scrape, scrape, scrape
with the butter knife again.
I love her hurrying hand
that orchestrates
this action every morning.
The cinnamon toast
is slightly burnt,
and her sleeve is damp
from the coffee spill
on the linoleum table.
A crumb clings to her jawline.
She takes a guzzle, not a sip
from her cup that says:
“The Queen of Everything”
and smiles at me, knowingly.
In the backyard, the goldfinches
returned to our feeders.
A small female
turns her beady eye
toward us
with shared understanding.
Lauren, we are not little women.
We are strong and thunderous-hearted.
We are transcendentalists.
Tahira and the cardinals see us
through beady, unflinching eyes.
We used to put on plays in mom’s
maternity Mickey Mouse T-shirts,
scarves and sunglasses.
The sprinkler
interrupted our productions.
Dad used his 90’s camcorder.
We tried to be serious and dramatic
when the Titanic sank.
You served the tea
to Alex, Tahira, and me.
In the book, the sisters laughed at Amy
“And jerked herself along
as if she went by machinery.”.
We hold each other up
in this world that doesn’t wait for us
to catch up, or care enough for poetry.
Forget the world and keep writing.
Lauren, my more than little woman.
*Title and quote are references to Louisa May Alcott’s novel: Little Women
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A vagrant squirrel navigates his kingdom of cracked asphalt~
Sudden rain slicked the park bench's peeling green paint
as he rattled past, king of his grocery cart chariot ~
overflowing hull crammed with glossy brown treasure,
each nut a testament to frantic, twitching hoarding.
His beady eye judged a passing Labrador's indifference:
Fool! Winter's coming, and my cart's already paid for.
transformation here
duality calls wisdom
knowing rounds itself ~
•
up into twilight
winter and summer march by
seasons complete tasks ~
•
preparing remix
no quick fix is this sane game
puddles show portals ~
•
sweet pineapple juice
at round table smiling truce
everyone muses ~
•
accumulation
dissolves in a beady eye
life in green funnel ~
•
the parrot was an amazing surprise in the middle of our trip
He dove down from some trees, his head did a major whip
He stared through us with those beady black eyes
His mate swooped to join him, an extra surprise.
Lost within the haunting howls
of a wild west wind
I savor the island’s isolation
its barren, rocky crags
its undulating seas below.
The ocean expands outward
as whitecaps whip frantically
while the beady eyes of seabirds
peer out from their stony perches.
Stoic sentries of the sea
pelicans and seagulls flock
along the rugged shoreline
purposefully perched in rows
or drafting wind currents in flight.
Still other seabirds skim silently
above the silky waves
great hunters of fish
their feathery wings spread wide
as if to capture the ocean itself.
A timeless rhythm prevails
as effortless as breathing pure salt air
in a place where land and sea convene
a place where seabirds reign
as vigilant watchers
within the endless cycle of life.
**A Bird in the Hand**
From my childhood, I cherish the sweet memory of holding a sparrow in my hands. Its heart raced wildly, igniting my curiosity. Gazing into its small, beady eyes, I couldn't help but smile as it chirped and whined, pleading for freedom.
Yet, in its desperation, it bit down on my thumb, yearning to escape and explore the world. The realization struck me hard.
“Yay! You better let that bird go before it pecks your nose,” warned Nana.
That day marked a turning point; I gently released the little bird, whispering, “Up, up, and away, dear friend. I truly apologize.”
In that moment, I learned the importance of compassion and letting go.
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