Gold and ruby droplets
dripped
from the park's trees
that had once
glowed in green.
I drove along
the Cottonmill road
as I pulsated
with Autumn's bloodstream.
Summer's heat
was a dimming memory
as Autumn painted
fresh stories
with God's colors.
I pulled out
of the park
as nature's canvas
labored behind me.
I broke a glass last night.
And in that loud, terrifying crash,
I was eight years old again -
watching yogurt drip onto the kitchen tile,
so small, and so completely sure
that this mistake meant I deserved to die.
I ran up the stairs
and hid in the dark,
wrapping my arms around myself
in a desperate, suffocating hug.
I rocked back and forth,
choking on hot, silent tears,
pounding little fists into my thighs
because I had to pay for what I did.
One beat, two beats -
it was never enough.
I tore at my own hair,
clawed deep into my skin,
so that in the mirror -
as blood dripped down my body
and purple lumps swelled to the surface -
I could finally see the reflection
of who I was:
a monster.
On a blistering branch of July,
a squirrel lay flat as a pancake,
tail limp, paws splayed,
melting into the bark like warm butter.
He squinted at the sun in the sky,
that smug, blazing tyrant,
and muttered to no one in particular,
“Honestly… this is excessive.”
Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.
Others dripped off his whiskers.
He fanned himself with a wilted leaf
that gave up halfway through the job.
Finally, he stood, wobbly and dramatic,
and shouted toward the sunlit void:
Has anyone tried turning the weather off and on again?
The oak trees rustled considering the suggestion
But the heat stayed.
The squirrel sighed,
flopped back down,
and added,
“Well… it worked for my router.”
Peanut butter stuck tight to
the roof of my mouth,
Jelly dripped out and went
traveling south,
Smack went my lips as I tried
hard to chew,
A stuck- together mess that
was purple and blue,
Wisdom says use a fork, but
a sticky hand will do!
A bird shat on my head today
Why he did it I could not say
Passing below a nice green tree
He suddenly let it go on me
My head was wet, it trickled down
And stopped amongst my disapproving frown
A tissue was required, Oh what a mess
A sorry state I must have looked I guess
As it dripped all down on to my shirt
All embarrassed, feelings hurt
It’s supposed to be lucky someone said
What to have a bird shat on my head
I retorted in an angry mood
Then laughed out loud when situation reviewed
It must have been funny to those near by
To see this bird with a very keen eye
Who flew away not to be seen again
But only his droppings did remain
Is it lucky, we will see
But I won’t forget the day he shat on me.
I cannot tell you what the moon is made
Of – that type of display more for science...
But if it were cheese, I prefer Cheddar
Over Swiss; and if the Milky Way really
Chocolate profusely dripped -- my
Inclination for two scoops and double-dipped~
Ice cream would be a feature of every intimate night –
Seeking a woman not adverse to licks of flavorful
Frostbite.
I walked a long stretch to reach you.
My path was uneven, my journey was mystical,
I stumbled on rugged pebbles many times,
My fingers got pricked by thorns on roses, and bled,
The wind was tempestuous, hurt my face like sharp blades,
I did not stop, I kept walking.
There were dainty flowers beneath my feet to greet me,
They were delicate, they were ethereal,
Those floral saplings were bruised by treading on.
They could not protect me from harsh wind and incessant rain,
Water dripped from braids on my hair,
I was shivering in the stormy weather.
My soul was wrapped with music of love.
The sparkling champagne light of autumn,
mysterious whisper of twirling velvety leaves,
the turquoise waves lapping on shore,
chirping melody by a tiny hummingbird,
elusive dewdrops quivering on lotus leaves..,
O darling, I can not stop because I know you are waiting for me,
being love-starved, my heart bleeds,
and beats faster than you can imagine.
Those ravishing flowers will guide me to you,
My journey will end only when I am in your embrace.
I am here to confide it's countrywide
as whenever the British gather together
the first topic of their conversation
is almost always the inclement weather
whatever precipitates such predominant
drizzle discussion drenching debate
or downpour discourse
I do not know and cannot relate
soggy foggy or boggy it's one and the same
altho' it's plain we know where stays the rain in Spain
it has also been seen to land on England's pleasant green
yet after such falls mostly all goes down the drain
yet without its descent on the Emerald Isle
there'd be no rainbows to make me smile
but fleeting I do remember it well and can recall
out of three hundred and sixty-five it was the one day
when nothing liquid dripped down from the sky
and as a result last year summer was on a Monday
Hand on hand rest, I given a thistle
Forgive the word by the flaws in whistle
Tarry you and carry,no-more longer I
Dripped you the tear of slouching eye
In the mountain of fall layered in gild
And golden wattle suited into the barren field
The swore i remembered the long before
I placed over you that i never hold anymore
A stolen merry gyring within your quietness arm
Against the same lea and your terrible charm
Saddening and shrilling cries on my chest
And felt burnt by the chilly and hanging crest
O' what is meant to be sorrow i forgot
It is so where you were biding a lot
I the varlet flee to where we never meet
And is now your joy undimmed and sweet
It was a mistake
for me to bring Ben.
Eleven-year-old boys
and birds don’t go well
together.
I took two pairs
of binoculars
in the hopes that he
would bother to look
in a pair.
The sky was tumbling
it’s full gray clouds
in a frantic tussle
over our little wet
heads and peering eyes
that scoured the trees
for anything singing.
“There is no bid
fallout!” Ben complained
with his arms pulled
inside his tee shirt sleeves.
He looked cold
and cranky.
“Did you hear the goldfinch?”
“They all sound the same.
Can we go home now?
The same birds are in
our backyard.”
The rain dripped
unevenly off
the thousand petals
of a dogwood tree.
Is anyone other than me
seeing what I see
right now?
Caustic systems are breaking down
My son has much to learn
Wavy chips and a bag of scarlet grapes
With Lillie's on white as snow we no more are clowns
Cosmic graves are dug above
Faded rays of luminous hot white suns
Steady dripped and venomous stitched banes of hidden stakes
With ambassadors decked to the nine we bawling
My son we dance now laugh and sing
Learning the systems were not meant to last
Honey cakes and scented roses lament a dance we yet will convene
Early gold elevates the Taj Mahal Restaurant.
Sun-rinsed beams bedeck its frontage.
The low strip mall is not yet awake,
yet it basks; it glows golden
through every light-enthroned window,
bejeweled signage floats
above a light laundered concrete
and new-washed litter.
For a few clear moments
the shop-worn facades glittered
in vivid auric rays
I saw it all through a windshield,
I saw a kind of heaven
take a selfie through a once tacky lens.
When I returned later,
the litter was just litter,
shopping carts dripped above cloudy puddles.
The Taj Mahal was open, and already
sinking into a lunch-time special.
Mother Nature dressed bushes and trees with jackets of ice overnight
Morning arrived as sun shined through like glass in the light
The landscape was so luring and magical to see
All the plants standing on winter's stage eloquently
I thought of all the musicians, what they bring to us all
When their lyrics express pain we feel as we fall
Their courage to sing truth, that maybe we can't speak
Singing on that stage, erasing all that seems so bleak
As I walked on winter's path, ice melted, dripped its tears bare
The healing had begun with jackets off, nothing could compare
I know those brave musicians helped more than they could know
Just as mother nature can create such a dazzling show!
Heidi Sands
2/18/26
(C)opyright
The mountains made my mind runny and unclear.
Splattered.
Snow falling and being brushed off.
Swish, swish.
And because I’m driving in the mountains,
I’m singing a high up song.
Notes lifting me higher.
In this new state, and new harsh looks.
Mostly my own grimace and the gas station attendant.
I’m a weird butterfly and can’t fly for some reason.
So I’m just slippery, melting butter.
I’d glance at him while I’m simmering.
And I would drive steady on non-hilly roads.
That drove me to stopping in parking lots that dripped like egg whites.
It snowed but not fresh and new.
Harsh flickering snow that’s gray before it hits the ground.
I wanted mountains.
And the higher I got,
The more tight the roads became.
And there’s nowhere to pull over here.
I wish I had a log cabin waiting for me.
Imagine. Being grateful and warm.
But I’m an avalanche away from screaming.
And I’m a screaming away from the cabin.
I got there.
Spattered.
Winter on her window's pane, separating
the sinews from frost; both really burn so cold;
she darkens with fingertips discovering
Winter's stillbirth like glass
Winter in February's wind that mirrors
the window that's shaking without breaking her,
a broken icicle first dripped first, after
Winter's stillbirth like glass
Winter air left an angel's breath in her womb
where the snow had fallen, now white stitchery
on scared, scarred earths — nothing stays baby or dead;
Winter's stillbirth like glass
Winter slides like tears down her own window's cheeks,
she touches her even in the white-hot sun —
her insides now step in grass flowering, none
Winter's stillbirth like glass
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