Beige is the itch inside my head
The dreary, drab walls I stay locked in
I’m a townhouse with a freshly painted facade,
But moldy wallpaper and carpets that are soaked with the stench of cigarette smoke
I’m trapped in this house
Blinds nailed to the sills
Doors latched by keys long lost
Milk spoiled
And the fridge smells stale
I sit in musty rooms on crumbling couches as oblivious pedestrians pass by and say “What a lovely house! A sunny porch to sit on and cheerful mint green accents.”
But inside my house paint peels like shagbark and dust collects like dew
You knock at my door and I can’t let you in
I rip out the knob and claw down the splintered wood
I throw myself against the frame and try to tear out the hinges
But the door doesn’t budge;
Not even an inch.
So I stay stuck inside my beige house
Left to wonder if there is an out
Categories:
shagbark, depression,
Form: Free verse
In the holy spot
with the sitting rock,
an oak. Out back
shagbark hickory
and maple.
Ants climb the rock.
August, birds
celebrate flowering
weeds, the seeds
of autumn to come.
I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.
The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
I find sumacs fruiting
and the male sex organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.
Juncos glean the lawn,
an occasional nuthatch
in the butternut.
I hear a pileated
woodpecker jackhammering
and my neighbor’s skill saw
chirring. Ants crawl
on connecting interlacing instructions.
Categories:
shagbark, august, autumn, flower, mountains,
Form: Free verse