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strawberry giver

there's an american indian tale,
a story,

of a woman and a man who find themselves
in a heated argument one cold night.

the woman is so upset she leaves,
storming out of their small home

into the thick woods surrounding.
worried for her safety,

the man decides to follow his wife
into the woods.

he was unsure of where she'd gone
until he looked down and saw

small strawberry plants
in the shape of her feet.

where she'd stepped, a plant had grown.
so he followed the foot shaped plants

and found his wife,
cold and cowering in the woods.

he thanked the strawberry plants
and they vowed to fight no more.

they kept a strawberry plant
in their home at all times

to remind each other
of that horrible night.

and so, this particular tribe
of american indians

who believe this story
keep strawberry plants in their homes

to keep from fighting.

in my dream, i emerged
as a monster made of strawberry plants

i would hear yelling and arguing
i would follow the sounds

until i found the people shouting
and trade them a clump of my being

a small strawberry plant
in exchange for one of their valuables

i would ask them for something
that symbolized their love

i traded with every couple that fought
until i was made of jewelry,

photos and old appliances,
toys and tokens of gratitude.

i traded until i could,
before all the strawberries were gone.

teehee

a new world

it's little stories like this one that give me cause to reflect on the probability of human change. of growth.

twins of a different color

am reading

poetry at Diode

a Review of Origami Shipwreck

Review by Derek Motion at Galatea Resurrects

jolly oh.

on the corner of Cotuit and Pimlico Pond Road

eight twentysomethings walk
uncoupled and sober
around the corner towards the lake

where they discuss the likely hood
of leeches, seamonsters and cereal killers

it's 12am and windy, but the water is warm
and their feet find the slippery rocks
a worthy challenge against balance

their laghter can be heard across the lake
in the neighboring town

by two retired marines
fishing off the side of a dock
remembering what it was like

at twentysomething and single

in the Canterbury Plaza

four leaf clovers grow in excess
behind the local pizza place

two teenagers make out
in the back seat of an accord

as lightning strikes the light post
beside them

and the clovers are nourished
by another summer shower

on Great Neck Road

a young man falls in love
with the busty brown beauty

behind the farm stand

selling local fruits and vegetables
she touches your hand when she hands you your change

and cradles each vegetable
with the compassion of a mother

who watches her first born
ride away on a big yellow bus on the first day of school

the sound

as i changed out of my bathing suit upstairs
into dry clothes that soon turned wet in my haste to return
to the laughing crowd accumulated in my living room

i could hear the laughter and chaos of 8 wet bodies
shuffling in through one door
the cats scampering away, looking for a safe hiding place -

the sound of happiness and comfort.

reoccuring

the bandwidth of neighbors around
an illegal fire. baking in the hidden
life of a forest. seeking kin.

an anthem or march for disunity
for class structure and servitude.
we sing at different volumes. but we all sing.

in our own tents, pitched with pegs
of different metal make,
we consider ourselves resolute and beautiful.

like poets. writing about blossoms
and death, within the same clumsy stanza.

left out

she dreamt of meeting him
in a grocery store

debating over a tea choice
the perfect bag of chai

or a blend of green and white
leaves embedded in silk

a blend of two colors
in a bed of cotton and down

One Eyed Jack in a Box

on a level

the plain taste of gone
simmered in this humidity
leaves an idle wanderer
to learn how to french braid her own hair.