Dizzily Dark Imaginings
2
Category Archives: Poetry
Getting Singed
Is it my imagination, or is it a little bit hot in here???
Femme Fatale
Barbara is standing by to cut my scruffy hair:
but, say–doesn’t that look a bit like an electric chair?
Look at that pair of scissors–oh, boy howdy, are they sharp!
Will my coiffure just leave me playing sad songs on the harp?
I’d say it’s mighty hot in here–a preview glimpse of Hell,
Or maybe just a purgatory-hint, that hairspray smell–
I’m not so absolutely sure that something here is wrong;
and yet, what’s so darned horrible in leaving hair this long?
Is it sheer paranoia and delusion of myself–
Hey! What’s that creepy science stuff in tubes up on the shelf?
I’m getting awfully shaggy, yes, it’s true–but not a Nut!
(I merely hope it’s nothing but my hair that will get cut!)
Oh, Barbara, I am nervous, so please, kindly, Dear, refrain
from trimming quite so near my throbbing jugular, poor vein.
And if you have to croak me (does this happen very often?),
at least make sure I’m wearing stylish hair there in my coffin.
One way or another, I’ll be a hot number when I come out of here.
Change of Venue for a Change of Seasons
I lived most of my life in northern climes. My childhood and many subsequent years spent in the Seattle area naturally color my view of nature and my connections with it, so even though I’ve spent the last four years putting roots down into Texan soil my inner imagery of the season of growth is of sprouts and blooms native to alpine, temperate, rainforest and coastal territory. I appreciate and admire the vast and varied beauties of this wildly different terrain that is my new home, and my heart still resonates joyfully when it comes to those northwest marvels of green and gorgeous living things as well. I don’t think I’ll have to tell you which region inspired these two poems.
The drawings, though, could be a bit more nearly universal. Dandelions, in particular–I can’t think of many places I’ve visited so far that didn’t have a substantial contingent of that sunny little weed blossom. I hardly ever see their smiling faces without thinking of the adorable little enthusiast next door who peered over our fence and, seeing my mother pulling dandelions–and perhaps interpreting this as her enthusiasm for cultivating their charms–piped up to boast enthusiastically (much to her own mother’s chagrin): ‘we’ve got a MILLION of ’em!’ 
In Return
Willingly as daffodils stretch out of the earth
At the first invitation of the sun,
So I come from the dark when my winter ends,
Turn my face up to the blessing sky,
And sigh at the promise of the spearing green
Arising by my feet, even if the icicles
Have not yet
Melted wholly away.
Avalanche Lilies
Amid the muffling drifts of downy snow
That draw the pearly winter sky down low
To kiss the earth once more in early spring
Are sparkling spears of palest glimmering
Green newness, first to show upon the white
And break the slope of frosted winter light
Uncurling soon to show the youthful face
Of spring’s renewal in this sleeping place
If still surrounded by the icy pale
Wild woolliness bedecking hill and vale—
The snow, though mighty, cannot fully stanch
The burst of springtime’s sparkling avalanche
Final Residing Place
Residential Issues
The beaver builds a dam-fine house,
The mouse, a hole-in-one,
The moose and goose, while on the loose,
Take shelter in the sun;
The pigeon curls up in her nest;
Raccoon believes his den is best.
It seems that every one abroad
Creates his ideal home,
Yet every head at last, when dead,
Will end up in the loam.
Therefore, I say, enjoy your port,
Your burrow, hovel, cubby, fort,
And be advised that what you’ve prized
Won’t be your utter last resort,
But rather you’ll take company
With all the beasts moved on
To their reward under the sward,
And to the dirt begone!
The Wild West in the Computer Age
Though the wolves and rustlers may indeed have changed their guises many a time over the years, danger still lurks on every frontier.
Tombstone, Parts I & II
I
A heavy pall hung over the brush
And the sagebrush rolled with a whispery hush
Beware! Beware!, the townsfolk cried:
The killer’s coming! Take cover! Hide!
Call in your children, rescue your wife;
Tether the horse if you value your life!
Your grave is marked, man–hold your breath–
For your desktop bears
The Blue Screen of Death.
II
Well, it’s lonesome, lonesome, lonesome beneath the broad blue sky
If he weren’t way too manly, a poor cowpoke could cry-yi-yi
The Ethernet‘s gone silent and left me all alone
My email has been down for days; no voicemail on my phone
Yes, it’s lonesome, lonesome, lonesome beneath the empty sky
I know my days are numbered and I’ll soon curl up and die-ie-ie
As I slump down o’er the keyboard and draw my terminal breath,
I look up one last time to see
The cold Blue Screen of Death–
Yes, I look up one last time to see
The cold
Blue Screen of Death!
Dear Me! What was I Thinking When I Wrote That Thing?
Here Lies a Loon
Once upon a tombstone
I read an epitaph
whose sentiments ridiculous
were prone to make me laugh;
the information set thereon
gave me to ridicule
the marker and the makings of
some great exquisite fool;
now lest you think me callous and
a soulless Frankenstein,
you ought to know the coup de grâce:
the epitaph was mine.
Will the Blooms Return?
I’m thinking about flowers. [I’m not talking about my cousin’s family, though they’d be a welcome sight in this part of the world as much as any!] Perhaps it’s because, here in Texas, signs of sprouting, budding and even outright blooms are beginning to show all around us: the flowering pear trees are starting to burst like giant batches of popcorn, my infant fringeflower is sporting a deep fuchsia-colored tassel or two, and even the local redbud trees are bravely showing off glimpses of their own hot pinks and purples. It may also be that the influence of a few days spent recently on seasonal cleaning and prep in our yard brings, along with the seasonal sneezing and watering of the old eye-bulbs, the welcome scent of earth and sightings of green specks that seem to increase in size while I watch, reminds me of spring and summers past and favorite blossoms I eagerly await on their return. The recent speedy trip to San Antonio, just enough farther south from us to be a week or two ahead in the race to renew its flora, certainly enhanced my longing for the sight of flowers while it was giving me its own preview. And of course, there’s simply the persistent infatuation with all-things-growing that grips me year-round that might be one of the main instigators of this present hope.
No matter what the cause, my heart is yearning for floral happiness these days.
Too Early to be Called Springtime
Leaning back into the shade
Next to a mirror foxed with age but
Gleaming still with that low glint,
Mercurial, that holds onto its ghosts—those
Pale vapors that have passed
Through the pavilion and its garden greens,
Have dreamed while leaning in
This selfsame shade
Of fading memory and of
Incipient bloom, in this
Just-waking secret garden—
Here I will stay at rest, a shade myself
In the pale green gloaming
Yes, the redbuds are arriving, bees and all; I’m not the only one humming with happiness.
Mysterious Phenomena & Exotic Doings
It’s hard to know what to make of such goings-on . . .
Sharp Objects Falling out of the Sky
On certain Wednesday mornings
Sharp objects from the sky
Come shearing down the sides of clouds
Like spaceships zipping by
And boulders, ashtrays, cutlery
And great meteorites
Come slashing from the heavens
—But clear up by Wednesday nights
. . . but I’ve come to expect the unexpected . . .
Just Another Tall Tale
I May be Texan 2
I never thought to come to Texas, even for a visit,
But serendipity is not predictable, now, is it?
And if I might not so have planned—don’t have a longhorn cow—
Turns out it was a fine surprise to land here anyhow.
Does this make me a second-hand cowhand?
Meditations
Stillness at the Edges
I
We stood along the shore at break of day,
The water lapping gently at our heels,
And heard the distant crying of the seals
At gulls for stealing all their fish away–
The dawn was chill and misty, palely blue,
Our hearts in morning shadow just as cold,
And bone and sinew feeling early old
As soul and body waiting day will do–
The sea was restless, slowing at the last
To push up foam as streaky as the clouds
And gather shells and pebbles in those shrouds
Around our feet, we statues standing fast–
All this, because our spirits captive are
Until revived by sun, our morning star.
II
So lifeless, silent, still and cold are we
When gold has yet to tinge the morning sky,
So empty is the world but for the cry
The seals and gulls raise up in minor key–
So heartless is the morning chill ashore
We stand like stone and cannot take a breath
Until the sun releases us from death
And brings the flame of sentience once more–
At last the light of day draws us to wake,
And we’ll bestir ourselves to act and thrive,
Rejoicing to discover we’re alive
Until the world’s foundations start to shake–
We know the night will come again, and fast,
And so must live each day as if our last.
Art-Colored Glasses 