July 7-20, 2014: Rosalind J. Lee and Russ Cope

The Wave Length Grass…

It’s not funny how easy it is to murder without sound,
an easy victim. Watch how they never comprehend –
the slightest whim, the musical clues, see how they dream.
.
The night romantic, the cobweb trees, the wave length grass,
a perfect night for a long wished end. News of the war:
over an old wound. When the moon rises, the Screech Owl
.
leaves the mast of the ship rises in seas of wind, his wings a curtain
closed, open, closed, his heart mirrors mine, each beat unsought.
"Are you mine?" He calls, to the clothed rat below, "Mine, Mine?"
.
It isn’t love, this perfect end. Far simpler than that, a continuation;
a meal caught alive. The rat reaches up and snaps, "No. I’m not!"
Too late, his squeak too high for the Owl’s ears, simply dies.
.
The Owl caught in exploration of ties, and laces, and buttons:
almost cries, frustration in spite curled claws, "Meals should not be wrapped!"
Leaves the bones, bent. His motion spent, he spirals to the Tao stream.
.
Thunder by: thunder by; the night races and threads the stars, in dainty glaze.
The air moves, the light bends, refracts, expands, widens and splays
as a woman does, in coitus, to the man she loves.

Ants…

Ants abound
born under ground
caught mid action
pro-active in a cola can.

Kin

That woman over there
Squatting behind the truck
is not my skin
not mine, I swear
even though she calls my
name and even though
we look alike
we are not related
Pardon me as I get in
the truck with her.

Java

grinding early morning smell full of energy gives me hope helps me remember
who I am and when I drink too much everyone knows about it I talk about my
favorite tv shows and how they feature antiheroes and tell stories about God and
balloons and parades

This Is Not Mama

I know she looks like mama
smells like mama
but the cooking’s off
something bad is in the oven.