Fables

Each of my last two books included a chapter of fables:  mostly short vignettes of individuals wrestling (sometimes consciously, sometimes not) with a defining issue.  Here are a few: 

The Pencils of Elowen

elowen with her twin boys

and older son john

and younger son daniel

has so much to tend to

so much to untangle

it’s no wonder she forgets

all she wants to create

the red box that holds the yellow pencils

in two neat rows flat on each end

at the back of her desk drawer

late in summer

with the daily mustering

and the bellowing of the wind

the beechnuts fall from husks

through triangular windows

onto the ground in numbers beyond count

cascading from the silhouette of the tree

whose branches are still within reach

massive in the open meadow

as the angles of day’s last sun

fade into its smooth gray bark

alone for an anxious moment 

between exhausted moments

she reminds herself

they’re all nuts

what’s the point

of raking them up

she repeats it again

what she’s known all along

it keeps happening before

most of the seeds

rot in the earth

a few don’t 

some of the pencils

get sharpened

most won’t

The Memories of Florence

florence

the realist painter

in frayed denim

with her floppy hat

with too many cats

with fading tattoos

has lost her way

in the gloaming 

to keep out

the sadness

of the world

to close her door

to the sorrow

the iron hinges

have snapped

from rust

from use

from the openings

the closings

she cannot forget

she mutes the colors

on the brushes

that touch her canvas

carelessly smudges

the charcoal studies

of the overhanging trees

alone

most nights

she listens

to the creaking

of the nemorous dark

watches without regret

what never should have begun

become 

Alphonse II

oh if only

twa was still flying

what journeys

we might travel

through the

accumulated clouds

together on its

silver wings

so woke

so wiser

alphonse was

already quite dead

like the hughes’ airline

a bankruptus americanus

when the bud light

boycott blossomed

like the flowers of

humulus lupulus

sprouting from

the vigorous vines

of white grievance

a controversy

about a transgender

influencer promoting

lightness when

everyone knows

only female hops

make beer

alphonse

was named after

his pop and always

was second but

would have been first

in his hatred for

the “t” in trans world

would have given

up with gusto

his beer to embrace

the controversy

wheels up

no landing thus

we can say

all this

with fear

but without

equivocation

because dead

white men

never shut up

whiskey pints killed

alphonse the first

and the second

was done in

in large part

by a full-throated

daily imbibing

of the insipid

pale lager

of a sister brand

promoted with

big horses 

Andrea 

the night of

the lunar

new year

and nothing

changes

for andrea

at the

anchor

desk

but her point

in the cycle

of chaos

the breaking

cable news

that binds us

is another

slaughter

of folks

who gathered

together

quietly

inside

a synagogue  

to pray

far away

from the horror

she fills

the numbing gaps

between the

names and faces

of the dead

by reporting

in her

broadcast

statistics

that compare

the alleged

perpetrator’s age

to the median age

of mass shooters

David 

david the letter carrier from

the old neighborhood

ended the night

on a stretcher beneath

the spinning reds

of an ambulance

his upper lip

with an unintended

lambent moustache

painted on his tired face

by the glow stick

he carried against the dark

that exploded from the bullets

from the rocks hurled

as he marched with others

in the slow procession

to the white house

to protest

in sober silence the

permanent closing

of the post office

the first executive order

of the president to mark

the start of his second term