The call of the Great Horned Owl

I hear a nighttime sound within my room

Who’s that, hooting right at noon?

a Great Horned Owl, a Screech, a loon

Whose call disturbs this sun instead of moon?

 

What owl hoots by my window right at noon?

my senses must be dampened by my sleep

Whose call could disturb this sunny room?

a false owl, raven, such a tiny peep

 

Surely my ears deceive me, drunk from sleep

it cannot be an owl, no not at noon

a false owl,  perhaps, a finch’s tiny peep

I’m not awake, I’m weary still from sleep

 

It cannot be an owl, no not at noon

perhaps a Great Horned Owl, a Screech, a loon?

I awaken, weary from my sleep

lulled by a nighttime sound within my room

 

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Tulips: A Tritina

Up and down my street, flouncy tulips

flaunt their colorful be-turbaned

heads, bowing and dancing in the April

 

breeze. I watch, transfixed, how every April

gray and brown succumb  to everything tulip,

magenta, peach, yellow, diaphanous petals, turbans

 

like those for which they are named. Maybe. Or “turbans”

was a mistaken translation. Either way, welcome April,

the tulips emerge, evocative, suggestive, tulips

 

Tulips, tulips. April, intoxicate me with your petals, your turbans, your fuchsia, your green.

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Delaware

Delaware, I’m not going to lie: we have nothing

in common. I’m mountainous and you, you

barely keep your nose above water. Highest

point: 450 feet. That’s not even a baguette

in the road. But I like your name. “What did Della wear?”

Or, truthfully, the name of an English Baron,

De La Warr. You were the first: first to ratify

the Constitution. First to become a state,

December 7, 1787. But Delaware, we have never

intermingled. I thought I had driven through you,

but I was mistaken in that, as in so many things.

Delaware, let’s make a pact, to become better

acquaintanced. We both love potatoes.  I’m going

Right now to get some tangy Boardwalk fries.

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Battlestar Galactica sonnet

I need Battlestar Galactica, the way

a junkie needs smack, an addiction more

fierce than lust, a need that may

lead to more need, how, when the story

moves toward resolution we approach myth,

every character becomes an archetype: the leader,

the rebel, the heroine. I want to be the pissed

off, ass-kicking Starbuck: pilot, drinker, gambler,

puncher, harbinger of death. I still don’t know

if she will save humanity or destroy it. Who cares?

She’s sexy, focus of the hottest men on the show:

Lee and Anders. That’s all TV is anyway, story stripped bare:

Plot manipulations to get characters to in bed and fuck,

People we’d want to sleep with if only we had such luck.

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April 3 Spring Pantoum

Euphorbia myrsinites

When pulses of light heave to air

the bulge and bloom of growth,

around late March through April,

if you walk along a certain trail

the bulge and bloom of growth

as alien as a neon sign will stop you.

If you walk along a certain trail

you will see a plant that doesn’t belong,

as alien as a neon sign in the Arctic,

all blue green leaves spiraling like stars—

the plant that doesn’t belong, you see—

stars from sprawling stems that bleed

blue green leaves spiraling like stars.

It is a lovely plant, vibrant with color,

sprawling stems and stars that bleed

milk when their outer layer is pierced.

It is a lovely plant, vibrant with color,

but beware of their inner poison of

milk when their outer layer is pierced.

As ornamentals we introduced them,

but beware of their inner poison.

From Eurasia they entered the States,

as ornamentals we introduced them.

They thrive in harsh, dry climates.

From Eurasia they entered the States.

It is illegal to plant them in Colorado.

They thrive in harsh drier climates.

They have spread through the foothills.

It is illegal to plant them in Colorado.

North ridge of Big Cottonwood Canyon—

they have spread through the foothills—

just in the mouth, along an old mining track,

North ridge of Big Cottonwood Canyon,

they bloom inbetween native Gambel oak,

just in the mouth along an old mining trail,

around abandoned slabs of concrete.

Around late March through April

they bloom inbetween native Gamble oak

when pulses of light heave to air

just in the mouth along an old mining trail.

Ug!

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Spring Pantoum (april 3)

In the damp gray-green morning
I believe that the rain will rain
forever, that the sun is an idea
we’ve forgotten, been forgotten by

I believe the rain will rain
until we rise, weeping, the tears
we’ve forgotten, been forgotten by
for weeks, while the sun professed

Until we rise, weeping, the tears
will decay, jewels of grief,
for weeks, when the sun professed
ideas we longed to believe in

We’ll decay, jewels of grief,
paroxysms of carbon and light,
ideas we longed to believe in
as ourselves, liquid and constant

Paroxysms of carbon and light
We are rain, tears, light,
we are ourselves, liquid and constant,
like the rain, like tears, falling

We are rain, tears, light.
We are forever the sun, an idea
like the rain, falling like tears
in the damp gray-green morning

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