The tree in front of my house drips leaves
So red they’re almost purple, hanging
Low like they’re filled with the juice of a ripe
Plum, and ready to drop to the ground
With a fat thud.
 
A thud, like the sound of a bottle,
Thick glass tumbling off the table and not
Breaking. It rolls across the hardwood,
Waking the dog, who jumps up in fright,
Nails scratching the floor.
 
A scratch, etched deep into my arm, from
Shoulder to elbow, from where mom tried to
Grab me as I pushed past her naked, staggering

fingers of lightning
         2 hands in movement
streak-scratch across framed faces
         animation illusion 
illuminating
         beckoning fingers

****

either bit her nails
or clawed out of a coffin
(fingernails tell tales)
fascinated by her tips-
manicuriousity

****

each syllable lovingly fingered/
         the sweetest stench of brilliance lingered

****

(some syllable counts
Americanized English

fingers of lightning
         2 hands in movement
streak-scratch across framed faces
         animation illusion 
illuminating
         beckoning fingers

****

either bit her nails
or clawed out of a coffin
(fingernails tell tales)
fascinated by her tips-
manicuriousity

****

each syllable lovingly fingered/
         the sweetest stench of brilliance lingered

****

(some syllable counts
Americanized English

I Remember Phyllis

was fond of fixing fancy dishes
for her friends, her girl and boy;
loved her little pond of fishes:
shubunkin hobnobbing with koi.
When three were snatched by a hungry heron,
she hollered, “Gluttonous robber baron!”
Still and all, when life would look
as bleak as a cold, unmoving brook,
she’d play some Scrabble with her daughter,
unscrambling letters, while her ills
came down like hail no docs nor pills
could heal. The cancer-monster caught ’er.
Yet, though the dread malignancy

In that moment of swimming upwards from a dream,
realising that you must have been asleep after all,
you hear a strange hush in the darkened room,
and from the grass below.
The night-time house is breathing quietly,
free from the daily scrutiny,
while all around,
the garden in dark grey tones,
waiting to see what will happen next.
 
Waiting to see what will happen next,
the garden in dark grey tones.
While all around,
free from the daily scrutiny,
the night-time house is breathing quietly.
And from the grass below,

He doesn't care and doesn't understand
why others do.  They wince to see his face,
exposed in ways he surely never planned.
 
Entitlement's his watchword hand in hand
with never getting caught in life's embrace.
He doesn't care and doesn't understand
 
the flow of conversation, how to land
a point.  He shoves it awkward into place,
exposed in ways he surely never planned.
 
He shakes his gory locks despite the grand
or simple setting, poisons every space:
he doesn't care and doesn't understand.