Monday 30 April 2012

Cracticus nigrogularis

It sits on the sidewalk with its eyes closed,
unmoving like the taxonomist found it
too soon and then forgot it in the sunshine.
It doesn't stir as I approach and I know
it doesn't have much life left inside.
A butcherbird that doesn't care for movement
doesn't care for catching food and impaling
the creatures on the sharp parts of the tree.
It doesn't whistle or sing its complex song;
instead, it waits unmoving on the sidewalk
until it can't even wait any longer.

Sunday 29 April 2012

The High-Vis Lifestyle

Before today's poem, I'd like to thank Vince Gotera for his endorsement and complements on his blog. You should go check out his page for daily poems with gorgeous sensory images, interesting forms, and consistently great poems.

Now today's poem:


At the grocery store, the aisles are lined
with men and women in steel-toed boots
that clunk against the linoleum floors
as they push the barely functional carts
full of pasta and vegetables and long-life
milk in bright blue ultra-pasteurized boxes.
Their button-down shirts of bright yellow
or orange with high visibility reflective
stripes denote a lack of time or concern
or convenience to change before the trip,
and the colors seem to shout, Look at me.
I'm just like everyone else today.

Saturday 28 April 2012

The Couch

I know it's a mistake
to sit down on the couch
in the oven-warmed kitchen
when my eyelids are heavy,
but I do it without noticing.
Then I lie down on my back
because it is too much effort
to keep my head upright,
and since the telly's off,
I let my eyes slip shut
even though it's a mistake.
I have no regrets.

Friday 27 April 2012

Field Report

Howls ring constantly in my ears;
the nerves in my head all fire
and snap without any pauses.
My feet move forward in steps
that seem to grow shorter
and slower as I push forward.
I keep my face looking down,
my sunglasses acting as a screen
from the continuous western wind
that pushes my body and my mind.

Thursday 26 April 2012

Notes from a Heavy Sleeper

When he mentions the fire alarm
that woke everyone during the night,
I stare off in the distance, vacant,
as I try to grasp hold of a feeling
or a sound to tie me to the moment.

A memory flashes across my mind
but it slips through my fingers
like the coarse ribbon of a helium
balloon drifting off into the night.

Wednesday 25 April 2012

Long Days

The stress starts to ebbs
as my eyelids droop lower--
asleep on the couch.

Tuesday 24 April 2012

Friendly Company

The kitchen breeds laughs
that rise above the t.v.
Dialogues begin.

Monday 23 April 2012

Walking the Salt Flats

The red dirt path stretches in a straight line
from the grassy meadow to the wet land
just before the dark red rocks of the hill.
The tire tracks have left two wide ruts
in the trail that rules between the salt flat
on the south and the rivulets that twist
among the mangroves on the north.

When the sun sets, the clouds catch the pink
and throw the color back down to the water
to reflect in the briny water that has fallen still
now that the wind stopped blowing.

Sunday 22 April 2012

Barbeque

The string of lights, bulbs painted
blues, greens, reds, and burnt out yellow,
the mottled grill smoking in the corner
of the back patio's concrete floor,
the daylight fading from the plastic table,
and the small yellow birds gathering
to chirp together for one more time.

Saturday 21 April 2012

The Burrup Flares

Once the sun has fully set
and the pinks begin to fade
into deep navies and black,
the industrial flares glow
brighter oranges that reflect
off the cloud-like structures,
formed of their own smoke.

Friday 20 April 2012

Hot Days

The lightest of strokes paints a warm touch
of pink so pale its almost the color of flesh
across the top of my exposed forearms,
like the heat waves from the midday sun.

Thursday 19 April 2012

Delonix regia

In the chill morning air, moisture-heavy,
the sun peaks over the scorched red dust,
throwing soft pinks, bright yellows,
and flower reds into the scant clouds
until the wavelengths straighten out
and the flames die back into a flawless
blue sky.

In the dry afternoon air, sharp with UV,
the ground smells like kindling, 
ready to burst with fire at any moment,
but vegetation is sparse these months,
just the meager poincianas scattered
across the yard, its flowers still blooming
each day.

Wednesday 18 April 2012

Jumping Spiders

Sometimes, the spiders drop from the ceiling
to face-level between the laboratory benches
like Christmas decorations hung on wire
so thin that it seems like the ornament floats,
and we have to swipe our hand through the air
just above their small bodies to see they are
still attached to the mottled white surface at all.

We let them drop to the counters and scurry
off to hide until they're ready to drop once more,
the tiniest bungee jumpers on a line like silk.

Tuesday 17 April 2012

Burnt

The trick is to never put your hands
under the running water until it has time
to cool down, because the hot water
scalds with a sudden sharp scream
of the nerves and you cannot pull
your hands back in time to avoid
the bright pain that makes your eyes
turn red and stay tightly closed.

Monday 16 April 2012

Snorkeling 1

I hesitate at the back of the boat,
the water splashing over my feet,
but I can't bring myself to jump
or slide into the ocean just yet.

The water seems clear, a smooth
turquoise film hiding scattered
dark spots that must be coral,
but I still remain too hesitant
with my mask already in place
until I'm beckoned forward.

I panic, then fit my snorkel
into my mouth like it'll help
calm my breathing before I jump
head first into the cool water.

Sunday 15 April 2012

Red & Blue

We notice the flashing red and blue lights
well before we determine their location.
At least five police cars, maybe more,
maybe in our path, or at the end
of the airport runway or in the bush.
It could be a checkpoint or a collision,
a fire that's gone out or a false alarm.

Our car slows as the officer shines
a light directly into the windshield
as if he thinks we'll try to blow
passed him out of curiosity, naivety,
or an intense need to reach home,
so we stop and let him approach.

The road is closed, he tells us,
brusque, all business and determination.
But then the humanity enters his voice,
It's not a pretty site up there.
The road is closed for another hour.


We ask about the alternative route
and plead for any details he'll spare,
anything to shake loose the images
that have taken root and grow in our minds.
He doesn't hesitate as he spills the precious 
information that they aren't our coworkers--

and that isn't enough but it must be for now.
We K-turn to find another route home.

Saturday 14 April 2012

Wishing for Sea Legs

The sea rocked the boat
in slow but measured movements
that I can still feel.

Friday 13 April 2012

The Growing Tree

The leaves on the tree grow downward,
toward the dirt path and cobblestone patio,
its brighter green leaves marking how much time
has passed since I first came to this site
and would walk under the branch
without paying it much attention.

As weeks continued, the leaves would brush
my hair as I passed, and they continued to grow
until I had to duck around the lowest branches
to avoid a face full of new growth-green leaves.

As months passed, the leaves came to block
the trodden path and a new path emerged,
circling around the curtain of flora
as we all were forced to take notice.

Now, the fresh green leaves lie sideways
in the dirt, still attached to the branch,
but the branch is no longer attached to the tree
and we no longer pay attention to its growth.

Thursday 12 April 2012

A Tritina for a Rainy Day

When all of the earth is charred dusty red
and the daytime air holds too much heat,
we all appreciate the tinkling sound of rain

against our windows and the cool touch of rain
against our skin and hair as it beats the heat
that makes us sweat and turns our skin red;

the clouds mute the sunrise's usual bright red,
but a few sunbeams break through the rain
with a weak attempt to create more desert heat.

But the unexpected rain contains the red hot heat.

Wednesday 11 April 2012

The Thief in My Mind

There's a thief hiding in my mind,
sneaking around the very edges,
darting into the hippocampus,
and teasing through my memories.

His feet remain bare for stealth;
his catsuit is wrinkled with wear
and must be brain matter gray.

He's not a great thief, though,
because he takes the obvious:
what I had for dinner on Monday
and what happened last night
between turning off the lamp
and jarring awake to the alarm.

Maybe he's still in training,
working to become more stealthy.
Maybe he's grown too cocky
to try to cover his tracks.

Or maybe he is a decent thief.
I don't have an insurance plan
or an itemized list of the precious
things I store in my mind,
so a few must have been lifted,
only to be returned to me
in the quiet times when I stumble
across the thief and his cache.

Tuesday 10 April 2012

The Golden Orb Weaver

Under the metal roof that echoes
when it rains, the golden orb
weaver has built her web, 
stretching from the rickety 
back door to the old, faded beam
near the eaves. She waits
in the middle, a trail of carcasses
and miscellaneous debris line
down the center like a landing strip
or an arrow pointing to her home.

She stays still most days, dark hairy
legs spread from the oversized
almost-pearlescent abdomen.

But sometimes she rushes forward
at the barest hint of a vibration,
scrambles with her oversized legs 
in her search for the cause.
Then she returns to the center
of her web to fall still, waiting 
for one more interruption 
from her daily routine. 

Monday 9 April 2012

Overflow

On the scorched red dirt
where the sea water once ran,
salt glitters like stars.

Sunday 8 April 2012

Staircase to the Moon

The locals call it a staircase--
or maybe that's just the tourist centers--
when the moon, large and swollen
with light, peaks over the horizon,
over the red mountains turned black
with the night, over the bays
that are more mud than brine
at the low tide. The light shines
across the water but cannot impact
the swaths of mud flats so thick
they can bog a quad or a truck
or an ignorant person in gum boots.

I don't see a staircase in the stripes
of light that lead to the moon,
but I do see a path stretched out
like a hopscotch game or a zebra
crossing from the moon in the sky
to the moon in the sea.

Saturday 7 April 2012

Transport

The car rattles down the dirt road,
potholes and wheel treads
rocking us with a threatening
amount of force. It feels safe
as it roars and dips over the red
dust roads.

The headlights bounce and flash
as we round the large bend.
The stars shine brightly above,
the only other light in this off-road
maze of trails that lead us to stillness.

The conversation has died,
a necessity and concession
to the the thunderous rumble
of a tiny car in the Pilbara.

Friday 6 April 2012

Home Remedies

He looks at me like I'm crazy
as I crouch over the stained
and wavy linoleum. My cup
is filled with water and vinegar
as I trace over the scent trails
the ants follow to the sweets
that I didn't remember.
I sweep the rag down the walls,
around the cabinets, methodically
herding the ants to the door
without crushing them.

He starts to laugh as I climb
onto the desk to reach
the molding around the ceiling
that they use as a highway
to do laps around the room.

He asks if maybe I'm paranoid
when I sprinkle cinnamon
across the threshold to the bathroom
and at the frame of the entryway
where they slip inside and reappear
at the top of the door.

They've outsmarted me three times,
I tell him. I won't underestimate
their cunning and courage anymore.

Thursday 5 April 2012

Flowers I Cannot Name


I bought myself a bouquet
of flowers I cannot name:
purple bursts of pompoms,
kelly leaves rimmed in fuchsia,
and pink bulbs more fruit-like
in appearance than wildflowers.

I arranged them in a vacuum flask,
too broken to be anything
other than an half-hearted vase
with a too small opening.

I peeled back the curtain,
used a dirty blue clothespin
to let the afternoon sunlight burn
its way into my room.

Wednesday 4 April 2012

Kitchen Wares

A sharp crack breaks
through the mixture of English
and French, and the words
fall still for just a moment.

Another insect, too curious,
couldn't resist the neon blue
light and the dangerous coils.

With the second crack, you stop
stirring the pot to glance over,
not yet used to the electrical snap
of moths, mosquitos, and housefiles.

But, soon, you will forget the sound
and only the warning label
will remember that the blue burns
with the strength to clear a room.

Tuesday 3 April 2012

Monday 2 April 2012

Humidity

The wind pushes my hair
across my bare shoulders
and makes the heavy air dance 
with the hem of my dress.
The hairs on my arms rise
with the memory of cool
spring showers back home,

but it's autumn here.
And the sky's still unfettered
cobalt stretched like a canopy 
between red hills.

Sunday 1 April 2012

Fly Paper


In the kitchen, the air
conditioner drones heavily
but I only hear the buzz
over the table, the fly,
frantic and trapped
against the tan sheen
of sticky ribbon, spiraling
down from the ceiling
like a staircase.

Only it can’t walk anymore,
its legs forever adhered
to the chemically irresistible
fragrance in the room.

My disgust and helplessness
are not for the desperate
but dying fly, struggling
just above where I will eat
tonight.

A Quick Introduction

Why one poem a day?

By forcing myself to publish one poem each and every day I’m committing to the oft-quoted advice of writing something, anything every single day. I also hope to strengthen my poetic voice and share my perspective.



Why reject perfectionism?

The goal is not to publish perfect poems every time, but rather to create something and continue to practice. I’m not going to spend time tinkering endlessly and mulling over word choice every day. Some days, yes, I’ll take the time to indulge my perfectionist tendencies, but most days, I’m just offering thoughts, observations, and feelings-- in verse.



Why cultivate awareness?

I believe the best poems start with honesty and grow from that kernel of truth into powerful works of fiction or non-fiction.



Why start now?

April is National Poetry Month in the United States, and April 1 is the kick-off for National Poetry Writing Month, a challenge to write one poem a day for the month of April.



Why so much eco-poetry?

That’s just what I tend to notice most, and it’s the biggest difference between West Virginia and Western Australia.