Cracking nuts

I open the creaky drawer

in the tiny cabin kitchen

looking for a spatula

to turn the grilled cheeses

when I come across a set

of silver braided nutcrackers

In a flash I am sitting

near the stone fireplace

at Christmastime

seven years old and marveling

at how quickly my father

can shell the pecans

and uncover the bumpy

flesh of the walnuts

that we all agree

look like tiny brains

Now here it sits

the hand powered appliance

looking foreign in its antiquity

and I can't help but think

that no child today

would be able to identify

the strange two-legged utensil

Nuts come in green cans

on supermarket shelves

don't they?

I determine then and there

to track down a set and buy it

so that my children will know

that not everything in life

comes pre-shelled and easy

but sometimes it tastes better

when you crack it yourself

Stories in the sky

Grecian statue clouds

mailable marble above

first a goddess on high

her noble profile

swept with curled tendrils

of a windblown mane

strong sure Roman nose

tall thin neck

stretching longer now

until woman becomes swan

beak from nose

wings born of lustrous locks

graceful swift bird

swimming through the air

she tries to escape

the rabbit turned fox

stalking up from behind

finally he leaps forward

and upon landing

is engulfed by the swan

predator and prey merge

begetting the angel

messenger of heaven

ablaze with a holy call

flying higher and higher

and the cumulus minstrels

keep telling stories in the sky

The constellation of caring

Galileo Galilei famously declared

that he loved the stars too dearly

to be fearful of the night

and it is an enviable sentiment

But what of those dark hours

when the fog is so thick

even the nearest garden lamps

are cloaked in mire

Where are those glittering promises

when the torrent batters the roof

and knocks out the lights

both inside and out

It takes a rocket of imagination

to carve a path through the blackness

and the unstable fusion power

of faith as a propellant

But when no fuel can be found

to blast through the ominous clouds

one must seek closer heavenly lights

to love and hold dear to dispel the fear

There is the luminosity of tender words

the brightness of back rubs

and the warmth of cold compresses

there is the constellation of caring

The small and the mighty

An assembly line of worker ants

pass the pale pearl larva

up the Everest of my swing set pole

like a baton in a relay race

a processional of glistening offerings

headed to the mountain top

a sacrifice to the god of the small

and the mighty

they have abandoned the mound

for a pilgrimage in search of sky

how sure footed they are

carrying translucent sacks

twice their size up and up

as if their ignorance of gravity

had made them immune to it

the pace speeds as dusk descends

soon it becomes a race

between these purposeful insects

and the turning of the world

but this large and lumbering planet

has never stood a chance

in the face of such zealous efficiency

If only

How that caboose must have sailed

must have chortled and chugged with life

compartments filled with fancy luggage

walls brimming with bawdy laughter

over after dinner drinks

and unfiltered cigarette smoke

How silent it sits now

on its piece of track to nowhere

retired to the woods, left behind

rotted siding like missing teeth

cataract clouded windows

rusty hinges, stiff and stuck

How expectant it seems up close

with that wheel in front that can still turn

the empty stove just waiting

for a shovelful of coal

and if only someone

would lay some track through that field

it would ride the rails right out of here

How the trees would cheer

how the bayberry bush would shiver with envy

Dog Years

I wonder why a dog's life

must be so truncated

when they keep so well

the doctor prescribed

lifestyle for longevity

plenty of rest

plenty of exercise

no anxiety nor stress

no sugar nor alcohol

not a single vice

save loving too much

and peeing on my roses

yet there they sit

shelf life getting shorter

with each wag and wiggle

blissfully unaware

living a guru's life

each moment full and free

quality if not quantity

and while I watch their

eyes squinted with the pleasure

of a well placed scratch

it becomes very clear

that they have already

out-lived me

Out the window

Porcelain dinner plate sun

more moon than star

extinguished by the miasma

of an indecisive summer day

neither rain nor shine

just a cold white ceramic disk

Summer Street

The smell of fresh asphalt

carries me back to summer parades

hard candy thrown from homemade floats

red wagons with crepe paper tails

melted vanilla ice cream on black top

invisible snakes rising to make the world swoon

near a booth of ruffled purple parasols

with embroidered monograms for sale

next to swirling vats of frozen lemonade

in a town that time screamed past

like police sirens in a parade

officers in cop cars waving

while firemen sound the horn

upon request with a pump of the fist

and the dip of an elbow

the tissue in my bra didn't keep its shape

but it did keep me dry when the sun

reached it's apex and the grown ups

took cover under cool green awnings

while the kids continued to roam free and wild

and I endured the scorching pavement

waiting for a boy in a blue polo shirt

to buy me an airbrushed t-shirt

with our names emblazoned like comets

when I turned a bright shade of pink

it was not a sun burn

but the tender pain of summer bliss

that tasted like a watermelon Jolly Rancher

urban wasteland

the water torture beeping

of an unseen truck backing up

mixed with muffled rap music

from a passing low rider

drowns the frenetic beats

rising from the Greek cafe on the corner

while bats squeak overhead

hunting mosquitoes, seeking blood

and a plush coffin cover of clouds

slides over the day in this dying town

as a seventeenth century steeple

rises above it all

to administer Last Rights

to the soulless box of a strip mall

and the abandoned deli

with it's blue pleather seats cracked

with sun exposure and unfulfilled dreams

all while a bumble bee tries in vain

to find some peace and shelter

in a neglected hedge before the frost

settles unto his wings

pulling him from the sky

like a helicopter with a broken rotor

and all of the aerodynamics

of an iron anvil

just as the neon lights

of the electronics store pop on

with a hum and a flicker