—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Original Art by Vangie Hansen, Buffalo, WY
BLAME THE RACCOON
I throw open my front door,
to find things are missing. Again.
The potted tomato plant,
missing tomatoes.
The umbrella I set out
to dry on the porch,
twirled to oblivion.
And where’s my yellow
Volkswagen Beetle?
Did it elope with
a butterfly?
Blame Robber Raccoon,
the neighborhood scourge,
says Miss Lee next door.
I think I know the real thief.
It’s sunrise, creeping
on tiptoe, trampling
the roses, stealing the night.
Eating the tomatoes,
taking my car for a
joy ride (I’ll find it later,
halfway down the street).
Stomping mud on the
sidewalk, spinning my
umbrella, before getting
down to the business of the day.
But if I find my umbrella
up in the tree, it’s definitely
Robber Raccoon.
I throw open my front door,
to find things are missing. Again.
The potted tomato plant,
missing tomatoes.
The umbrella I set out
to dry on the porch,
twirled to oblivion.
And where’s my yellow
Volkswagen Beetle?
Did it elope with
a butterfly?
Blame Robber Raccoon,
the neighborhood scourge,
says Miss Lee next door.
I think I know the real thief.
It’s sunrise, creeping
on tiptoe, trampling
the roses, stealing the night.
Eating the tomatoes,
taking my car for a
joy ride (I’ll find it later,
halfway down the street).
Stomping mud on the
sidewalk, spinning my
umbrella, before getting
down to the business of the day.
But if I find my umbrella
up in the tree, it’s definitely
Robber Raccoon.
LOVE IS A FISH
With Apologies to Lyndi
Love is not a bird
bursting out of my body
at the sound of a voice,
the touch of a hand.
No, love is a fish,
flopping on dry land,
gasping for air,
killing flies with its stink.
And I’m a fisherman,
good only for telling tales,
about the ones that got away
(they were THIS big).
So how did I catch you?
RUMOR
Someone spread
an elaborate
rumor about me.
Something about
growing wings,
sliding down
rainbows,
rappelling
through clouds.
Someone thinks
my feet have
detached from
the ground,
that I can’t
be trusted
to be normal,
humdrum,
stodgy.
Rumor?
I think
It’s truth.
Someone spread
an elaborate
rumor about me.
Something about
growing wings,
sliding down
rainbows,
rappelling
through clouds.
Someone thinks
my feet have
detached from
the ground,
that I can’t
be trusted
to be normal,
humdrum,
stodgy.
Rumor?
I think
It’s truth.
COLORS ARE RUNNING
Colors are running, rain on a painting.
They streak nude through the streets.
Rose, turquoise, purple, they reach up to moonlight,
they dance on the roof to the beat of the rain.
Purple stops at Mom’s place to go through old photos.
Turquoise grabs a latté, then leaps into bed.
Rose steals my car, then blows through a stop sign.
I get the ticket, and win a cigar.
COW CANDY
When the nurses
were nodding,
a cow unpeeled
itself from
the nursery wall.
“That one,”
she mooed.
A good mama,
she licked my
head, a lollipop.
Now my hair
whorls and swirls
every which way,
a blender
disaster.
Invectives
don’t impress it.
Hair clips
and curlers,
brief relief.
Five minutes
later, my mane
is insane.
The final
solution,
cut it down
to the nub.
When the nurses
were nodding,
a cow unpeeled
itself from
the nursery wall.
“That one,”
she mooed.
A good mama,
she licked my
head, a lollipop.
Now my hair
whorls and swirls
every which way,
a blender
disaster.
Invectives
don’t impress it.
Hair clips
and curlers,
brief relief.
Five minutes
later, my mane
is insane.
The final
solution,
cut it down
to the nub.
OLD BARN
You make me brake,
you take my breath,
I park my car and ponder,
every time I drive this road.
What would I find if I walked in?
Perhaps some mice,
some cats and sheep
take shelter in your belly.
Perhaps you house
a child’s laugh, some
rusted tools, the
haunting ghosts of famine.
Perhaps I’d find the love I left
for one I thought was better.
But you will never let me go,
you always bring me home.
You make me brake,
you take my breath,
I park my car and ponder,
every time I drive this road.
What would I find if I walked in?
Perhaps some mice,
some cats and sheep
take shelter in your belly.
Perhaps you house
a child’s laugh, some
rusted tools, the
haunting ghosts of famine.
Perhaps I’d find the love I left
for one I thought was better.
But you will never let me go,
you always bring me home.
BEST REVENGE
Who is that woman
in the mirror?
It must be my mother,
not me.
I am a much
younger version
of the woman
that I see.
I wrap myself in
robes of joy,
more tightly
in my boundaries.
With a spade
I dig a hole
and plant
my feet.
The best revenge
is to blossom.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Don’t assume the animal digging through your trash at night is a raccoon. It might just be a carny in a bear suit.
—Unknown
____________________
Good morning, Wyoming, and thanks for Big Horn poetry from Nolcha Fox, with watercolors by Vangie Hansen from a future book the two of them have put together. Some of these poems have been published: thanks to Wilder Literature for publishing “Love Is a Fish” and thanks to Duck Head Journal for publishing “Best Revenge” and “Unnecessary” (under the title “Self-Portrait”). Remember that the Kitchen accepts previously published poetry.
Artists are drawn to beautiful areas, and the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains in Buffalo, Wyoming are no exception. Vangie Hansen, an awesome watercolor artist (and photographer), is inspired every day by the sheer beauty of stunning sunrises, sunsets, sparkling mountain streams, and the copious varieties of mountain wildflowers. She uses transparent watercolors to express herself in bright color and enlarged compositions, and is widely known for her floral and western paintings and original cards. Welcome to the Kitchen, Vangie—and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
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