Slicing the Sunlight

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Nolcha Fox

 

 

 

This day is the start

of the end
of daylight
savings time.
Time is
backward and
upside down,
a waterfall
of bouncy balls.

 

 

 

 

 

SHE’S BUILT FOR SPEED

She paints her face with rouge
and lipstick, cherry red to match
her Mustang. Men all know
when she’s around, a summer
storm of silk and jasmine, showing
just a hint of lace in every place
a hand might wander. Watch her
smile at speeds that leave
the crowds behind in dust.

 

 

 

 

POSTCARDS

She calls him, hangs up
before he answers.
She leaves. Reds. Golds.
No message. Ablaze.
She sends postcards
from the precipice
to her mailbox,
to remind her
someone cares,
she’s not alone.

 

 

 

 

 

SHAKY GROUND

We cannot talk
with you erupting,
volcano spewing
molten lava, toxic clouds.

We cannot eat
with you a rupture,
earthquake shaking
dishes, silver.

I cannot survive
you, force of nature,
when I am on
your shaky ground.

 

 

 

 

I’ve chased your logic

through rat-trap doors,
through corridors
that trip my sanity.
Plaster powders
to the floor,
the walls begin
to warp my will.
Your moldy words
race out of reach
or slither to the ceiling.
You’d think that I
would learn by now
to simply walk away,
and leave you
trapped in
crumbling castles
of your own devising.

 

 

 

 

BLACK HOLES LIVE AMONG US

Black holes suck up space
and spit stars out behind them.

You sucked me dry, left only skin
and bone and hair, spit out sparks
from car exhaust that vanished
into twilight.

 

 

 

 

 

Sharp words

slice the sunlight
into little
pats of butter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My grandmother always told me I’d get sick if….

I broke the barefoot

rule, shoes always,
even in the heat
of summer, and I
never caught a cold.

 

 

 

 

This body is a home

to hangnails,
stuffy nose
and runny eyes,
a hair that
roosts upon
my chin
(a present
from my grandma).
A clutter
of confusion,
early mornings,
sleepless nights,
my body yearns
for what it’s not:
to be the sun,
the wind,
the moon,
a whistling train
that follows
geese across
the clouds,
to shed its skin
and fly.

 

 

 

 

When we are older

and think no more of girth or height,
we’ll reign in neutered majesty bequeathed by age
on wooden chairs beneath the tree.
We’ll strut in baggy saggy clothes
and dye our hair in blues and reds.
We’ll hoard cats and attitude.
We won’t see dust or crooked frames.
We won’t care what people say,
we won’t hear them anyway.
We will dine on wind and sun,
and thank the Lord for cheap sweet wine.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Size doesn’t matter

to a 13-pound dog
berating a bulldozer.

—Nolcha Fox

_____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan











 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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