—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
reminds me leaves will drop
and brown and crunch and scatter,
that soon I’ll wrap my brittle bones
in fleece and wool and shivers,
that sidewalks will be coated ice
and I must watch my step,
that snow and ice will melt in spring
and bring us fruit and flowers.
This body is
a log, a chiseled
thing with wooden
a boat of timber,
in the woods.
darkness, the streetlights
drink starlight, the moon
hides her face underneath
a black curtain, clock faces
are blank, the lamps
cast no shadow, the silence
is louder than my beating heart.
Poe would love a room like this,
with peril predetermined.
While some see books from floor to roof,
I see an earthquake burial.
lace curtain lifts
to the whispers
of the wind.
hanging on the rack.
all the secrets
spread by breezes
the sunlit room.
to sleep by
gossip they heard
So soft and so squishy,
he flavors his meal
with some salt and small skulls
of the unwitting victims
he lured from the depths
with a deli of sweetly
You sing through the keyhole,
move curtains and lampshades
to dance to a tune I can only imagine.
I listen for words, but I only hear whispers that
promise much more than my poor ears can bear.
The piano keys move, but there’s nobody playing
the melodies haunting each room in the house.
Please show yourself, don’t be so coy,
I won’t hurt you. I only love music,
I want to applaud.
Your death was a blur, you spinning
wildly around the borders
of my life.
Once I believed
I could do anything,
not knowing what
anything might be.
I did it anyway.
I am nothing.
WHEN I AM DEAD
will I miss the rise and set
of sun that marked the
borders of my days?
Will I miss spring rain,
fall leaves that blow and hide
beneath the sparkling snow?
Will I need these pleasures,
or will I simply rest in
just not being, free of pain
and age and worries?
Will that be enough for me?
a yellow leaf
between its bone-chilled fingers,
gifting it to starry night
as keepsake for tomorrow.
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her (somewhat) dark poems to mark this season of ghosts and goblins!
Poetry of the Sierra Foothills
features Estela Victoria-Cordero
and Paul Aponte plus open mic at
Chateau Davell in Camino today, 2pm.
For info about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
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(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
Nolcha spins tales of
brittle bones, lamps
whispers of promise