MindSpinner

An eight-point buck
crosses a harvest field
gold at daybreak, his regal antlers
lit by morning.

My son
achieves his first string of successes,
at just shy of eighteen, a recruiter’s target
etched now on his forehead.

And what do I think
when I see them both,
the buck and the boy almost a man -
both beautiful, young, and strong -
stepping out boldly into possibility
without grasping danger?

What do I think but “Run!
It’s almost hunting season!”

At CNN the morning headline reads
“Bush’s message: Democrats will cost you money.”

There is nothing to do but snort at the lie
and growl: “Republicans will cost you sons and daughters.”

I’m tired of hearing
that I’m supposed to care most
about money, and less
about futures
and planets
justice
and truth and even the life of my
own child.

I’m going a-hunting myself tomorrow, at the ballot box.

(found among drafts not posted)

Three springs ago bluebirds nested
in the paper box out by the street,
tending and flying off by turns.
Somehow I convinced red-headed boys
to leave the babies alone.
The bluebirds grew up and flew away.

Two springs ago wasps moved
into the box instead
and set to work upon papery palaces.
In deference to the mail carrier,
I rained upon them Armageddon,
a stream of white foam.

This spring nothing came
to the paper box at all
but paper fliers about lawn services
and replacement windows.
I wish the bluebirds back.
I think of putting up a house.

Today the little boy
who marched into
ocean waves without fear at two
squared his shoulders again
and marched off
into a different sea
carrying three bags
and a bluebird in a box.

And when I’d cried
and written
and eaten
and cleaned
and day was finally night,
I danced for an hour
to a playlist of 897 songs,
songs slow enough
for dancing to melt the moon,
songs fast enough to
spin memory and sorrow
past and present
fear and hope together
like colors of a twirling top.

I’ve been nibbling on that bag of almonds
we bought together when you came.
I counted today: seven left, lined up
end to end at the bottom of the bag.
No more small handfuls.
Maybe I will eat only one tomorrow.
Maybe I will eat the last one not at all.

I looked back at posts in my “Writing” category today. There are a whole batch of moon poems, so many that a reader might easily tire of them. In fact, my mother tells me that my very first word was “moon,” so watch out - there could be more. That’s the joy of blogging really. There’s no one to tell me that I can’t write one more moon poem - or anything else I so please for that matter. That’s really the point of the thing. I don’t have to come here to be who I am not.