Saying There are Cherry Blossoms Doesn't Make it True

Saying There Are Cherry Blossoms
Doesn’t Make it True

Five women,
three of which are men,
stand together on a bridge
in Ueno, looking at each other,
and not the cherry blossoms
like they’re supposed to.

Printed on a paper cut in two,
the Kabuki actors-dressed like women-
stand in kimono printed with blossoms,
separated from the women and men,
and whisper to one another
in isolation on the bridge.

As if posed on the bridge,
each actor awaits their cue to
talk in sync with each other
about the other women,
ignored by the man
who is supposedly looking at the blossoms.

And we (the audience) are the blossoms,
from the perspective of the bridge
where we are ignored by the men,
and lean in to
hear the gossip of the women
completely absorbed in one another.

But why not call this something other
than a print about a bridge and blossoms
when the picture is about the women
who are standing on the bridge,
but pay no heed to
the trees, and focus on the men?

Maybe the actors, who dress like women but are men
are really conferring to each other
about the confusing nature of this print, that seems to
have nothing to do with blossoms,
or Ueno’s bridge,
but seems like a commentary on talkative women.

The beauty of the blossoms, ignored by gossiping men
dressed like women who are standing on the Ueno bridge,
who only focus on each other, printed on a picture split in two.

Butters the Cat: Domestic Predator

Butters the Cat: Domestic Predator

Powder-pink, white, and orange
housecat is king of his domain.
Hunting food in the domestic jungle,
munching on pellets of flesh
ripped from the carcass of the bowl.

Devil predator in blackness
behind my t.v. where
electric vines are your camouflage.
You stalk my slippers
holding back your dancing haunches
for any hint of my wiggling toes.

Fragile Things

Fragile Things

Gray clouds descend
and crush all resolve,
peppering the days with
early, sorrowful spring showers.

Young lives--fragile things
retreating beneath the shade
of growing blooms,
like petals
wilting along side
memories of contagious laughter
and almond skin.

The core remains,
deeply rooted in the soil
waiting, for the pain to cease--
leaving only fondness.

Crow Print: 4 of 15

Crow Print: 4 of 15

A black spot in a garden of pastels.

A carrion model.

A crow perched upon a Sakura branch,
waiting, keenly, for movement
beyond the frame’s negative space.

He is the pride of the artist’s edition.

Maybe number 4 of 15 “Crow on a Cherry Branch” Ohara Koson.

He is the black-ink bird with proper registration.

Perfection carved in the wood of the printer’s block.

Feather-dark and complete,
his image untainted
by the overlay of branch and leaf,
background and shadow.

Cramp Sonnet

Cramp Sonnet

Unwanted monthly visitor, grenade
My insides, disrupt the quiet range
Of bored, sleeping pink walls paraded
Upon, caught unprepared for the change
Of wallpaper. Tear with your sharpened sword
Surrealist images, establish your mess
Of blood that you cherish as a reward.
Collapse me internally, invoke stress,
Contract dormant muscles to your delight.
Remark that the off weeks make them lazy,
Pollute them, make them hate themselves tonight.
Implant thoughts, make reality hazy,
Contort them like raveled strings of a kite.
Covertly keep happiness from their sight.

My Father

My Father

Standing back behind our house
in the woods trimmed away by human hands
he stands, arms outstretched,
waiting for his climbing,
wide-eyed daughters.

He sways in the summer wind,
adrift in the sleepy heat of mid-day
when freckles appear in patterns
like bark upon his pale skin.

At the end of the day
the girls come to him,
with problems only children have,
and he cradles them in the shadows
cast by his crooked limbs.

He tells them stories
about when he was younger,
and stood ankle-deep in soil,
feeling the age of the earth
through the balls of his feet.

Murdering Devices

Murdering Devices

Jill Campbell

Officer, I’ve done something

Horrible to my words.

They began to work against me

So I took my revenge.

Simile I pushed

from the 10^th floor balcony.

He died a lot

Like Metaphor.

Alliteration I swiftly stabbed

slipping silently

past on an empty

side street.

The Concrete I sunk

with rough stone boots,

his pale body, lifeless,

on the bottom of the lake.

Cliché I gutted

like a fish.

He was a scaredy-cat,

a blubbering mess.

And lastly,

I murdered Rhyme,

by replacing his tea

with Turpentine.

So you see, officer,

that I pose you no threat.

But if you don’t arrest me

your words could be next.

Failure as Sweet as Vinegar

Failure as Sweet as Vinegar

In this jar of vinegar—my failure,

Within this jar—my sweet candy of success.

I can’t stand the taste,

But each day I swallow more

And glare though amber putrescence

At my wonderful prize inside.

My face shows pearls to stop the gagging.

“Last night I dreamed I dropped you,”

I tell the jar, “then waded through fume

and the fire in my eyes and plucked my

prized candy from the wet muck of you.

For my cleverness

I thought I had earned it.

To discover this shortcut that had been there all along.

So with care I popped my prize

past my grinning lips

and rolled it on my tongue.

But all I could taste was vinegar.

Concerta and Caffeine

Concerta and Caffeine

Jill Campbell

Concerta can’t handle the company of caffeine,

and I’m stuck paying attention to the bees in my fingers

as they crawl along my sun-exposed nerves at the bus stop.

The commute is every passenger’s story,

with me the only listener, wondering if I look anxious

because no one has taken the seat next to me yet.

When I reach class, I realize it’s Monday

--a simple explanation for nothing making sense—

and by now I’m filled with buzzing, stinging noise.

5 glorious 15, and Intaglio can wait for Wednesday,

when I take my meds with water,

and I’m not running late getting home.

Again route C is mouths and clacking teeth,

but by now the hive in my arms is still, and I smile,

able to choose whether I listen or not.

The final step up to my floor is Everest,

and I climb every evening with my weariness,

and hundreds of drones slumbering in my palms.

The front door is a distant slam from in my room,

muffled by the soothing hum of my air cleaner

purchased so I can stop thinking and rest.

The bees are nothing but weight now,

and I on a soft pillow

doze within the blanket of mindless electrical hum.

Tomorrow I will skip my dose, and I

will lay down my limbs

and crush the honeyed combs of the hive.