The Big Death of a Small Brown Snake

Here you are, 

coiled rope-like, 
outwardly at peace,

yet disemboweled, 
disembodied,

sitting on top

of your own stomach,

an essential organ once held within,

now so obscenely thrust out through

a tear in your skin,

onto a graveled floor.

Yes, that is your belly,

though it looks

at first glance

like a fat bloodied worm

like red berry jelly

you swallowed this morning

and haven’t had time to digest,

not the tender, vital organ

that nourished you

through a lifetime of

twists and turns,

thrilling those who caught you

rustling through native species

and non-native too,

like a manic wind

that couldn’t be stopped.

Now, that organ lies still.

Life is seeping out and

you are here on your own.

Did you glide in grief

from the lofty grass

onto the walking path

so that I, too, could lament?

Some may find no meaning

in the loss of you,

but your day of death

is my day of birth and

this is the season of passing,

so I cannot ignore

the spectacle of you.

Now, too, a storm is rising up,

hail like bullets

shooting down.

Again, I have come

together with a dying snake,

a dead mother,

a reminder that

I love grief and the grossest

truths of living

only because I can feel them.

As I watch you die,

you are sorrow, ache and

the wonder that keeps me alive.

But as I, too, slither along

a twisted path that

ends with me alone,

we will soon become the memories
we were destined to be.

Light Verse: A Double Dactyl for Grace Schulman

Wiggledy Figgledy,

Grace Schulman,

twenty-first century

wordsmith in prime;

indefatigably,

ever so brilliantly,

pulls from her students

lyrics and rhyme.

Urban Haiku

Radio talking.

Grab a coffee from the cart.

Good morning, New York.

Garbage on the street.

Greasy soot on window sills.

Authenti-city.

While nesting high above,

pigeons point tail feathers down.

Watch out for vile rain.

Street noise overhead.

Never one to be outdone,

the subway roars back.

It hurts to beg but

it hurts more to be hungry.

She cries for her child.

Music on the street

draws attention from the crowd.

Spare change pays the rent.

Through the underpass,

 a graffiti gallery.

Admission is free.

Under city skies.

Dancing in your underwear.
The moon is laughing.

The Starry Night

The hiss and snap of a
firework sky,
a tsunami sky that
rolls up and over
the valley of lights.

The moon sees me
up on the hill,
behind the tree,
trembling from
the sound of the stars,
a fear of the night.

Candlestick (For Aunt Molly)

More than a delicate sconce, this candlestick

Is strength and weight,

Heavy metal, a safeguard against

Any attack.

Laughter echoes in the hollow of its base.

Holding onto

The joy that spread through

Shadowy nights,

With dance and song from the land of Scots

So long ago.

This candlestick burns wax and sparks the dampened lights

Held up by those

who dwell in murky corners, barely

Touching their hope.

But like an alcoholic who burns sweet spirits,

That fire will dim.

Time has tarnished its metal and loosened its frame but, for now,
the flame climbs high.

Done

You hung yourself up

Like a dress on a hanger,

A shattered chandelier

In a dark, dirty corner of

A splintered old tool shed.

A rusty bolt,

A deflated balloon,

A disposable pen,

You were done.

Held hostage by

A wasted body,

A waning mind,

You were

A rag doll

That lost its stuffing,

Dangling in defeat,

Motionless and mute,

You were done.

Icicles

Your frozen heart will thaw
With the coming of spring
But I will suffer through summer,
Yearning for the wintry chill
That is company to
an icy void within.

Hanging rigid,
You are a lethal weapon.
Glacial.
You favor frigid air.
I, too, hang frozen,
But desire the heat.

Torn between
your biting needs
And the lure
of changing seasons,
We drop, finally
Detached.