small

saw a spider.

small.

no more than

a grain of sand.

what size

is a spider heart,

a spider brain?

drifting on

a strand of silk

carried on

the merest breath

of breeze.

small.

as are we all.

beloved though,

just the same.

Stones

The wall is whiskered

with weeds and

whispered prayers

On slips of paper

slipped into the gaps

between the stones.

I don’t know why I’m crying.

Do mere stones have such power?

The streets of the Old City

are roofed, dark as tunnels.

Emerging from the murk

of the Via Dolorosa,

the courtyard of the

Church of the Holy Sepulcher

gleams in the flat light

of November noon.

The vestibule is cool.

The slab where he is said

to have been laid

and risen from

is smooth,

polished by a billion kisses.

and one more, mine.

Lessons

Mom said,

watch out for the black widow spiders 

in the blackberry vines that grew beside the shed.

You can tell they’re black widows

because they are fat and shiny black

and have a red hourglass on their bellies.

And don’t eat those cherries

that fell in the grass.

The squishy ones

on the cement are warm

and covered with ants.

The red ones bite.

My favorite story In Sunday school

was Daniel in the lion’s den.

Because of the lion.

Mom stopped sending me

when I was four.

I always thought

it was after her Daddy,

a Baptist Sunday school teacher,

had died and there was

no need to please him anymore.

She told me a couple years ago

that wasn’t the reason.

She pulled me out after

the teacher told her

that I’d said that

I wanted to know about the devil.

And she hadn’t answered.

She didn’t want me to go to classes

where my questions went unanswered.

I found out about the devil

all on my own. It took years.

I brought a black widow

home in a tissue one day

Mom said, is it dead?

No, just stunned,

I knocked it on the head.

We put it in a jar

and it revived.

she said, this won’t do.

Put some nail polish remover

on a cotton ball and dropped

that in the jar.

Now it’s safe, she said.

Bored in Eden

She stood out in the empty street,

dragging the torn limb of the small plum tree

that grows at the base of Eden lane.

The weight of May rains

on the hard young plums

might have been

too much of a strain.

Or perhaps it was an Amazon van,

Fed Ex truck, or Uber Eats delivery man

Cutting too sharp in reverse.

Tearing the branch from the tree.

The street was hot as a griddle,

but the girl must have been tired

of hanging out indoors.

She moved with the languid,

bored, awkward grace of a teen,

stripping plums off the torn branch.

Tossed them underhanded

like dice at a craps table

to roll down the steep street.

Watched them tumble.

Tore off some more.

Tossed ‘em. Watched ‘em.

Tossed ‘em and watched ‘em.

Sat down on the pavement

With the branch in her lap.

grabbed more. Threw til

the fun wore off or the street

got too hot to keep sitting.

She dragged the branch

back to the edge of Eden.

The plums came to a rest

in the gutter. She left.

Four eyes

Been seeing the world

through glass since I was ten.

When I was having trouble

reading the names chalked

on the blackboard in my

5th grade history class.

So I got a front row seat

until my ugly plastic specs

were finished and fitted.

I didn’t get to choose the style.

Not that it mattered much

as soon as I walked outside

and saw a sparrow flit

across the sky.

And every needle

on the cedars in the canyon

where we camped that weekend

was as defined as the stained glass

windows in a cathedral.

Without my glasses,

I’d never notice

the old chewing gum that

speckles the sidewalk.

Or the discarded

masks and latex gloves

In the gutter.

Or the red-shouldered hawk

that cries and perches

at the crown of the tree I see

from the bedroom window.

I’d lose my lover in a crowd.

The orchids in the garden

might elude my blurry gaze.

Through my wire-framed hippie glasses,

I saw Jimi Hendrix shred

The Star-Spangled Banner

on the Woodstock stage.

When I put on my glasses

In the morning now, I can see

Mt Diablo on the horizon

of the pinkend sunrising sky.

When

The wren perched

on the railing

railed at the cat

lurking under the hedge

which has become infected

by some blight or mold.

It happened quickly,

dull white spots

have developed

since I was here

three days ago

to check my mail.

When will the camellias

finish dropping blossoms

that look like pools of blood?

When will Thursday

separate from Tuesday?

Doesn’t matter to the wren.

weeds and rats

the beast stands at the edge of the river
where it wraps around the ancient village
the soldiers slouched in the back of the truck

have fidgety hands, ready for card games,

beer, or pillage

the markers on the road pass by,
another kid perhaps to die
a blazing would-be hero while

the quiet ones glow
somewhere in an alley

the hog grazing beside the river wanders off.
the captain says: men! the mission went so well,
because after all, we are heavily invested

in the services of hell.

then I met a woman
who made me gasp and quiver
but eventually I understood,
that emptiness
was all that I could give her

and yet,
i didn’t want to see the world
go to weeds and rats
mining for old plastic
and eating dogs and cats

the cars all rusted,
the birds gasping for breath,
all the toys broken
or dress rehearsing death.

i was driving down the highway
and i saw bluebelly lizards
sunning themselves in the median strip,
a beercan toss away
hunting for bugs between styrofoam cups,
and marlboro butts.

I saw sparrows eating moths off radiator grills.
they say coyotes eat the poodles
when they come down from the hills

I don’t want to see the world
go to weeds and rats,
i want to see eagles.
rhinos. frogs. and bats

i want to see spring oaks explode

in leaf and light, with a thousand golden

finches bursting into flight.

once there was a hummingbird….
who hovered in the spray
from my garden hose
as i watered a climbing rose.

that’s what I want to see
-not pigeons missing toes