MJ blathers

dark poet who loves to laugh

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farmer winces, turns, arises
limps to chores at dawn
abed is not an option
when rooted to the earth


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a smudge of dawn hints at
granite mountain shrouded in tears
of mist over weeping falls
of cascading sorrow

a streak of opalescence backlights
a dove alighting on the hawk’s
abandoned nest to survey
its kingdom of devastation

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i’m sure

i struggled and screeched
as they carried me to the car
“my mommy is coming
i know she is”

and she was
trudging in shin-deep sudden
snow slanting against the wind
to pick me up
from William Cullen Bryant Elementary

“It’s all right, Mary Jane
we’ll send you home with Mrs. Peterka”
they said, prying my fingers
from the edge of the car door

“It will save your mom
the terrible walk
in this weather
Go now, dear”

i cried, pounding
on the window
of the back seat
of Mrs. Peterka’s car

we pulled away
just before mom


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abandoned beachball

The vividly colored plastic mass lay crumpled in the corner of the studio.
“A beachball?” he guessed from bright red, and edge of violent yellow he could see.
She nodded, but continued at her painting.
“Used and tossed. We do that so easily, living in abundance. So often, we forget what had served us.”
His smile faded. He studied her painting again–especially the bruised edges–and then peered at her. This time intrigued, wanting to know more.