A Dominance of Lines

 

 

In Spring, when Aeolus breathes
across their farms, girls boys lift
diamond butcher paper balsa wood
tied kites into his breath to feel out
currents, pull and sway…to test for
dominance of distance draft and lift.

Should such taunting pastime flag…
especially when Zeus streaks bolts
of lightning from his distant clouds…
their sporting turns to trouting with
live worms on hooks on lines on fish
poles by Naiades’ stream, in wordless
rivalry for the longest rainbow…best
tussle with a catch…finesse in reeling
out a gasping fish onto the grass.

When distant shouts bell whistle,
or the slant of shadow from a tree,
summon them to home, they end
camaraderie for one last sport…
these young contenders on a field.

They grasp hands tight slippery
with dirt spit sweat…link a ragged
crack-the-whip-snap for one last
quick elbow jab, foot trip, arm jerk,
stubbed toe, let go, fall dizzy to the
ground…as they play out their mythic
childhood of no tears, first middle last,
win lose…high tension…limit testing
dominance of lines.

 

Bonnie Marshall

Art by Winslow Homer, 1872

 

Doing Risky

Eat raw cookie dough for vanilla
butter salty sweet with a chip
of chocolate melting finish the way
I do…I know…I know the egg and
the salmonella…what the hell…
just do it.

My six-year self loved raw beef;
ate bright red hamburger with
my dad with lots of pepper salt
god…that was glorious…though
don’t relish it as much since he…
the missing is still fresh.

Mom and I lounged on a porch to
watch storms…great gashes of bright
lightning and chest thump thunder;
we’d ooh and aaw at strikes as if
they were fireworks.

And…oh they gave me freedom
to be dusty trail stream woodland
wilded fisher child talkative…curious
with gypsies gathering dandelions for
bitter tonic…in our pastureland with
me acres and acres away from home
me…their only child…my folks they
just did it.

I know…I know the dangers…and
they raised me their way…then;
damn-ed outcomes seem to hover
closer now for solo children…for
we’re used to expect danger…not
as much do risky…not to think weigh
teach caution  balance breathe and
then just…let…them…do it.

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by John Singer Sargent

 

clouds store my sun away

when clouds store my sun away
behind high restlessness…and chill
sweeps vexation through my green intent
of tender blading hills and fields,
I turn to settling of accounts remaining
here upon the desking of my days

for I owe myself more now than anytime…
I brush away the bees…plate honeycomb
upon the wedding Sevres…break sweet gold
to my mouth with a family sterling spoon
new polished…bloom Chinese silver needle
tea-leaves bundled ‘round a pink carnation
special occasion…guarded by a golden dragon
coiled imperial on the red of its rusting tin

I shall bask upon my porch and breathe brewed
fragrance with astringent ozone of approaching storm
for I am wrapped in complex luxury of a precious time

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Richard Diebenkorn

let questions hang to ripen

let questions hang to ripen into asking
for consequence of too rash decision
is a bellyache

know when to be wise lawyer
to anticipate the answer  if you would
lead others on a path

and when you are the other
judge the question not as
functionary or a puzzle piece
shaved for fitting in a space

do not opt for quickness of reply
and be wise  in reflective silence
for there is ease in a waiting time

know there is dignity in ignorance
when maturity is in the greenness
of  a young  child’s mind…
rather sprinkle questions like a salt
to increase their thirstiness

 

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Mary Cassatt

small act of mercy

what the hell she do that for
her goldfish on the desk
gasped for life…still water glistening
its gill slits opened… closed
to sip burning oxygen

my fish…just felt like doing it
experiment…a testing of their nerve
perhaps they’d let it die this year
not buck authority…and teach is boss
her property…and she’s a crazy woman
to dip her hand into the bowl
to kill in front of them

hey….do something
some dying in its eye
a slowing will to breathe
no thrashing in its tail
no cavalry in sight

oh, Christ…I’ll do it
he splashed it to the bowl
it floated on its side

it’s dead…
then awareness righting
and orienting thrust to
claim its element

it’s yours now…
her implication dawned
some cheered…some jeered
his rash accomplishment…
she left it to them to think
the sense or nonsense of it
and…she never lost a fish

Bonnie Marshall

Note to dear Readers…this is a true story.

 

Artwork by Color Jar