I would say… oh, my friend
where’s your passion…
I would say… oh, my friend
where’s your risking…of
fortune and muscle and time
for the warnings are there
outside windows… and the
signage is there on your street
at your gate…on your steps;
hear the throwing of dice
at your wall…hear their rattle
of bones at your door
hear…
the cadence of marching
the clanging of symbols
the striking of bells in the air
Bonnie Marshall
Art by Shane Cotton
I taught them…each…to nose wriggle
like a rabbit…to imagine a bee sitting
at their nose tip about to sting…perhaps
unless they quickly wiggled it away…and
that there are no guarantees in real life
that they would not be hurt…I told them
I taught them…each… to close observe
the curve of listeners’ lips for secret
disbelief…disdain…the doubting shown
when lips are closed and corners flicked
down even for an instant…I told them
and then I wrote gesnorenplartz upon a screen
and told them that it meant smashed peas
and then I watched…and so did they…each other
and then they mostly knowing smiled
and then we began our reading of his tragedy…
how…what happened when…Montague and Capulet
and Friar and Nurse and Escalus of Verona lied
oh, when they lied…to their young
Bonnie Marshall
Artwork by Rodolpho Amoedo, 1887
On the Cusp
Deep…deep beneath Dad’s land
and still cooling from beginnings,
tectonic plates expand…subduct…
slip slide with incremental tension,
slight tremors on a Richter scale…
yet not enough for red ants
in his woods beyond the barn
to swarm out from their mounds,
nor for his canary in the kitchen
to bash its feathered body
against the metal cage.
He knows those warnings
to move horses from the stable.
Lately, we’ve all noticed
he doesn’t pay much mind
to TV news and such…
only reads the local paper
and books from the living room…
like the Bible and Farmer’s Almanac
and plays here and there by Shakespeare.
He spends more time out on the porch,
and senses weather changes
even before the metal rooster
on the old barn arcs from east to west,
and notes balances tipping
like horizon sun flash…on the cusp
just before the set.
Bonnie Marshall
Lucy tees the ball.
Charlie trusts her once again.
Charlie is a fool.
Though hardly in the haiku realm
it fits the three-line style
to write image…
add emotion…insight…
count syllables.
And we have expectations
that the thought be fair and true.
Here we may well question
Charlie’s frame of mind.
Perhaps he’s just a happy soul
who lives a trusting life.
I lived in the South.
“She’s such a sweet thing,”
was not a compliment.
Charlie is a fool.
Bonnie Marshall
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