Category Archives: Poetry

THE WOODEN CAROUSEL

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Up
and
Down
Three pine horses frozen in a little wooden carousel,
A mirror of something real with no flaw or melody.
No music. No sound. No
Round
and
Round
A wreath of beads draped around a wooden canopy,
Made delicate with pink lace and silk flowers.
No creaking. No laughter. No
Up
and
Down
A pretty, pretty wall-hanging–
Three horses impaled on wooden poles,
That pin them, hold them
So they
Never
Fall
Or leave or sneak
Into the shadows
Away from the pretty little roses
And the perfect, perfect beads.

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MR. McGREGOR

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My dog doesn’t have blood on its teeth.
But the rabbit’s still dead.
There are long, thin ribbons of red in the grass.

There’s still that part of me,
As I’m holding that baby rabbit,
With its grey tissue paper skin,
That makes me want to dig a grave,
And put a popsicle stick cross on top.

I want to name him,
So I call him Jack.
No beanstalks here, though.
No giants, except for me.

Its stomach is bloated.
It must have just eaten.
Its mama is probably watching,
From a little clump of weeds nearby.

Is she making sure I’m doing this right?
No.
Rabbits don’t say prayers.
They just keep squirming under fences,
Dreaming about carrots and my rosemary.

THE BUTTERFLY

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Its wings remain spread
In the uncertain angle of flight
As the wind from a passing car
Sends it seesawing back and forth.
The ants, black-suited, pallbearers trickle out
Onto the sun-scorched pavement.

The veins stretch across the wings
Dividing the oranges and yellows
Into thin rectangles of stained glass.
Its legs are folded solemnly
Across the hollow chest
As the ants chew and tug
Devouring in perfect worship.

THE HOUSE AT THE END OF CARVER STREET

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This is a poem that I wrote sometime ago and published.  The poem stuck into my head and I ended up writing a novel, Lott’s Mountain,  in which the secrets of 210 Carver street are revealed.   Check out the poem and the book, too, once it’s released:

 

There’s a house at the end of Carver Street–
All broken windows and boarded-up doors.
An old, rusted van sulks in the driveway,
With its small, black windows all covered in tape,
To hide things.

There’s a chimney on the house at the end of Carver Street–
A few of the bricks have fallen out,
So that it looks like it’s smiling through rotten teeth;
But the backyard is nice and has lots of trees and little white flowers,
And bones sticking up through the grass.

It’s not like all the other houses;
No, something lives in that house–
It creeps behind the curtains,
Remembering and watching,
And it’s lonely.

They get worse after dark–the noises–
Because the little white fence can’t keep them in,
Not the crying,
Not the whispers,
Not the cutting sounds.

We all remember Carver Street,
And that house.

Yes, we’ve all been there before–
Down the rotten stairs,
Through the cobwebs with the fat, black spiders,
In the very, very dark room in the basement,
With all of the knives and sharp things.

And in the backyard.

We all know that house at the end of Carver Street,
Because we’re the ones who have never left.