~Sappy Daze~ Day 9

I Bet Your Parents Made Love in a Bed 

of bright marigolds and cosmos. 
That would explain your innate 
stubbornness, like when you sprouted 
in May, too eager 

to grant your mother
the sweet poison of a lily 
of the valley, 
which is motherhood.

Although it’s not as beautiful as 
the red tulip she raised, I hope 
she likes the hydrangeas I gave. 

I’ve been wanting to gift more.

While their brilliant red still 
doesn’t compare to the adorable 
pink blooming on you, 

Look, the carnations we planted 
have beautifully bloomed. I’m 
determined to grow peonies with 
you, too. I’ve already decided that 

when I lie in my deathbed, nobody shall 
give me white lilies. Instead, they’ll 
give me poppies, for the wound you left 
when you left me: 

Its medicine will grant me peace in death, 
just like the peace your lavender gave me.

- Sappy

4/11/24

All the things I’ve accumulated 

Sitting listless and unnumbered 

A red towel soaked from suds fleeing from the sink

You have to use your nails to get clean

Wash cloths aren’t enough 

Some people don’t use them 

I can’t stop to talk to you 

Clean clean splash nothing is clean 

“Miss 1 pink pill in week 1 of your pack take the first as soon as you remember 

The second at your regular time”

Wolverine Stew: Graveyard Eclipse

I follow the path of quills and daffodils

Blue ground-facing stars and yellow suns

A spring soil night as the sky above

Turns dim, a growing grey

But a welcome one in place of

The gloom that has begun to break

And as I walk I see dozens of others

All with their glasses that turn the sun

Into a campfire crescent moon

Celebrating on every patch of grass

In the front lawns where

A cracked, plastic skeleton rests in a pile

I end up at the cemetery, fellow sky-gazers

Sitting amongst the headstones as

The trees begin to bud, robins rushing between them

Starry blue flowers sprouting beneath

As moss creeps across the polished names

And lichen-loved stones

Like faces and upturned mushrooms caps

And just in time I find a place

Where the branches part

Where I feel welcomed to sit beside the graves

Where the sounds of my eyelashes

Against the dark film that guards them

Sounds like rustling in the pinecones and dry leaves

And the chirp of birds reaches its crescendo

As that waning crescent almost gives way

Before waxing yet again

And I spend a few more moments

Planted in the grass

Before making my way out of the cemetery

I pick a direction, and on I go

Because as the sky brightens

There’s so many

White-winged moths, wolf spiders, cranes, colonies of ants

To spot along the path

And I hope to see them all

Before this day ends

Wolverine Stew: Slow Growth

The air feels cool, not cold

And I think this time

It might be here to stay

The Diag corner canopies now filled with

Reds, yellows, and pinks budding

Even as the sun hides behind

The walls of windswept clouds

As the day goes on

Rain turning to mist turning to

Fog that covers the entire street below

I still think my windowsill garden

Growing each day with

Spiral-potted sprouting succulents

Orchids in an amanita green glass vase

Mushrooms resting dormant

And chamomile seeds yet to split

Will carry on

I got a real rose from a paper garden

As my goodbye from the theatre

And until I find a vase

I improvise with plastic

And a good bit of tap water

But I think it holds up well

Because this garden is far more

Stumbling than sowing

But in the end, I still think it grows

And more often than not

I see a patch of blue in the sky

~Sappy Daze~ Day 7

This poem has been posted outside Avalon Cafe & Bakery for PoetTreeTown2024

Longitude

To see past the horizon,
your poker face 
blocking the farthest secrets, 
is what I wish upon a star. 

No matter the angle, 
your one-sidedness makes me 
curious about your constellation 
of 88 thoughts. 

Are you a Scorpio?

I examine telescopically, but 
the milky way, the nebulas in 
your eyes draw me
over the moon, 
and the slightest glance away 
carries seasonal depression.

So before this unknowing atmosphere suffocates me, 
although my heart beating ultraviolet already is, 
I’m confessing out of the blue.

- Sappy

Wolverine Stew: To The Keene

Tropical shirts and impromptu strings

And a dragon to watch over it all

Plastic ivy wrapped round found/fashioned staves

Tipped with hot-glue pinecones

Dancing screams filling the aisles

Green stars shooting into my eyes

Onto the curtains behind

A place where a rubber chicken

Is a great and terrible power

Paper carefully planted in plots

And watercolor paints

As a library is carried to the seats

And very soon that paper will bloom from

Blank black floors of the stage

That rise to fill the space

When the lights go out

And when they return

The dust rises in a dozen beams

And the show begins