Shaking Hands With a Rose.

SHAKING HANDS WITH A ROSE

You stand at the base of the tree,
mouth slackened, eating a rose.
I have not seen you in ages.
The acorns are ripe. I hear them
plop to the ground, they are littering the world.
Oh, you litterbugs! How dear you are 
to me, I have been waiting for you
to burrow yourself into the earth
and rise in a song. Little sapling,
my dear litterbug, you have been
reborn.

Five fingers on a single hand.
Skin as red as a northern rose.
Pock-marks, blisters of the sun,
the sapling is as hard as rock. 
Here is my hand for someone to shake. 
Here is my voice, speaking so quietly, 
telling you which hands to draw with.
I've shaken so many roses that I've
lost touch with pantomime.

-published in "The Argotist Online"

Counting Sheep.

Counting Sheep


It is night and I am counting sheep backwards
from zero to infinity, how high can I go?
Can't you hear their bleating out my window,
they found out I got another mattress,
the mattresses you see on those commercials with
the counting sheep, who are out of jobs
and end up in a jail cell because they broke the law
they are lonely and alone because
they have no one to confide to, no one to tell them
that beds are things made by man,
that they are sheep and have no place in this world--
maybe their only job is to be counting sheep,
and nothing else 

-published in Tryst Magazine.

Montreal.

Dreams are the waters of the city.  In pristine
whiteness, the great margins are accessible only to
the cold. We do not shout at the first enemy who
happens to come our way. But we, as a child growing,
take care of the little ones. My head
feels full of desert sand. I have been living
in a green house. We do not have an ending for the
first steps we missed, as we cross
over another bridge
into the heart of montreal.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

Fragmentations.

Fragment.
An incandescent speck of light.
Sound, noise.  The faded symmetries
of the downed hieroglyph,
another marriage on the rocks.
Forced entry.  Doomsday prophets.
How obscene is the hench thug?
Open your eyes to a new summer. Drink a little,
let down your hair, open conversation with the
water lilies about procreation.  Sing a sad
tune about the closing of another year.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

He Who is Farthest Away.

The farthest away climbers are like the sun
with its song approaching daybreak.
How quickly the river flows, and it is fair,
alive as angels as they were before.
The beauty of breath taking runs like
gold and shines so disappointingly in  the dust
of the forest.  Bones churn from every path,
the living man is his appearance of a single path
before him. Without the good of the world, the river
will never run the same, and all answers will be
broken
on its journey.  Hear the artificial sound of
my painstaking grasp.  The statues of her womb
never made a man his fire; the fire of his grief
is the one I give to you, his grasp,
calm and cool as sadness creeps the white
bone moon.
Tall masts of a mirror before the breast of
daylight drive us to the ending shore.  The river
will mar my tears, I have become
the snake lolling in the brown grass.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

Writing With Your Left Hand.

Sometimes I write with my left hand
when the weather turns cold,
and my heart is pounding in my chest
like an anchored drum.
I can't seem to shake the feeling
that I am being watched
as I walk down Fifth Avenue, but
it is only a blue jay,
looking for a place to stay out of the storm.
There is no justice anymore,
when a bird cannot find a place to nest,
and the darkness is so dark I cannot see my hand
in front of my face,
even as I write, even as I imagine
places far from here,
where blue jays live in blue peace.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

The Boat.

Apryl Fox 

The Boat

He came into my life like a boat
coming into the harbor.  He lifted me 
                                     up, up above 

the land I knew,
into something else I                  
                                  did not know,
something else that was 
                
                                 beautiful.

His eyes were the color of dark timber,

sad & tired & beautiful.  His skin was the 

                              color of the rising sun,
and I slipped                               

                                    into him   
                                                     
                when dawn
came & 

we sailed out             
of shore.  Rowing, always 

rowing.

-published in A Little Poetry.

The Summertime.

It's cold at night in the summertime.
Daisies are blooming.
We go to the park and see airplanes flying
overhead, makeing a buzz buzzing sound.

In the distance, deer are grazing like cows,
going from one place to another, like a
boat on the sea.  I can't stand to see them suffer,
so I take down the fence that surrounds them,

and send them on their way, with a lunch pail
and a note from their mothers.  Everything is simply put:
don't do this, don't do that, we hear the deer chomping
on grass.  I wish I was a deer-perhaps a cow,

except I wouldn't want to get slaughtered.
No one feels like reading anymore.
It's too dark out to see.

The Hen.

Pine trees unfurl
as the dawn approaches
moonlit dew in mourning.

Shadows fall across
the grass-
a hen takes a stroll
across the lawn.

Today is tomorrow;
tomorrow is yet forsakened,
the past is not broken.

Dew is broken.
Can we hear the wind laugh?
As it moves through
the under
brush.

New poems published-link

Some of my poems published here: 

http://zombielogicreview.blogspot.com/2016/05/poetry-by-apryl-fox.html

On Eating Taco Salad.

I am overcome by your diversity.

Your literacy resides in me.  Everything I own is here-

Two stacks of chairs, a black address book, a coffee pot.

Take a drink, it hits the spot.

What are we supposed to do about the position we’re in?

It gets underneath the skin.

I swear I’m getting better at this, I’ve suffered through leprocy

And three car accidents.  Once, I saw a twister and became

A storm chaser, where I met my ex-husband.  We had three

Kids, Joan, Adam, and Wesley.  I named them all.  Did you think I

Was going to name any of them after my ex-husband?  Two of

Them are boys.  They did like their toys, I guess, but they loved

Me more.  My ex only saw the children on Saturday and Sunday,

When I went to the sauna and got my head packed in ice.

Something is wrong here.  We’re not getting along.  My grandmother

Has been dead for three long years.  I don’t understand the tears.

I never cry at funerals, but I cry after them, when I’m alone,

Holding on to myself when no one will, listening to the dogs barking

Outside my window, and thinking about when I was little, and my

Mother used to hold me on her knee.  Today we had tacos.  I wanted

A taco salad.  We headed out for the bar after dinner, and everyone was

There.  I didn’t want them to stare, so I stuck out my tongue and ate

Some bread.

My Neighbor Likes Mick Jagger.

I've walked the line too many times
to say I'm fine, but I'm not.  Everything is so confusing,
to say the least-I won't let it get in the way of doing
what I'm supposed to be doing, or being who I am,
or being someone else, for that matter, like my grandmother,
who drove a bus during the Vietnam War, got her hand
cut off by a sniper, and basically was a hippie.  I don't
mind hippies, they are wonderful people, full of life,
and zest, and hate violence and war.  I thought war was
violence, or maybe it was the other way around,
just like saying short is not stout, or a way to figure out
the basics of literature that just keep going and going,
until you can't stop.  Basically what I'm saying is this:
make a lot of noise, try to buy a house, be as big as you
can and reach as many people as you can.  Nothing is worse
than saying goodbye, but sometimes it happens, and you
can't explain it or predict it, but it does, and then some people
get away with killing during wartime, and sometimes I'm
a mess, I wake up too late and miss work.  The dreams are
the same, but what I'm saying is different from what other
people have said before me, and before me, and before me.
My neighbor likes Mick Jagger, but I don't mind.

On Making Bread.

Like this, your words go in and out-
flop them like a doppleganger.
Shadows move across the room because
the sun is slowly moving overhead.
I wonder about astronauts, and if they've
ever made it to the sun-the sun is a great big
iron, you said.  I don't believe it.  Something
is happening in outside space, you said.
I don't believe it, how could I, all I see is
this stupid kitchen, with the stupid tables
and chairs, and the bathtub against the far wall.
It smells like bread baking.  Everything is
changing, you said.  I agree with you on that,
but how can we change it, when we can't even
change ourselves, and the light outside is slowly
dwindling towards the Arctic Circle, and dogs
are barking happily because their masters have
come home from work, and then they enter through
the door, put down their coat, and go into
the kitchen to make some bread.
This is the rest of our lives, one loaf at a time.

WYRMWOOD: SWORD & SORCERERY.

It was in the Court of Kings that Thom Morley first heard about the dragon.  He was a small boy, short and scrawny with skinny legs, and curly black hair and black eyes.  He was going on his eighth winter, and the season had been terribly cold-so cold, in fact, that half of the Elders in the Guild had died from pneumonia-their Healer, Ravinn, had said their hearts froze stiff from inside out.  The Huntsmen in the Guild were afraid, and they were never afraid.  It was the cold that made them afraid, not the snow.  They had been out hunting the wildebeest in the High Forest, killing foxes, wolves, and badgers.  Nothing too noble, but the Gray Castle needed more food, and that was what they got.
Thom would have liked to go on a Hunt like that himself, but he was still too young to travel that far and he didn't know how to will a bow and arrow or throw a sword.  His godfather, Horace the Tall, had promised to teach him-but even now he was dead from frostbite.  He had been almost two hundred years old before he died, which was middle-age for his time. 
Horace had gone into the High Forest and had come out stiff as a corpse, and dead as a doornail. 
Thom had been without a mother and father for four years, living with his godfather and uncle, Terrance Nightdancer, a knight in the Court of Kings.  It was a great honor to be a knight and he took it seriously.  Then, Terrance had died.  Ravinn had done a Welling, and the warm water had told her that Terrance had been imprisoned by the Mad Witch, taking his soul for all Eternity.
Eternity was a long time, Thom thought.
Horace was supposed to teach him to be a blacksmith before he died.  It looked like that wasn't going to happen.
Thom was living alone in his godfather's house when the messenger came to call.  He was making lunch in the small, dusty kitchen, and a knock sounded at the door.  Surprised, Thom put down his fork, and hurried to answer it.
A man wearing a brown poncho stood on the porch. 
"What do you want?"  Thom demanded, trying to sound like his godfather.
"Are you Thomas De le Morley?"  he asked in a pleasant voice, undisturbed by the boy's rude behavior.

It Seems.

I laugh because he has half a mind
to think I would be cool with what he says,
about bridges and waterways and other
cool stuff like that.  Today we went out to
brunch, and it made me think of Florence
on the Food Channel, making tea and scones
and cutting big pieces of cheddar.  What once
was lost was never found, but other things
were found indeed, we replaced the lost
telekinesis, and broke up the sod with a hoe
and rake.  The garden was soon going to be
ready, and my chef made olives and peanuts
from scratch, I guess they were from the market,
El Sol, on Broadway Street, where I used to
hang out as a teenager, asking people for money
while I sang-old songs, mind you, but they were
still sweet, as sweet as they could be, and I saw
old married couples walking hand in hand,
and singing, and a brisk puppy walking down
the sidewalk, a man holding on to his leash
with his head up high, looking straight, nor right
nor left.  Some days are better than others.

Barren.

I am barren in my calmness.
The cot is stuck in the corner at my house.
A car starts up outside, sounding like a
train.  The day has forsakened me.
Today is another day-just as yesterday,
and the day before.  Cold, broken,
and alone, I walk down the freeway of readiness,
and here I speak, here you listen, wandering
far and near in the void.  The void is blackness.
I am levitating-let the sun move in me.
Here I stand proud like a soldier about to go
into war.
Let me be barren in my readiness,
I know what comes and goes, what's fast and slow,
and hear the hollering of the wind outside my window.
Inside me, all is quiet.
The barrenness is ready.
I hear a noise outside.  The calm light is dawning.

Sunflowers and Grandmas.

The garden on my window sill is full of flowers-
lilacs, blue bells, peonies, blooming in the sun.
My grandma loves them with all her heart.
She is waiting for them to bloom.  She says one day
they'll be bigger than the sun, and her dog likes to
sit underneath them, watching them like a good
dog does.  Grandma loves her dog and her flowers
equally.  He is also soaking in rays.  Grandma
sings like the blue jays outside, and everyone is happy.
The sky is blue and full of light.  Which is like
my neighbor when she is full of smiles, and helping
each other, her rays spreading outward to the world,
one single ray at a time.  The light is my shield.
I sit in the rocking chair, and rock back and forth,
listening to the sound of my Grandma's singing.
Even the sound of the rocking chair sounds like
singing-back and forth, back and forth, I rock around
the clock.  My Grandpa made the rocking chair
back when he was a little boy in WWII, singing
songs of peace and war.  Tomorrow, he is coming
home from the hospital, carrying battle scars,
and telling us stories of times long past.

On Reading Poetry At Night.

I read poetry in the dark, scared of the monsters under
my bed.  My nightlight has been turned on, and I am
armed and ready for any noise, or suspicious activity.
The nightlight shows shadows in the darkness,
a circle of light flights my wall.

The light helps me with three things:  helps me read my poetry,
and keeps the shadows away, and the monsters stay
underneath the bed.

Stars twinkle in the sky outside my window.
A tree claws at the glass.  Tomorrow is another day.
School, and then gardening.  I wake up at the sound of my
alarm, and suddenly, the shadows disappear.
They're under my willow trees.
I go downstairs to eat breakfast,
a breakfast of champions-toast, cereal, orange juice.

Then I go outside to see the bus squealing away from the curb,
and I miss my ride to school.  I go back inside,
and tell Mama I missed the bus.  "Don't be angry,"
I say in a pleading voice.  "Please."

And with a flourish, we are out the door, and I am
the last one to arrive-but, still, I make it,
and that's one good thing about the day.

Fuel

Fuel the self-righteous lamb, and put him on a skillet.
I have conquered all sadness in my way.
Yet it tingles on the edge of my spine.  The mountains of
Tomorrow.
I lack self-reliance.  I pity the bold.  But take on regret.
My heart is on my sleeve.  Pardon my tomorrow.
I wear my life on my sleeve.
This is what I see:  an ocean outside my bedroom window
And a boat coming in to harbor.

Of Doubt

I once said that I could not be privy to the lonely
Flower that crawls up the walls of decay-
Remembrance is a forsaken Poet that dusts reason

From the rhyme.  I have forsaken the lonely flower
And he has forsakened me
We have yet given up dust to dust
Why?  I don't know of virtue, whatever will
Be impressed upon me.  I eat the wall of decay-

Just like a corpse that swallows the rim of doubt.