I stood over your rank bones today
The enameled name barely legible under
your lonely lichened stone~
Its mouth wide open with an
1855 death date so that I said it aloud
like a trap spring that could
raise you from the dead
Got down on my dandelion knees
pretending I could read your
foreign immigrant war claim and Indian fears~
your cholera lullabies and ****** years
the land took from you building your frontier
like a man immune to cold and wet
Pictured your plowing pains and hillbilly
beard generation swept up in the love you felt for
a woman wearing nothing but soap until I
showered you with my own tears
and wondered if you were prepared
when it was your turn to look up toward
the hole in the snuffbox sky

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

Keep sharpening your teeth on my
iron fittings and feeling up my
velvet underground upholstery with
your streetwise alley cat paws and big
gun Remington revolver ballpoint pen
Try to rob these recondite rubies from my
helicopter heart if you can and
follow my complimentary contrail with
your caloric vocabulary until you tire of
my transom and finally bolt like the January wind
I might stay in midnight sight just barely long
enough for my spinnaker curls to furl in twists
around your wrists and make you my
pie in the sky prisoner forever

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

A solo crow's morning flight spoke
of castaways and solitary nights
on its wing tip hurried flight
and its mid-air broken croak

Recounting storms as eagle talons
wet in feather drenching dreams
cuts and glide through current's seams
drops to land on earthen patterns

Seemed within its bird-brain canon
day's release from hunger's pang
a weary eye on sturm und drang
to covet worm and bolt on cannon

-cec

This dimmer light, morning star
far tells of journeys to come
across vast interstellar forests
and life aloft a streaming cosmos

Left behind those mists and mud
to climb upon a gibbous back
scale to heights' resilient blood
view myriad curtains of  jet black

To seek in depths of infinite space
a place, a home away from home
and if return does not retrace
then let these gypsies' heart safe roam

For in our nursery lessons learned
of anger, fear, greed, mistrust
their opposites must need be earned
as nature slings its stars to dust

-cec

Blanc oblivion thinly beckons
where riotous heart requests accounting's debt
in solitary thoughts of Gatsby-born yearning seconds
across lantern's green light ambient water's depth

Mallet's chisel chip lines of marble translucence
ordaining Venus's vague and insubstantial essence
passing on near wings of plovers
shore's dashing burst of smooth liquid love

Spilled words all but mingle in measured metre
fleshing forth anatomy of a mannequin's naked plume
disposed to press black key fugitive figures
sprinting sandpiper legs from sand castle spume

-cec

route number nine
we traveled your spine
over two lane vertebra
an occasional scoliotic stray

pass farmer hands in fields
on tractors of painted steel
labored maze rows to feed cattle:
chattel

windowed wind in evening's chatter
filtered light, komorebi, back matter
natural at fifty miles an hour
time melting spills of roadside flowers

and press of an orange-red moon
you unwrap its butterscotch rune
full of eons of seeing eyes, candy store watch
its popcorn face staring, tick-tock

then high-beams replace the sun's
intervals of lightning bug reflectors
into dark, deer vision, tunnel turns
and newly oiled ticking blacktop

distant into day's finish, night
journey's last braking bights
in memories gloaming sight
of a rural tale spin write

-cec

Walking the dog
is more than a yo-yo trick-
More than a water-logged stick
thrown far into a steel colored lake
Watching as a circling hound
paddling *******, as it wakes
intent legs cycling beneath surface tensions
not far removed from floating penchant
tries to suss out submerged desires
jettison old interest in new branch
mesmerized by miraculous hand magic
amending a perplexed carte blanche
turning in furtive swim back to shore
and wringing out a backbone shake
honest eyed and loyal told
mute but for a movement's bent arch

-cec