Ode to a Duckling

How the roaring waters part at your mighty water paw

How your wet coat gleams in the valiant sunlight

How your razor jaw cleaves the helpless greens

No heart may lie still in the breasts of men at the mere sight of you

What a fearsome beast is the Duckling


Crescent companion

Silver crescent moon
hanging delicately on a chain
like an upside down trapeze artist
She unclasps it, smiles,
places it around her daughter’s neck

we do not need to see the moon
to know it is always there


Moth-eaten sweater,
all full of holes
frayed blue cuffs

Mangled shoelace
tangled in knots
flapping rubber sole

Mismatched socks
torn-at-the-knee jeans
and a grass stain

Mother dressed us well
if only we could wear
childhood again

But now it is not
our clothes that wear out
it is us


Say something thoughtful
Think something original
Create something awe-invoking
Write something beautiful
Hold something dear
Love something innocent
Believe something faithfully
See something differently
Be something joyful
Be something

The old tree, though perhaps
content with her great height,
never stops her growing
or reaching towards the light

How Often Turns Into Dream

She stared at the setting sun. It was like a beach ball at day break, all bright and round and red. Sometimes hard to tell if it was rising or setting.

“Help,” she said quietly, almost to herself, or to the setting sun. What would have helped at that moment was a broom, she decided. She could ride off into the sunset and ask the sun herself.

She had transformed since her last visit to the shore. More crabby. She wanted to belong on that beach. She knelt beside a particularly slow and grumpy looking crab.

“It’s nighttime,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said.

“It will be,” he said, ever the pessimist. “I’m a realist.”

Continue reading “How Often Turns Into Dream”

Smoke and Mirrors, an L.A. Tour Guide

I see a man outside civilization.

I smile at him and he rushes out the words like he himself is surprised at them, or maybe just surprised that I looked, and smiled.

“Can I have some change, ma’am?”

I smile silently and walk on, least I can do.

Very least. 

Think nothing of it.

I go in and buy my groceries. 

A good deal later, I come out the back of the store, and there he is, on the steps, a rag to his nose. 

At first I think he is crying.

He looks up as I pass.

“Can I have some change, ma’am?”

I nod and smile sadly. “It’s inevitable.”

L.A. twinkles brighter tonight than I’ve ever seen her—

A good rain can clear even the most malignant feelings.

Benevolence and glittering lights.

Smiles and ghost-rain.

Ah, how pretty you look from here

But please, don’t come any closer.



Say brain


Say me

Night world

Say Winston

—Happy National Poetry Month from Currer and Sir Winston Levi Waverly.

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