Five Poems
by Diane Webster

 

 

Worn Beneath

 

He wears a T-shirt blurred

beneath his white dress shirt

where I must stifle

the urge to lay hands on him

to iron the wrinkles into clearer vision

like peering into a store window

while cupping my hands around my eyes

to block out light to see

what’s inside hoping

no one looks out

where I am looking in.

 

Maybe he’s a superman-wanna-be

trying to proclaim and hide

his mild-mannered, super-heroic

identity worn beneath his outside shirt

and over his shivering skin

like the face we show

opposite to ourselves inside

instead of a plain white shirt

no one notices

unless we wear a logo T-shirt

beneath.

 

 

 

 

 

Night Zigzags

 

Competitive moth racers

train a lifetime

to spy the brightest shine

on wing-flapping night zigzags

practicing on lesser brilliances

like 40-watt porch lights

that jab headaches

onto moth heads pretending

to be bulls charging a red flag

and if the moth alights a rest,

singed wings shake dust motes

like tiny snowflakes seen

only in the yard light.

But then it’s there…the Light,

splendid luminescence of night

so awestruck

the moth forgets its flight.

 

Wings freeze into a glide

so the moths legs can hug

the orb like a returned loved one

with no shadows between the two

only heat caressing into high degrees

like turbulence or palpitations

Until the moth circles in a whirlpool

in a spiral fanatic, frantic

from victory to demise.

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes Search

 

A farmer stops at the metal gate

and ratchets or unratchets metal

against metal as the gate screeches

like a bull elk’s bugle

from the mountain top

descending to valley ears

where all eyes search for the source

in binocular sweeps.

 

A night stalker leans

against the streetlight’s pole

where the glowing globe

no longer pours a safe haven

for pedestrians to breathe.

A woman’s screams

scratch fingernails

down blackened window panes

like a falcon’s prey

taloned in claws

screeching echoes

down the street where all eyes

see no evil, hear no evil,

speak no evil.

 

 

 

 

 

Snow Pray

 

Melted snow expands

across the road

warmer than

snow-piled shoulders;

seeking dryness, evaporation;

praying skyward for reincarnation

as spring rain

or thunderous hailstorm

or savored until winter

again a snowflake.

 

 

 

 

 

Police Presence

 

The first police car doesn’t roar past

with speed, lights and siren.

Neither does the second nor the third –

silent, no need to hurry,

whatever happened already happened.

 

We neighbors stare out doors,

wander out to the street,

pretend to check mailboxes – empty,

empty and silent two doors down

with idling police cars patient

for a real emergency where they can be loud.

 

Quiet – dead quiet?  No ambulance though.

A silver pickup slithers by a second time

and skulks around the road behind,

circles again with a big, bearded man driving.

Should I write down the license plate number?

Do criminals return to the scene of the crime?

One police car leaves, then a second.

 

Courage or curiosity wins;

I’m a little girl hoping the boy she likes

is playing outside, I walk down the street.

The remaining police car breathes

sound out the muffler

Gravel crunches beneath my shoes, loud today.

Mike hears me and steps around the house.

 

Everyone is okay; all is fine – sort of.

A neighbor entered his yard and played

chain saw massacre to his tree

because its leaves clog her yard

in the fall; it obstructs her view

of Mike’s front door so three cops had to see,

and the guy in the silver pickup

drives by again, stares right at me

like if I talk, he’ll be back to kill me.

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