Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 14 Number 1, April 2013
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Poetry
by
Webs
In twilight the spider's web vanishes.
Rather than silken lace,
her deft legs climb only air.
She swings and twirls in a buffet of breeze,
then scurries higher into space.
Having only half her limbs, we are spider's
clumsy kin,
but we too ascend on invisible threads,
spun from ourselves, sticky to the touch,
strong in the wind.
Mr. Zip
Like the mail, we wait for Jesus --
cooling his heels, he rises through epochs.
Out our window the air falls all day long.
Needing his missives,
staring at the approaching sidewalk,
we give up, yawn and say,
"No mail today."
Then glimpse him past us, disappearing down the block --
bare feet pressing wet roses on concrete.
City Spring
Searching for sticks, the sparrow sings again
in the alley while
his spouse sips from the puddle
of a cat's paw print.
Up from the mud sprout
green shocks of new weeds,
and willow buds, sleek as baby rabbits,
burst from twigs rattling in gusts against a billboard.
In the thawed sump of a tin can
bug couples hug in rapturous honeymoons.
Beneath us, a worm burrows after a friend
through earth once again soft enough to munch.
Even we two woolen creatures,
coughy-throated and pale, scurrying
for the bus, tug off our hats
and blink hello.
March
On the frozen bud
a wren, fluffed to brave the sleet,
trills and flicks her tail.
Midnight Gallery
Paintings still shine
through barred windows
after we've all gone home