One Poem. One Planet. April 26, 2017
26.
Notebook Fragment
The king boletus is perfect
for days like this when you could really use
a forest mushroom to retaliate on cruelty—
a round proud audacious head
pushing out of the loamy ground
is a ruddy forehead to stomp, a bloated face
to kick.
–Arlitia Jones, April 26, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 25, 2017
25.
By now the children know my name
those that still talk even pronounce it correctly
and this pleases me
they shout it in the streets
where men lift them high
to bolster courage
or test for enemy snipers
Others, the children driven from their beds
still carrying the moon’s silence in their mouths,
their breath soft as ferns,
never speak again
hoping this will keep me from coming
It won’t
I am the red havoc who brings
fire to reflect in their eyes,
smoke to darken their skin
Where there was a door
through which they once returned home
I provide concrete cratered
with a hole the correct size
for their small bodies to fit
and this too, pleases me
–Arlitia Jones, April 25, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 24, 2017
24.
Sound — six-footed ant
scuffing the forest’s green drum —
at last, rain arrives
–Arlitia Jones, April 24, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 23, 2017
23.
Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
—Walt Whitman
Inside the coyote’s mouth
is a savage place for a barred owl
Twisting in the wind’s violent tarantella,
the trunk of the blue spruce eventually shatters
Flower shaped and malignant, the tumor blooming in the lungs
will eventually drown a man.
I am trying to understand, Walt.
I am.
But how I am to see the hand of a soldier
killed in battle, fingers darkened
and curling too tightly into the palm,
as anything other than a dead star?
–Arlitia Jones, April 23, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 22, 2017
22.
I’ve been thinking about extinction
how dull the world will be without
extravagant horns and spotted furs
how quiet the ocean will be
without the blue whale breaking its surface
how unadorned my poems will be
when every wing is folded, every song cut short
how quickly dinner will pass
when the chair across from me is empty
when my own chair is empty
and all that remains is the clutter
of knives and forks, empty plates
layered with dust and moonlight.
–Arlitia Jones, April 22, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 21, 2017
21.
Three kinds of flicker
today: the first in front of my car
as I left my driveway,
flare of a wing and flame colored flight
disappearing into the alder.
The second a shimmering late sun
tunneling into the volcano’s flank
way off on the distant horizon,
a fiery mouse hollowing its nest, trailing
orange tail in a lavender sky
And finally tonight this bright feather
of memory suspended in the bell jar
where I keep every beautiful piece of you
I haven’t already lost or dulled with unabashed devotion
–Arlitia Jones, April 21, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 20, 2017
20.
Who am I to say
what is impossible?
Brushed by dawn’s grey scarf of light
I am the crazy child
who finds the message from Vienna
waiting on her phone
A metaphor is never
just a metaphor
A yellow chrysanthemum
in a crystal vase
is a proxy sun in the kitchen–
it is also the sun
-Arlitia Jones, April 20, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 19, 2017
19.
Notebook Fragment
Across the forest floor,
beneath shadow of spruce
and mountain ash
the daughters of the wind
go forth
…
… … … multiply
numerous as stars
a temporary galaxy
at our feet—
anemones to us,
we are mystery at great distance
to them
–Arlitia Jones, April 19, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 18, 2017
18.
The bear was as surprised as we were
suddenly face to face on a trail that had ceased
being a trail at least a decade ago when miners
quit this worthless claim
I am alive!
declared the bear
We are in love!
And lost!
we said, backing away
Hey, Bear. Hey, Bear.
Above us mountains held the blue milk sky
of the in-between season—
not winter, not spring—unlovely April
with its dingy grass and slick mud
Husband and wife celebrating the anniversary
of their life-long joining , lost in the water-song of melt,
calling out to the bear and the un-beautiful world
as if our tongues were made of flowers
that bloom a month from now,
anemones high in the mountains.
Let us renew our vows, Bear, let us pass, Bear
into the birch, tall-throats waiting
for their green voice to ripen.
Hey, Bear. Hey. The bear considered us,
sniffed the earth then left us to our troth
— Arlitia Jones, April 18, 2017
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One Poem. One Planet. April 17, 2017
17.
Spring Haiku
The world did not end
in war. Dawn pinks the mountains
and the brown bear wakes
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GRAMPUS 