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COLORS CALLING
Steve: a bow tie and white
shirt. Mrs. Craig
insists Viet Nam
is God's
will and Jesus loves
us (He's God after
all). Leaving that
behind was grief,
relief. Steve wanted
butterfly
launching pads. Cocoon
free in his garden,
wings, open windows--
he flexes and
dances, breaks
from a dahlia's
pink,
colors calling.
TARTS AND PUDS
Evi and I talk about tarts
and puds, find it odd
that many don't know
what a pud is. Tarts
they know--most everyone
knows tarts. And tarty types.
I can be tarty, and I sure can
be a pud too--I get futsy
and pissy and then
it happens--wham, I become
a downright pud. Now
a tart, that's not limited
to women. My best moments
are tarty, when I'm saucy
and less afraid than I often am,
especially among tart-haters
who thrive today. What puds,
big-time puds, their mental
carbon monoxide
endangering anyone
breathing near them.
CARRIE ANNE
Often when I'm in
my living room listening
to The Hollies sing
"Carrie Anne"
& I bounce to the instru
mental break
where steel drums blip
& ping between
my walls I sense
I'm in Trinidad
the sun
eating a banana
on a hotel roof
dropping the yellow
peel on
my napping head
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