My New Years Resolution is to make the following bits and micro-bits of my life into poems.
Tell me, Lita, did you follow
a goose, a duck, or a mythical swan
that only you could see?
(This was a patient...an 18 month old girl named "Leetha" who was found - cold, blue and unresponsive - in a pond a few yards from her family's garage where her parents were taking groceries out of the car. The pond was one commonly used by wildlife)
it's imprinted in the shine
of firefly: the way we live will be
the way we die
(lightening bugs -- I just like 'em)
Chinese spiders thrive on air
but I am just the aphid sucking substance
from the stem
(from a dream I had last year...had to do with paper bags and spiders which Dan told me were "Chinese Spiders" who apparently didn't need anything but air to survive.)
Some say she sought the lunatic
but he, in fact, sought she.
How strange that no one finds her mad
she's more insane than he.
(Self-explanatory if you know me)
You thought that Death would never find
you (though you courted him on darkened stairs
and in the lonely alleyways behind
your mother's church)
(for nothing and no one in particular and for every drunken driver and every hang-glider I've ever taken care of in the back of an ambulance)
To the Boy In the Attic of His Father's Garage
What lurks beneath the loss of hope?
The roof - the rafter - the length of rope.
(I want this for the ending couplet to a sonnet (?) about an 18 year old boy....the son of a friend and co-worker who was pronounced at the scene shortly before Christmas 2000. It may very well be that it's still too painful to write, tho.)
There are about 7 more snippets hanging around my "open.doc" but the more I look at them, the more I am thinking they may just stand alone as some sort of bastardized haiku. Perhaps I'll post 'em later.