David Jackson

Final Picnics

“I want to go!” was all you said,
as if you were slamming a book.
So I laid out your hat,
a tube of pink lipstick and blush
replacing the color
drained from my cheeks.
Death struck me then
as pottery with handles loose.
To you it snapped like fingernails —
a casualty of brushing up
against the hardness of a life.
“You don’t need eyes to see a forest.
The picture stays in your lungs.”
I packed a red checked tablecloth
pretending the dice weren’t close.

At the edge of a grave,
even the desert looks green.
Country roads spit gravel back
like bacon cooking in a pan.
You needed the custard of clouds
while I busied my triggers
shooting at hail.
The end was soft alyssum grains
finding the gust of a faithful breeze.
Sweat on your brow
could have been streams,
could have been rain licking the moss.
A stone divided by will
is still a stone in reckoning.
Innocence was telling me
to drive around the avalanche.

by Janet I. Buck

It Was Time and Others
By Janet Buck

“A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in the crowd.”
D.H. Lawrence

It was time to divide your things.
My arms stayed pinned to my sides
like tired doves, toes stayed curled
around a branch split
by razor lightning bolts.
I tottered and I lost my grip.
Mother launched her surly arrows,
lodged them in whatever flesh
crossed her borders of pain.
Striking out at rings around a toilet seat
as if they were death itself
taking a piss in a messy arch.
I understood the ache to clean,
her answer to leaping ahead,
strides beyond this sad reverse,
where prayers were linen packed with snot.
Scrub the awning of this hell,
paint over the fork of this flame.

I loved the wealth of dust on shelves.
Your soul resided in those books.
Binding smelled of glue you were
when winds took off with a dream,
when nightmares called for gathered ash,
some sort of urn and elegance.
Leather wraps you sewed for words
made me wish to dance with thought.
Ways you read a fingerprint upon a glass
as if the oil were part of some eternal well.
These were all my cats to pet
when logs on fires became gray coal.
I read the marginalia —
your fingers scribbled little clues.
“Dickinson’s obsessed with flies”
and “Frost won’t let a season go.”
I loved the ease with which you sang
your operas over trivia.

by Janet I. Buck

PATCHY

‘Patchy’ was a cat of character that dominating my life as a child during WW2 in London – I daresay there are quite a few of his descendants in that area to this day

Patchy, a pugnacious cat,

liked to live rough when he could,

often came back tired and dirty,

unrepentant and uncowed.

Black and white flanks dull and narrow,

lived on wild rabbits from the Flats; *

day or night roamed nearby bomb sites

fearlessly fighting other cats.

Wore his scars with style and swagger

and his shredded ear with pride.

But in winter, when we called him,

he”d condescend to come inside

to stay with us, eat well and often,

sleek flanks filled out. Then in the spring

with glossy coat and eyes that gleamed

he”d leave us, and live wild again.

* The Flats – common pasture land

on the edge of Epping Forest, Essex. England.

Jean Frances

***

To Be a Cat
by Laura Greenall

It’s not easy to be a cat
It’s not true that I always sleep
Sometimes I move from the bed to the chair
And I have to eat and use the box
My face must be washed and my toes kept clean
Then I move from the chair to the clean laundry basket
Ah, bliss. I love the smell of fabric softener in the morning
Don’t forget the purring that I do for my humans
But sweet reward is the petting and stroking
Time to eat once again, “please a can,” I meow
I can’t abide dry food, after all I am finicky
Now I clean my face with licked paws
Oh, exhaustion, think I’ll take a nap

***

FOOTSTEPS

The footsteps that remained inside the floor”s
Rug-covered wood recalled what last month”s
Footsteps left from when the footsteps
Departed from the curls and scars of city rivers.
The footsteps left a drop of quivering water
On a pigeon”˜s, colored like a white orchid, fallen feather,
Drops of paralyzed tears and their crutches
On a flock of gray gravel that had closed their eyes
And wobbled towards broken glass covering grasses.
The footsteps splashed as if the wood were water,
Splashed against the cobwebs on the ceiling and fell
On the bottoms of white chairs and evaporated
To leave long rows of white circles.
***