Oslo Opera House

winter’s
snowy slopes rise
in the height of summer,
singing back to operatic
seagulls

The Scotch Tape and the Snail

A nearsighted snail exclaimed to his friend,
“You’ll never believe who I’ve seen!
The gem of the garden from here to lawn’s end—
in my eyes she’s truly a queen!

“Her trail of slime has a marvelous shine,
its stickiness has me enthralled!
And her accent’s adorable—Scottish, I think,
though I can’t understand her at all.”

“Do you think this is wise?” the other replied,
with antennae at skeptical tilt.
“I shouldn’t disparage cross-cultural marriage,
but I think you’d look odd in a kilt.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t so frown, could you hear my heart pound
like a passionate, snail-paced drum!
For her I would crawl through the salt flats of Utah—
But quiet now! Look—here she comes!”

Several minutes later… the Envoi:

“Ach! Dinnae ye fash yersel’, bonnie wee snail,
yer een havnae led ye astray,
fer we’ll doon tae the kirk an’ be marrit at once,
an’ I’ll stick tae ye all o’ me days.”

At the Basilica of the Annunciation

Mother Mary lifts my eyes
and I am a child again.
My small hands slip into hers
as easy as breathing
and touch the loving callouses
where countless pilgrim hands
have rested, then carried away
infinitesimal flecks of paint,
infinite portions of blessings,
revealing, underneath the white,
the gray, and underneath the gray,
a love that has no underneath.

Bad Nana

My name is Bad Nana, just look at me shoot,
I’m a grandma banana, and outlaw to boot.
Abscond and absquatulate, that’s how I steal,
The sheriff can’t hold me—I’m out on appeal.

Taverns and brawls, well, I’ve been in a bunch.
My right hook’s a doozy, and so’s my fruit punch.
Tussle with me and you’ll think it’s uncanny
This granny bananny done whupped your sweet fanny.

Whatever you do then, just don’t call me yellow—
I’ll turn you the shade of my pineapple jello.
I’ll carry on breakin’ the law til I’m dead,
A bandit I’m born, til banana I’m bread.

Back when I was green, terrorizin’ the West,
“Chiquita Bandita” was stitched on my vest.
Now men run and hide from my crocheted bandana,
In fear of Bad Nana, the Grandma Banana.

Bad Nana, courtesy of Curtis Boone.

The Owl

As the night falls, I rise.
I lift into the lowering skies,
And welcome the dark to fill my eyes.

Ablaze in flight,
I know the secret of the night:
That we are never wholly without light.

My Giraffe

My giraffe
will never laugh.
The jokes I tell
seem awfully swell
down here.
But once my voice has made it all the way up to his ear,
what was funny
on the floor
isn’t funny
anymore.