Brushstrokes, Museum Piece
by Cleo Griffith
Neither the jade in the closed cabinet
nor the kimono on the wall caught his attention
but the word upon the side of the Chinese screen,
a lovely black brush-stroke word on the pale wood
of the folding screen which was covered with scarlet fabric
and embroidered golden dragons of fearsome features,
none of which he noticed, so taken was he with the word.
Surely, he thought, something that beautiful
must be profound, must hold
one of the secrets of life within an ebony flourish.
No, he was told, it is only the name of the man
who made the screen. Disappointed, he left, wondering
why it should strike such a chord in him,
merely the name of the craftsman. Only the name
of the creator.
It’s been a long time since I’ve swung a machete
Had it been a box of candy,
a bag of seedless tangerines,
I might have taken a teeny taste,
at least a sample, before sending out
enquiries, but green coconuts?
Had it been a gift of strawberries
or other yummy produce from nearby
I might have made a shortcake
with only casual questions
regarding those responsible.
So I took a coconut in hand,
checked with neighbors
“had this carton been delivered
that was meant for them?” but
no one knew why anyone would leave
coconut juice still inside its original containers
on the porch of an elderly couple.
Had it been a gift of two strong men
to wash the windows, clean the gutters,
even clowns with balloons to entertain
would have pleased, we’re easy.
Had I been younger by a lot of years
I might have been tempted to take a whack
and see what the juice was all about
but it’s been a long time since I swung a machete
so I passed them off to the teenager next door.
Of Course Life is a Path of Metaphors
Sun slants in and lightens corners,
daffodils rise from winter’s chill,
flotsam of the flood refigures landscapes,
broken man learns to trust again.
Monday through the blindman’s eyes,
ruby sunrise the day after you have died,
smiles from those you never met,
storms slap-slash across imagined seas.
Mockingbird repeats in December,
bare soles interpret Summer’s heat,
inner child meets inner witch,
both weep.
Old Familiar
This is not a cute pet of a dragon,
no fluttery feminine eyelashes,
no gentle whispery breath,
this is the fire-breather of old,
the glassy-eyed, ravaged with fury,
green and gory dragon
aroused deep within that calm appearance.
It hates, it drools, it spits fire and nails,
lashes and slashes,
denigrates and insults,
beats down and tears up,
shatters and pulverizes,
eats out your insides,
becomes greener
with age,
dies never
of
its envy.
BIO
Cleo Griffith has been widely published in such journals as Main Street Rag, Lothlorien and Straylight. She has been on the Editorial Board of the poetry quarterly, Song of the San Joaquin, since it began in 2003.
