Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Did you see the green green grass Reflected in the green-aged glass Of windows where green algae grows Slip-slimy on the side? Did you see the green green frog Hop out the gray-green covered pond And slip on mud, then slimily Climb out, prince to his bride? Didja kiss ‘im?

Blank Empty Lost Alone Blank Descending Lost As one Blank Two Blanks Three Blanks More The words Fly out The door Blank The words Cry out For More Than one Blank Two Blanks Three Blanks More The sun is Coming out from Where behind a Cloud it stared at Blanks.

“One day my prince will come.” But he’s not here. Still playing Freecell, trapped in cell of cards on screen of green. Prince has no crown but glowing light around him. Princess creeps, slides slim arms underneath his open shirt. “Black queen on red…” Then they, together, head for bed.

Are there snakes in Ireland? Or worms That wriggle and squirm? Children cry. Three-leafed clovers for truth Four-leafed luck but Here’s five? Are there snakes? The invader Leaf-arms and leaf-legs and one head Takes the kids from their beds. Should’ve driven out clover dear Saint Let the green-snake grass grow.

Spring Break; Jake’s eating gummy-snakes. Jane cringes, takes him out in the yard. “Let’s pull weeds.” “What’s weeds.” Shows him dandelions. “These.” He pulls out daffodils. “Mom, what’s this?” long and green; not a worm. Gummy-snakes changing color and squirming. They hiss at her. Why’d it have to be snakes?

They sailed seeking fortunes, demanding subservience, proclaiming authority till their crops died. They died too. They sailed begging strangers for help. But saviors resented betrayal and fought them away. They sailed building houses of brick, ah victory. There, if they’d failed, the bison, wolf and man might still roam free.

Writhing vines surround the castle walls, sharp thorns on guard with readied spears; he’d best not fall while clambering here. Then daylight shines. Rainbows cascade through diamond glass. Bright pennants fly. But door of iron gray, unyielding, waits. Prince sneaks across a gap broken by age to steal a kiss.

Alone downstairs, window taped against the cold, night falling, eyes fixed to computer, the only sound is tapping keys. Then, hop… Tug my ear-lobe; what? Hope it’s not family home for food. A frog spits up at me. Spiteful, I lob it at—closed—window. Frog becomes prince, demands dinner.

Ah princeling, rising through the ranks, a soldier born to war. Ah pauper, doomed to poverty, to service evermore. Ah mystery, ever-wondering which is which. Will pauper rise, a valiant man, a Caesar, almost king? Will princeling serve or plan a vicious coup, a conquering? Et tu? Beware the Ides.

I’ll pick my path, Betrailed with dusty breadcrumbs so I’ll know which way to go. I’ll find my dream, Feasting on others’ memories and know How deep it seems. I’ll capture hope, Enwrap the witch in cage of my designing Till it dies Then live my own sweet merry way.

She wears a red hood Red to hide the blood. She fears to ride. She wears a white shirt White to show the dirt. She goes inside. She wears a brown shoe Bravely beating him. He’s brings her down. She wears a black tie Tightly wrapped around Her torment dies.

White as snow, you know, you’re not so bright. They’re going to dig a grave for you tonight And hide you deep where the apples cannot fright you. White as snow, when everyone’s asleep Will you deny one tiny kiss, he pleads The silent sad dwarf singing, Set me free.

“Remember” said the prayer but he forgot. “Remember man” then he remembered her. “Remember man that thou”; she is; thou art. “Remember thou art dust” and dust has burned his memory for she spurned, betrayed his trust. “Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust” return, remembering. Remember love.

Dust in the wind carries images born on the air. Dust in the yard covers flowers making growing so hard. Dust in the house is what keeping it clean’s all about. And dust in their lives, brushed away, blessed care, makes the memories clear and the promise of memories dear.

Dust in the wind, storm-blown detritus of winter’s deceit, ashes of autumn covering the promise of spring—March wind, march, wind, over memories and me. Whirling in air, dust-clouds gather and somebody’s there but unformed still, unmade. The storm takes me away. Dust in the wind remembers, remembering His day.

“Are the birds laying eggs yet Mommy?” But Mommy doesn’t know. She knows there’s eggs in the fridge and pancakes to make, but eggs in the henhouse, the field? Why do hens lay all year round anyway? Now she sounds like the boy. “Is dinner ready yet Mommy?” “Almost.” “Yum.”

Big tree, medium shadows; little boy kneels down. Tiny bird, wriggling worm; he watches with a frown. Bird tugs hard. Worm backs down, wriggling underground. Cold winter yard, just thawing with sun, just damp with rain; little boy’s knees are getting muddy again. Then the bird tugs, gulps, flies away.

Tommy entered the yard. He swam against the current, small arms tugging hard at sky. He sank into the murky depths, short legs with labored strides. He rolled onto the beach borne by the tide. Then mother cried, “Tommy, what are you doing?” “Playing in the wind.” “Playing in mud.”

March winds, they said, that blend with April showers to bring May flowers… March crocuses with waving heads; they bled their purple petals on the ground while squirrels fed… March winds its mystery round my mind, Sunshine gone swift to rain, again, To watch the blossoms cry their sad refrain.

Some days shine. Sun-rays flick from finger-ends. Lines of light trail down the wandering creases, send your eyes to mine. I chase away your blues. Some days shine. Steel of toe-caps bright as summer, glint of teeth that smile like sun delighting winter’s news. Some days shine more than shoes.

Green. The grass was green, and with nothing else to do he watched it grow. Nothing else till night-time, then he’d go, escape, be free of gray land’s green. Eyesight plays tricks. He’s scarcely half-awake. A snake? The whole damned place is green. One day he’ll save it. Snakes away!

Grandpa watched football on TV. “So Brian, what do you think?” “Well, it’s a game of two halves.” Grandpa dug a hole in his sandwich. A spider crawled across the commentator’s desk; across the screen. Granddaughter screamed. Grandpa’s sandwich had a hard bit, chopped spider in halves, dropped in bin.

“March winds,” the poet said… “March winds and April showers.” But wind-blown rain and sleet and snow were driving early spring shoots underground. “March winds.” The mother marched against the wind, head down, arms wrapped round body, feet pushing their weary plod. The little child danced merrily. March springs on.