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- A Stand of Spruces
- Crystal Trees at 10 Degrees
- Sky-Gazer
- Frosted Panes of Frost
- Life Tag, Wrapped, Mummy-like
- Watery Broth,Thai-die Chile
- That Beetle is no Lady
- Orbitless Orb, Slippery Minutes
- No Rapid Reply , OFF, Skeeters!
- County Road 300, circa July 2003
- Dewy Side Ditches
Those spruces are not going anywhere--no, not even though the pine cones are rattling and the branches bow.
A Stand of Spruces
Rooted and grounded, though the branches sway,
though the wind unleashes its fury all day.
Yet the wood is green and the sap still flows
though the snow rides heavy as the North wind blows,
For I am not alone.
A line of us, old spruces, all--
buffetted, jostled, yet standing tall.
Shouting words of hope and strength once more:
It is just the wind, just another wind;
we'll stand it this winter
as we've stood it before,
anchored against its incessant roar.
dec. 17, 2003
lori fiechter
An ice storm's silver lining: silver trees
Crystal Trees at 10 Degrees
Radiant in beauty;
Remarkable and much remarked upon,
Assuming an aura of royal fragility.
There is one glory
of a tree in spring,
another of the same tree in autumn,
but nothing can match
the rare glory of a crystal tree
dazzling as heaven,
reflecting--nay, magnifying--
the splendor
of January's sun.
1-06-04
Sky-Gazer
--Why? It will be there tomorrow.
"It will not be there tomorrow!
That will be tomorrow's sky
with tomorrow's colors
and tomorrow's clouds
and tomorrow's moon.
Today's sky must be seen today;
it will not keep."
--Nor today's newspaper. My regrets to your sky.
lori fiechter
1-07-04
She cannot see the beauty for the cold;
He cannot feel the cold for the beauty.
Frosted Panes of Frost
this is but a soap-splashed
window above the kitchen sink.
Two windows, with cobwebs between.
But today it is full of
icy tessellations,
feathery tendrils,
and coarsely crushed diamonds.
My own art gallery,
mounted above a sinkful
of jumbled plates and flatware,
dappled with yesterday's crumbs.
1-07-04
Life Tag
"You're it!"
I'd rather sit.
I did not want to play today.
I wanted to be left alone.
No games, no rules,
no tiresome tag.
But life chided and nagged
and pestered me.
And so I run,
chasing goals that won't hold still.
laughing breathless to the ground.
10-24-03
I couldn't see,
Wrapped, mummy-like,
in my own thoughts
(no eyeholes, though my legs were free)
I barely noticed, when I'd tripped,
what'd caused my foot to snag and slip--
the root that tried to slow me down.
I didn't see,
I wouldn't see
anything that was outside of me.
ragout
[ra-GOO] A derivative of the French verb ragoûter, meaning "to stimulate the
appetite," ragoût is a thick, rich, well-seasoned stew of meat, poultry or fish that
can be made with or without vegetables.
Watery Broth
unsatisfied with fool's gold;
Seeking savory stew,
not watered-down broth.
How can so many settle
for bowls of weak broth,
pretending it is rich?
I'm still seeking, still hungry
for meat and marrow,
depth and width and height
(no tricks of trompe l' Oeil)
I cannot pretend as well as they
Honesty is my curse.
Drink! Eat! They force-feed me.
My stomach is full
but never satisfied.
And yet, I smell ragout.
lori fiechter
11-07-03
(footnote March 15, 2004. The chile is thriving: green and full of little green peppers
and tiny white blossoms. I hand-pollinated the blossoms and these peppers are larger than
the originals. Perhaps all it needed was sunshine and a bit of spray 'n grow®. However,
the rosemary was forgotten outside and froze. )
Thai-die Chile
watched it curl its tiny leaves and sigh
and wither me with its plaintive "why?"
"Why did you try? Why did you buy?"
I watched it droop and lose its sheen,
shrink into itself and plead,
"Outside--put me out to die;
amongst the other things once green;
the things you didn't kill too soon,
the things which will return anew
( I will not see another noon)--
and bury me beside them."
10-27-03
Tongue-tip Tripped
Names hide like cockroaches do
when the switch is flipped on.
A familiar face approaches,
"Hi, Lori"
"Well, hi, there!" I respond--overheartily--
(While I rack my brain, "Name, Name?)
The face recedes and so
the cockroaches return,
mocking.
I try to trap one, as insurance.
Too slippery and leggly.
I let him go.
lori fiechter
10-07-03
That Beetle is no Lady
that one--
the over-sized yellow mutant.
The one that bites.
The one that has a taste
for tree-hanging apples
and forty-year-old leg.
This is not the cute little
red bug with the polka dotted skirt,
the darling of nursery rhymes.
These beetles are mutants--on vacation.
Someone passed out
travel brochures for a cruise--
our air-conditioner vent is the ship.
The tourists are hanging from the
dive-bombing into the soup
and the ice cube trays,
full of just-squeezed lemon juice.
Fly away home--please.
Soon.
Now.
(And try a new perfume)
Mi casa no es su
casa.
lori fiechter
10-11-03
Orbitless Orb
Just a sphere on its own;
A needle-less compass
A monarch-less throne.
A direction-less arrow
with no place to go.
Archipelago? No--
Just an island, alone.
9-30-03
and another one, too.
Tie down those varmints;
Let me gnaw on a few.
But they're flying like swallows,
as elusive as dreams;
harness them? Doubtful--
Rather, they harness me.
lori fiechter 9-30-03
No
Rapid Reply
I will not yet respond;
my words are still too jittery,
caffeinated and restless;
they have not relaxed and settled down.
I will not answer with restless words
just to make a quick reply.
When the words have calmed down a bit
and arranged themselves
in some semblance of order,
I'll pick the ones I really need
and discard the rest--for now.
So, is it a prompt reply
or a thoughtful one
you want?
Better late than hasty?
Or am I just lazy?
lori fiechter
9-29-03
I have new mosquito repellent,
a bright orange can with DEET!
I'll be more than a match for those
syringes with wings--
they'll find me less than sweet.
And yet, I was neck-bitten, leg-bitten, arm-bitten
at least ten times today.
It's not enough to own the can;
sometimes, you have to spray.
9-19-03
County Road 300, circa July 2003
I notice things walking,
things overlooked while
speeding by in my air-conditioned van.
The wheat fields have crew cuts now--
crew cuts with stripes.
The field corn is sprouting
Barbie doll tresses of flaxen silk.
Messy little blonde tresses.
The male sheep is bleating loudly at me,
a bleat that sounds more like a
belched "braaaack". I chuckle.
Hope he has a sense of humor.
He looks so foolishly serious--
A stern British magistrate
with a full-body wig.
A blue heron flies overhead.
usually it's bluebirds.
But this soggy July,
it's herons.
I walk on in breezeless silence.
Lori Fiechter
7-25-03
Dewy Side Ditches
Dew-dripping ditches
with pockets of crickets
and crescents of clover
and sweet-smelling thistles.
Tiny shimmering circlets
of fine spider-Spandex,
(baby blankets of gauze?
miniature trampolines
with fat grass poking through?)
The field corn waves shyly;
I wave gaily back.
Such friendly cornfields,
with their borders of grasses
and spindly blue chicory
and that red puffy clover
with its chevron-stamped leaves.
lori fiechter
8-7-03
