A fundamentally simple creature, and not too keen on calendars and clocks, the Feral Poet has been lured into a false sense of summer by the recent spate of unseasonably warm weather here on Skinny Island.  He appeared at the end of a glorious Saturday, looking very tan and fit, we must say, and mysteriously exuberant, to deliver the following poems. We didn’t have the heart to break it to him that it was still March.

* * *

Walking Stick

Not since a child, when, strung between
two Jacarandas in a rainbow-striped
hammock, one walked unwavering
the length of my arm, have I seen
the bladed mantis, angled now in sunlight

like a knife in the porch railing.
It does not move, its forelegs crossed
and poised in air, the leanly muscled
biceps of a bantam weight, daring
the crew-cut lawn, and I shuffle,

dulled by the sun, through my limited
catalogue of mantis lore to the entry
where, after coupling, the female
devours the male who dies without
a struggle and, one must assume,

happy.  It is a ritual I would gladly
acquiesce to (these again, are thoughts
from a hammock,) on a still summer evening
with one so strong, so utterly consuming,
Joplin on the radio, my clothes folded in prayer.

* * *

Consider: the Pan of Water

From heat stuffed
dullness
fly two crows
with silver backs,
loping the startled sky
on slow wings.

A woman steps
across a wooden porch
and flings a pan of water
to the sunlight,
frozen in more
perfect flight.

* * *

And this, somewhat uncharacteristic of the Feral Poet . . .

Training Grapes

Stray tendrils vibrate a music
past and future, clipped,
their promise passes
down a taut wire
above the garden fence
imbuing one select and robust
leafed-out narrative
with scenes and sounds
of the Lord’s perfect laughter,
denying nothing, even drunkenness;
affirming everything, even death.

* * *