Five poems by R Jay Slais

Five poems
by R Jay Slais

Mice Verses Man In This Time Of War

The mice are fat and happy at peace
with the furry little creatures mice are,
in terms of mouse dreams at least.

Mice chew and mice are happy.
Mice swallow and mice get fat.
No human stomps on them;

mice remain fat and happy.
One day, mice may sleep underneath
a homeless man's cardboard box bed,

take a few tongue-licks of liquor
from inside his discarded jug cap,
carry away a driblet of end crust

broken off a soup kitchen sandwich.
The next day, mice may mouse through a gap
under the sink, of a suburban ranch style house,

find and chew through a corn flake box,
empty, except the half-bowl-full
left in the bottom by a child. The flakes

are stale, yet mice chew and mice swallow.
Mice may mouse along the baseboard unseen,
by man, but the next cupboard is bare,

and the next. The mice stay fat and happy,
even on stale corn fla ke rations.
The child, asleep in her bed upstairs,

dreams that mommy and daddy
will not fight about money tomorrow
and a fine supper of salad, steak, and potatoes

will be served at the table at 6:00 P.M.,
the whole family there, happy as a mouse
just like she has seen on television.

********************

Knead

Love hate they say as if
we are baking Sylvia bread,
head in an oven

to watch the yeast rise.
Witness the moment
the skin begins to brown,

when the odor wafts
upon the window draft
like a ghost walking about

room to room. We look
but can not see, smell
but do not inhale

because we know inside,
hate festers
like pan drippings

on the heating element;
you can not touch
without getting burned.

After all, one who hates you
perfectly, moils without end
to slice the lines that define you,

might be the one
who can accept everything
you are made of;

the hard crust,
the delicate insides,
and the crumbs that linger longer.

*********************

The Overdose

Her eyes are open
after I shake her,
shout her name,
but she’s not conscious.
Adrift someplace outside,
she’s a pristine burst seed
broken loose, carried away
by a cold autumn wind .
Destiny seems to be in charge,
outcome unknown for now.
My eyes in the sky, stay focused,
to follow the rise and fall
as she floats along
on an invisible current.
I hang close in wait
for the chance to grasp her,
my warmest loving touch,
only having one moment
to make a wish for her.
I swallow my heart and will,
release her back into the air,
nature must now decide her fate.
As she’s lifted up and away,
the breeze seems to converse
lauding a birdsong for this child:
“I'm sorry Daddy, I don’t want to die.”

********************

Quill Weary


She kept that wing,
yet I soared on
in avoidance.
The shivered dart
flew queer, fell un-struck
grown cold
as a wind bent icicle;
all these things
that fall down.

Rocks, well known
for their silence,
can do it well,
the art of tumble,
how to settle and morph
into an indefinable smoothness,
only to be broken ground.
So here I start again,
bejeweled and dangling,
a drip mizzle.

I poked feathers
into her skin, pushed her
to the edge with words
demanding of flight,
a cureless shove
of pitiless love,
well enough to fall,
and grope for air;
any hope of flying,
going, going, gone.

******************

She Is Fine With Birds


You stand like a black locust
Graceful limbs of a dancer
But dead, bleak long after
Other trees have leafed out.
……………….Marge Piercy


She was only fourteen when she first flew,
stiff on digamma and shuttering the shaft
her wings aired then took on some water
a floatsoar meander against the slipstream view,
look down, up, squinchy-eyed tight as a fist.

He was an arsonist of sort, all about fire,
candle wax dripping just below an areola
the white skinned, never sunshined bread and wine,
his taproot sensation split the seedpod
to sproutsing a growsong of new greenery.

The wind chime on the eve is keeping time
with the mattress spring squeak and rattle,
the red vine creeps up the trunk to choke the branch,
breathless the leaves, un-grow and release one after another
then fall like thick white drops of rain on a moonless night.


Author bio:

R Jay Slais’ most recent and forthcoming publications include poems at Barnwood, Clockwise Cat, Cause & Effect, MiPOesias, and Neon. A single father raising his two children, he makes a living as an engineer/inventor in Metro Detroit Michigan.