Savannah

That woman walks
down the road of
stone cobbles, her soul
split in two. One
wanders the past,
the other
stalks the present.
The lament of sore feet
tells nothing
of the journey gone: bunions
throbbing
have no tales to tell.
That woman’s past
comes face to face with
a stranger; her present
with a man she knows,
but all too well.
She weeps silent tears.
She knows no sorrow.

Rachel Westfall
March 13, 2013

Winter night's crime

They natter as I slide by, a flock

bickering in the crepuscular light.

There are no gifts that come with this dawn.

No hive mind for these feather-heads,

grey with edges dipped

in the hot blood of baptism, just

a subtle gift of words, a susurrus

rising in strange, muttered currents

to fling blame back and forth

for the eviscerated mounds of crushed

rowan berries. Torn fruit-flesh lines the streets,

the sidewalks, the barrows of grimy snow:

a compote to spice the repast

of January’s shivering child.

Rachel Westfall

January 8, 2013

(Rill)

To say it’s all, your words become a song

a rill that runs through dappled ground and trees

I twist it, warp it darkly, turn it bleak:

mistakes fall broken, hopeless, choked despair.

Blood amber, slow and hopeful, conjures beads

of patience orchestrated; weeping pines

hold conference, deep séance through the fell

harsh winter of this dance through shattered spring.

Rachel Westfall

October 10, 2012  

A bad day

Swollen mushrooms, white caps

are sliced murderously by a swinging, errant cleaver. The butcher

is angry again, fought with his wife again, was mocked

by a gaggle of rowdy kids, street urchins

all laughing, skinny, basted

with greasy dust. 

Caps severed, gills fly

helplessly in the wake of slamming steel, spores

drifting voiceless through

the sterile vacuum 

of the butcher's stolid kitchen.

Rachel Westfall

September 14, 2012

Feathers

A flurry, tearing seed from hull

A flutter, a frenzy

Must hurry

Hurry hurry

Snow is coming, Snow is coming, 

Snow

a shout

lost

in cold silence

but for a small, steady drip

dripdripdrip

knives

groaning and shattering cold

over frozen, mud-green needles

needles of ice, needles of glass

needles of mindless

cruel cold

Rachel Westfall

September 9, 2012

The demon in stripes

The demon in stripes

has run amok, flashing teeth

and slashing tail, rending flesh

and mounting screams

with full abandon.

In his wake, a girl cries,

wrist stitched and arm gored

mistakenly,

for she was not

his intended victim.

The demon only strikes 

intentionally

in mischief or revenge,

but sometimes,

his teeth slip.

Now he returns, sated,

to a purring, nestled ball

in a warm and sacred enclose

of dappled sunshine.

Rachel Westfall

July 11, 2012

Dissolve

The clutter of a decade in a torrent of  rain, 

curbside

'Free Stuff' sign scratched in purple marker

on the back of an old worksheet, pinned 

to the dog-eared loveseat with scratchy

tartan cushions, the sign

weeping mascara tears

down 

into the crease between

red and brown checkered wings

Rachel Westfall

July 9, 2012

Eruption

Wait for it

The pounding, screaming of the ship's wake

through cavities of stone, sinuses riven

into bone

clefts of granite

pores of marrow shrieking

under pressure of the song.

Wait

Wait for it

Through the hush

through the silence that lies, 

lies agonized over its truthlessness at the crippled, seething

heart of the storm.

Rachel Westfall

July 6, 2012

Jezebel

I'm so mad there's a dog

barking and slavering inside me.

Mad as a hatter

Mad as a lunatic

Roaring mad as Smaug after someone stole his pots.

I'm so mad the kids have run and hid

the cats are all wary

and even the Jehova's Witnesses

are staying away.

But they might have marked my door.

In the honour of all

who I've chased away,

Let me name this tantrum.

I think I shall call her

Jezebel.

Tropical storm Jezebel.

Yes.

And all shall tremble in her wake.

Rachel Westfall

July 5, 2012

Portrait

With a sailboat inked on his skin

he sat straddled over a pylon, 

old wood reeking of creosote and summer heat

face drawn and weather-beaten as an old peach.

This ship was made for sailing

or so the song goes, when one's life adventure

is summarized so neatly by a three-mile trip

into town on a noisy bus, passengers

so numbed by the heat the flies reign over all.

A cough and a hork, a crust for the lurking gulls

and a kick to send a ground-out butt on its way

for here comes the ride

home.

Rachel Westfall
July 3, 2012