dirt on the welcome mat

Author Archives: jacsprat

Winter trees wait for the sunset
To plead the debt
Earth owes the sky-
Dark limbs stretch high.

Sharp branches poke the golden glow
The poor below
Wish, work, and weep
To coin and keep.

But frost sits where no gold can stay
The next cold day-
A silver peace
For winter’s lease.

when the rain rests
right over the breeze,
the trees and grass feel it-
I do, and you.

so how come when news
brews above your tongue
no siren’s song
sears my skin?

we’re dragging our shells across asphalt,
turtle-crossing the world.
in the impulse of nature we’re caught,
across dark crusts we’re hurled.

we hope to reach the double golden bars,
sunsets’ cheaply painted lines-
that gleam of hope between the cars,
the finish line that blinds.

a shattered shell marks suicide-
the journey’s nothing less,
but the creeping hastens the divide
between the cursed and blessed.

we travel alone in our rough-aged skin.
we strain our bones to cross the bars.
we grasp the gold only to begin
the treadmill journey that is ours.

Inside some minds

Revolves a jagged scrap, a metal shape

On display in the dark like an African diamond.

Night flares shoot from its sharp-angled corners,

Maiming pulsing webs of soul, bone and vein.

A brilliant kill- dead and done are the

Nektons of the spirit.

Braid me a March clover necklace-

I don’t need a flower on each stem.

Your dancing fingers bring me luck-

With silver spider’s thread you weave a window.

Give me presents green and wild

And I’ll fold the sweet wind into a fan.


Kiss the spring clouds with our air-fan

And I’ll lasso the apple trees with our necklace.

We’ll be soft, gentle, and wild,

Blowing each dandelion from its stem,

Framing our faces with an ivy-leaf window,

Smiling horseshoes of good luck.


Our hands, four leaves of unplucked luck,

Our breath the scented season’s fan,

Our eyes a painted puddle-window,

A gem in nature’s fragrant necklace

Which wraps its bright blooms around the stem

Of a thin, newborn world, prematurely wild.


In like a lion, March wanders wild.

Heel-clicking, dancing like a leprechaun’s luck,

Gustily ripping flower from stem.

Under the rain showers, wet grasses fan,

Sparkling and twisted like a long-chained necklace.

Early March beats like a bird against a window.


But raging weeks have a short window

March’s beauty is not all fierce and wild.

While sharp breeze like a necklace

Chokes the first of March, late weeks’ wisps of luck

Soothe the harsh sting, still the fan.

Soft lamb’s ear petals smile from roughened stem.


March is our month- petal, root, and stem.

We see the year through its bright window.

Through the seasons we fan

Ourselves with its wonderful wild.

You and I, the March clasp of luck,

Linking together spring’s silver necklace.


My necklace of green stem,

Your breezy luck that weaves a window,

Framing the whispers wild, watching friendship fan.

When I see the shy pink blossom of a tree,

I scoff at black-and-white photography.


We see the blush

But point-and-shoot

And kill

The colors we forgot we grew into.

We meant to

Shake the dried petals

Away from the binding,

But the blinding, aging sun-flash

Won’t stop reminding

Us of the shadows on the dial

We fade as we capture

We develop into masters

Our slaves’ blood the gray ink

Glossed in our history book portrait.

Under feathers

Huddle all the dark,

Sharp things of the world.


The bird womb breeds

Beaked fury that scurries

On Swiss-army knives,

All blades bared.


Like sharp treasures

In pockets


Their cries send needles

Through veins, trains

Whistle more subtly

Than the winged refrains

Of my flightless fear.

Our conversations

click around magnetic corners,

attract and oppose,

the horseshoe metal slides

your sounds

over my red thought blocks,

twists and flips

the silver tips until-


our heads fold to

the horizontal,

the poles quiver

as our souls

join the elliptical current,

the inseparable invisible,

the magnetistic

meeting of minds.

I am a fortune hunter.

My luck and your future

Are in my hands

If we go out to dinner.

I prefer Asian-

Chicken chow-mein,

A good stir-fry,

Or anything

Accompanied with

A little slip, a hint

Of golden cookie wealth,

Chinese blessings sent

To this fortune hunter.

an old wish

the fur, pieces of bone

that see-saw

in what the raccoon left

when the trees get the wind up

an old wish

the deserted dirt-daubers’

crusty pipe-organ home,

hushed and hard

and threatening

an old wish

the abandoned fort

that grew mossy

and wilder than we were