rare dreams
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by KJ Hannah Greenberg




Can I be Rare, Too?



If you are rare, can I be rare, too?

In less time than needed to braid keychains,

I could incal scere like Australian thorn birds,

Thrust off sufficient self-perceived “embarrassments,”

As to change, rather than to end, our relationship.



Skipping along the periphery of glabrous greens grown with ill cause,

I otherwise rubrice sharp passages as filled with ease and light. Forfend

That midife’s mandate might keep our vital courses open to locked places.

Only when hatchling promises or passing seasons, those met during earlier spans,

Would I take verbal microscopes to tarantulas’ fangs.



Conjuring up make-believe monsters does nothing for dancing the mortise and tendon.

Dunderdoodles, blue-tongued skinks, plus vegetarian “meatballs,” all sometimes burn.

Better to fail at placing staid beckets overboard or to sink incorrigible rhinos with wine,

Than to entangle in amusement park lagoons ordinarily meant for reducing

Salad to sessile, single forms to dress rehearsals, generations to plastered attributes.



Lately, some of my literary pas de deux, those irregularly curbed,

Invoke predator memories. More successful communications,

Plus swollen breasts, swiffers’ replacement parts, satin-lined toppers,

Unidirectional enchantments, second person points of view, jubilee fools,

Warn sufficiently that telling a woman you “love her” is never enough.




a line, (a short blue one)



Teenage Infatuation




I’d write you a song, I’d send you a poem.

Your letters of love, I’d cherished at home.


I’d carry your picture, your smile, in my heart.

Fill hankies, tear tissues, each time we might part.


My mind would gyrate to bliss from your words,

I’d savor your kisses, even when they’re inferred.


Such glittery feelings, your presence would bring,

Such blushing to cheeks, to limbs, to odd things.


I believe that you’re magic, that you’d perhaps lift

My outlook, my sorrow, my yesterday’s rift.


He refused me the sky, denied me the clouds.

Darkened my dreams, shamed me often, aloud.


As his twin, you’d know how to play angel flutes,     

Our coupling would zing; you’re really as cute.




a line, (a short blue one)



Of Bandoliers and Boulangeries




Through select apertures, added marvels flow.

Not unlike American Revolution pamphlets,

Supplementary crusades bring no bombshells;

They merely galvanize election-biased minds.



Elsewise, uninspired folks’ numinous passages

Meander, use untraceable accounts, urge peer

Suspicions to materialize in software created

For punters seeking spontaneous contractions.



The minute desultorily sad paramours blubber,

Illicit emoluments enable them to keep minions.

Their exoneration from sordid acts establishes

Contrived trusts plus easily proven prejudices.



See, generosity, wisdom, honor, ain’t mundanes’

Greatest powers. Simple sprogs oughtn’t excuse:

Foozled larcenies of dotards, taking toffees off

Babies, screaming through neighborhood lungs.



By avoiding familial visits to prison wards, folks,

Mayhap, skip dreary encounters, random bathos,

Dubashes’ bridleways, also spoiled sourdough-

Sucking down rehabilitation en plein air works.



Further, kids doomed to lives filled with doodly

Software, idleness, health scares, clan woes, all

Clichés journeying to contentious arenas, find

No possibilities of parole or of plain pasturage.



Au courant rulings’ retalitorily pirate files filch

Optimism from pessimists, comparably contort

Sundry innocent citizens into implacable mobs,

Repurpose institutions as sophisticated rangolis.




a line, (a blue one)


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