Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 10
Table of


If the air had no radio, TV or ear plugs,
silence, blessed silence,
but mass suicide from crazy people
unable to handle sparrow song
cresendoing from the sleeping evergreen
awake now in morning sunshine,
geese honking in vees
as I watch from below
remembering to keep my mouth
shut like Dad told me,
or their own thoughts
if they even have any.

Silence, a horrific dream
during the day like at night,
home alone, the wind
tickles a tree limb to scratch
the outside of the house…
again…again…again –
a killer on the loose
luring you to open the door
to see what’s outside
when you hope you see nothing
or at least the tree limb
now silent in flashlight beam.

  Diane Webster __


The man hunches inside his coat;
hands pulled up inside sleeves;
his head tucked low inside
flipped up collar –
inside a tortoise shell
safe against the cold.
The man shuffles
between the white line
of the highway on his left
and the shiny guardrail
on his right.
Slow and steady wins the race
with the finish line at the end
of the guardrail where
on the final guardrail post
a bottle of beer cheers
on the competitor.

  Diane Webster__

The pickup roars its engine
as it tailgates behind my car,
headlights squint below
my trunk lid like a bull’s eyes,
a bull’s head ducked, tucked
for the charge to gore
this nuisance out of its way.

The pickup turns the corner,
but another moves into line
like a race horse settling
into the gate, quivering
for the slam open to stampede
down the track to the finish line.

My car turns into the parking lot
where an SUV squeals a curve
into a vacant space;
a sibling brother piglet shoving
the runt away from the sow,
but I didn’t want to park there anyway.

Streetlight clicks off for the day.

  Diane Webster__

My cousin draws her eyebrows on
like Mom used her eyebrow pencil
to draw our Halloween masks;
complete with mustaches, goatees,
weird circles around our eyes.
Beauty mark moles looked
more like hitchhiking bugs,
and we wished
for a blacked out tooth
until crayons crumbled beneath our lips.

My cousin draws upside down
smiles on her forehead.
My fingers itch to blacken
a triangle devil’s beard above
her eyebrows now frowning
with a cyclops jack-o’-lantern eye
in my eye’s mind, and I wish
for wind to blow her hair
across her eyes so I can
laugh at that right now.

  Diane Webster__