Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 51
                                   
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SPIDER LADY

She’s a spider.
All of us strap a knife to our leg
to hack away at her web
while she sucks life from souls
not wanting to commit murder
yet wishing she was dead,
wishing if we keep destroying
her mesh of conflicts,
she’ll spread her tendrils
across new territories,
forgetting our husks
fluttering in her wake.
She’s a spider.
We dream of her beneath
someone’s shoe, a squashed
spit of venom left to evaporate
without a eulogy of remorse.

        Diane Webster


ACROSS THE STREET

She hollers out the door
like an economically-challenged whore
hawking for business from tight-assed
businessmen strolling toward the parking lot
all the while they sneak a peek
at her lengthy curls blowing around her neck
from the air conditioning inside --
imagining themselves a strand of hair
twisted around her blouse’s top button
when pulled, pops from the pressure
in a zipper unveiling of free-sample stares,
but not this time as the building inhales
her presence again with only windows
offering hope of a glimpse, a silhouette,
a memory when hot air boils
out heat waves from an opening car door.

Diane Webster


WakeUp

W2 -Wake Up Aware-ctvm, acryl latex on glass & wood frame © Corina T.v.M.

ASSISTANT ROOTS

The assistant roots himself
like a cottonwood tree beside
the master artist.
He offers the palette
like expected shade
and witnesses creativity
from master’s eyes
filtered through brain cells
and brush stroked on canvas
for pedestrian man
to glimpse a landscape
view re-created by the master
three feet removed
from the assistant
anonymously tending
like roots channeling
nutrients to the highest leaf
of a cottonwood tree.

Diane Webster__


CHURCH BUILDING MORNING

On the downside
of metal handrails
raindrops dangle
like criminals on gallows
awaiting gravity’s executioner
signal to drop.

Ridge of the roof
pigeons stare down
like old-world ancestors
in black and white photos
scowling legacies
each generation glances
away from even when
feathers and bird droppings
cling to soles.

Like pigeons parishioners
flock into pews
awaiting reverend’s sermon
to drop on knees for forgiveness
and to rise like fog from ground level.

Diane Webster__