Sunflower Siblings

Each sunrise I measure myself
against the shadow by Braille
touch of warmth and cool along my stalk
forced to accept a bit of afternoon bask
stretching my head higher day by day
as I seek my namesake, my maker, my God
until I open my eyes, flourish
in multi-headed frenzy to grow,
to tower, to steal all the day’s sun
because October creeps against my roots,
and I must shine, must seed, must shiver
a lone offspring to journey year after year
against this iron sculpture, this metal
perfection perpetually blooming
under January icicles or July heat waves.

Silent…
now in November
after frost slowly
pulls its shroud
across my leaves,
my heads, my stalk
sucked hollow brown
until I bow to the ground
in drooping, withered pose
unlike the ever-frozen sculpture
that never feels sunshine
full on its face
or changes under December snows
or disappears
in park worker’s truck
bouncing … waving goodbye.

Then Silence

Fog on the pond –
a crow perches
on a blurry branch.
It caws a foghorn…
then silence.

Open Choices

The door opens
to choices –
come in,
see
for yourself
or walk past
imagination
intact.

Grandpa’s Gatherings

Grandpa’s house gathered
from street-corner-free piles
and last days of yard sales
shimmed up with barn wood,
covered with mismatched
cushions and thin bedspreads.

Flattened tin cans nailed
across cracks and holes
like a train lost without
its tracks to sit in rust.

Watched over by a black cat
clock with eyes panning
left, right, left, right
every second as its broken
stubby tail wags back and forth
like an accusing finger.

Moved out to the curb
a “free” sign hangs
around the clock cat’s neck
hoping its cuteness
finds a new home.

Car Body

Abandoned car
with hood,
doors and trunk
yawning wide
for eyes
to assess threat.

Abandoned car
with hood,
doors and trunk
closed tight
like a killer
refusing conversation.

More afraid
of the closed
than open.
Imagination
conjures theories
of opening a door
to a mummified head
bouncing out
like a deflated
basketball lolling
between my legs.
The trunk popped
in jack-in-the-box
surprise!
with a corpse
dangling from the lid.
The hood conceals
a severed arm
jammed between
bent fan blades;
its fingers trying
to crawl across
the motor.

I dare not spread
the weeds imprisoning
the undercarriage;
a leg bone splintered
mid-thigh hangs
toes in gallows foot
suspension.

Diane Webster lives in western Colorado. Her poetry has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One and elsewhere. Her haiku/senryu have appeared in failed haiku, Kokako, Enchanted Garden Haiku. Five micro-chaps have been published by Origami Poetry Press. Diane has been nominated for Best of the Net and three times for a Pushcart. Diane retired in 2022 after 40 years in the newspaper industry. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com

You can find more of Diane’s work here on Ink Pantry.