Red Leaf Oracle
 
We walked into the forest.
You saw a red leaf twirling
beyond the sun, a sign, you said.
We lay in the fall leaves,
your wool jacket rough
under my naked thighs.
Birds listened; sun rays quivered.
The trees kept our secrets.
 
Later, afternoon shadows crossed
our narrow path as we
shuffled arm in arm.
We felt night's breath, knew we
were late for the supper hour,
the last bus to campus.
 
We raced towards the road,
our hair tangled, chased by
a black and white bird dog.
I lost a contact lens.
We missed the bus, a sign, I said.*


          Bones Breed Bones  
   

How many homeless men died last year 
in our nation’s capital? Hungry, cold, 
sleeping on sidewalk grates, warming 
one side of their torsos, turning their bones 
like a rotisserie roast to heat the opposite 
shivering side. They huddle in doorways, 
Salvation Army coats stuffed with discarded 
Washington Post, scarves wrapped 
around faces, only eyes darting at passers-by. 
Who will give a coin, a dollar? Who will look 
into their deep-set eyes tearing in the wind? 
Perhaps they dream of suicide in the Potomac: 
a blast of chill, a smothering of darkness 
then warmth as they dream with worn tires, 
dented beer cans, fish swimming blind. 
Where do their bodies go, these cadavers 
discovered by trash men or police? 
Are there lists of the dead? Were they fathers 
to someone? Do we burn their bones, scatter 
their ashes in the sea? Where are their monuments? 
Their statistics never make the headlines like one 
thousand G.I.’s dead in Iraq. We weep for their bones; 
we pray for their families. But what about our sidewalk battles? 
We are all brothers under this flag, hoping, hoping 
for God, perhaps a giant red spider, waiting, waiting 
in a shaded glade for the last staggering survivor, 
all to weave man again with a mite of dust, 
a missing, stolen bone.** 




                NATURE SEEN 

you crash through the woods, white tail
like a triangular eye blinking in brown foliage
neighborhood dogs howl
my yellow cat arches, hisses
at cacophany in gray morning air

you heed the caw of crows,
marking a path towards the highway
to meet the metal bulls with
round white eyes glowing
horns blowing in sudden bursts

you'll never escape from blood-matted fur,
your reed legs stiffening into skewed sticks
while school buses of
chewing gum children grimace
at your roadside plight

you'll be dragged away in a plastic bag,
your free beauty left to linger
in a landscape painting
where under bruised skies
you tilt your antlers towards evening sun 


All of above =(c) Sara Claytor -- All Rights Reserved








Sara Claytor was born in Fuquay-Varina, N.C. on Main Street 
in what is now a used car lot. Having earned graduate degrees at
UNC-Chapel Hill in English and Speech Communications, she 
went on to teach for "about 2000 years" at alma mater UNC and 
CA and NC public schools.   She has also taught at Duke's
Young Writer's Camp.  Her poetry and fiction have appeared
in upwards of 100 publications.  She has two novels in the works 
and a collection of short stories  "mostly about women in distress
and rather 'off-center' situations."  Her poetry book,  Howling 
on Red Dirt Roads, is soon to be published by Main Street Rag.  
Claytor is upcoming president of NC Poetry Society and is
active in a number of other poetry and writing-related
organizations.  The North Carolina native's passions
include catching up with friends, the color purple, old
pottery, books old and new, cats, and digging in flower
beds.  She has two grandchildren, a boy and a girl. 







>click on cover

 


 "Five things about Sara Claytor"  {Pipl Profile}  



*Red Leaf Oracle appeared in The Pedestal Magazine




**Bones Breed Bones appeared in Pinesong, which is
published by North Carolina Poetry Society.