Birds 21-23: Pinback Buttons

Here's a set of three more poems inspired by Becky's Pinback Buttons.
Thanks, Becky, for inspiration well beyond buttons.

Bat Babies	Bat Babies Bat mommies know that howling haloed babies will too soon unfurl translucent wings against the mottled moon and glide into a patient night that waits to take them whole. Bat babies only know they need to go.
Scribble Girls	Scribble Girls Miserable in their paper-doll skins, the scribble girls release their spring-wound souls, unwrap the ragged trappings of their tethered frames, bite down through bitter strokes that slash and bind. Everything they’ve long withheld unravels in a steady hum, until it all goes loose, goes numb, gapes wide, until it’s done, until there’s nothing more to hide. No longer dumb.
Beasts of Burden	Beast Burdens Kiwi cannot fly. Platypus is shy. Dodo wants to die. Oh, wait, it did.

Birds Howevermanybehind...

Can only say life has been allowed to get in the way of the writing (woefully predictable, I know, but life is like that)... however, a small flock inspired by Becky's pinback buttons is coming soon. Honest. I think.

9/11/07 UPDATE:
Ha! Sport the first...

XX. The Janes

Each Jane wants a new name:
a lush name, brightly fragrant,

brash syllables that shimmy,
sporting cadence and strength.

A name that tumbles headlong,
makes a mark, dares to spark.

Every Jane, on the inside, is alight.

Image of "The Janes," from Sweetie Pie Press (by Becky Johnson)

Bird Nineteen: Kittens in the Road

Yes, there were kittens in the road.
And, no, I am not over it.

Kittens in the Road

And finally, it is the kittens in the road
that unravel you.

not the dead daddy or the nightmares,
scolding grandmother yanking braids,
the bruising step-father or his menacing,
molesting son,

not the angry markered scrawl on
the back of the bus seat, bathroom stall,
ringing punch to the jaw, lonely walk home,

not the Humbert-Humbert softball coaches
proffering wine coolers and weed, hair-flip
mafia holding court with scowls and scissors,

not the infinite trail of pressuring boys in
pickups, pastures, parking lots,

not the pale genius-stalker sketching,
stuffing poems in your locker,

not the war, the global warming, rats
in the attic, the toothless, pneumoniac
grandpa in the nursing home,

not the miscarriage, the failed marriage,
the stroke or its lopsided aftermath,

but the kittens in the road,

carpool mothers neatly
maneuvering their clownish SUVs
around a mewling, matted mass

recklessly pawing the air, limp sibling
lying yards away and mercifully dead.

And you are both of them and
you cannot look away.


Photo by longhorndave

Birds Twelve through Eighteen: Seven Sevenlings

Oh, how blessedly easy it is to do everything BUT write.

Lest this hopeful effort be forever abandoned in unceremonious shame, painfully echoing the decade's-worth of (at best) half-completed journals I have lugged from underbed to attic to spare room closet shelf in each new house, birds of a sort themselves (mockingbirds, albatrosses, boobies)... Lest I succumb to paralytic fallen-behindedness, let me toss a few tiny, matted, poem-ish things out into the pollen-haze...

My friend Robin, my favorite reader and co-conspirator extraordinaire, sent me an assignment via American Poetry Journal... Sevenlings (a seven-line poem divided 3-3-1 with "sets of three" in the first two stanzas), a lovely, "approachable" form that gives me hopes of vanquishing the procrastinator demon.

My inner geometry freak insists on something square (and my inner penitent insists on copious pressure), thus, I shall offer seven sevenlings in seven days, beginning today (April 19, 2007)...

I. Spider Brains

"Spiders spin spider webs because they have spider brains, which
give them the urge to spin and the competence to succeed."
- Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct

At times I, too, have spider brains, compelling
me to spin, to string, to fling the constellation
of my need across uncertain space...

Tenderly treading each tenuous thread,
inspecting each anchor, securing each end;
Entangled in a never-ending mending.

Work is not always its own reward.

---

II. Awakening

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
- Henry David Thoreau

One day, you will wake to find you have
exploded. Do not be alarmed: this is normal.
Brush your teeth, make coffee, put on pants.

Give yourself a moment (no more) to grieve, and then
get on with it: the work, the writing, the washing up.
Don't wait for the truth to set your fragments free.

No one but you will ever even see.

---

III. Beware Shiny Things

Despite the tornado, the house spun aloft,
an utterly pancaked witch, Dorothy’s
gingham pleats maintained their starch.

The slippers were overkill really, armed
as she was with her pocket-dog, pluckiness,
and complement of misfits.

Often it’s the shiny things that lead us astray.

---

IV. Take this Advice

When you encounter the wolf (and you will), resist the urge
to flee. Rather, meet his hungry eye; approach him where he stands;
embrace him, or, if that seems awkward, at least shake hands.

Do not beg, bargain or offer any cheek. Lay yourself open
to his fangs. If he insists upon a chase (this is common), indulge
a lap or two. It’s no use crying: Being eaten is your surest hope.

The only living is the kind that swallows you whole.

---

V. The Way to Swallow a Day

When practicing the art of wallow, take care to intend –
gather an ambitious pile of books, poke into cabinets and closets,
carry the phone as you meander room to room.

Mean to, make starts. Acknowledge only round thoughts.
Avoid angles, arrows, lines – anything to follow. Wait for it.
Soon enough, sundown will swallow what remains:

No more today, not yet tomorrow – the forgiving hollow.

---

VI. Elegy

As you survey the tragic kitchen of your fallow
American Dream, breathe steady. Bite back panic.
Pluck an apple from the perfect polished heap.

Subjugate your slapstick urge to fling this bitter fruit,
this bruised accuser, this mocking red-ripe prize
of your malaise. Don’t hesitate – simply swallow:

Every longing is digestible in time.

---

VII. This Will Happen to You

You can’t imagine that the steady, playful,
radiating soul you are mixed-up with will soon
disappear by whispers while you watch;

that witnessing disease take root, sprout silently
and blossom may, by turns, steal something
more from the beholder than the prey;

that one day you will need to walk away.


photo by prettywar-stl

Bird Eleven: 2-Day Poem Contest

I did actually write a poem last week, but I am thinking it can't be posted here because of submission rules. Thanks to my friend Robin, I participated in the 2007 CV2 2-Day Poem Contest. This challenge drove me crazy -- especially "laconic," "eschew" and "gyroscope"-- but, then, I am a professional assignment-resister.

When they've announced the results, I'll come back and post the poem...



photo by mimentza