I Am a Human

 I am a human

raised by a robot

cut loose in the garden

carried on the water

carried on the water

cared for by the winter

and my mind--that's ice

nice nice very nice.

nice nice very nice

making poetry from paper birds

and a magpie in flight

under a fragrant sun

under a fragrant sun

cut loose in a garden grove

where the robot rusts, in time we trust

carried on the water like the rest.

________

for What's Going On? BEING HUMAN

one line is taken from the Ambrosia song.

they stole it from Kurt Vonnegut.

Mermaids

Mermaids sing but do not stay

and I have always been partial to them,

perhaps because they do not stay.

I take to sea in a skin of metal and wood

to look for mermaids diving, vanishing.

I throw my heart over like an anchor,

heavy odd thing, inflexible,

not the sort that mermaids love at all.

-----------

written during the Wordcrafters on line meeting.

Silent Bird

There is a silent smoke-bodied bird

in a stone nest

on a broken branch

overseen by a gape-eyed imbecile.

"All hail," say purple asters.

Hollyhocks drip with faked tears.

Sunflowers babble.

In evening,

all blooms combust to ash.

A silent smoke-bodied bird 

lays dead eggs 

in a broken bell

with a millstone tongue.

Multi-mothered monsters calve.

______

for Friday 55, hosted by the haughty and magnificent Hedgewitch. ;-)

Pilgrimage

On the freeway service drive, just outside of Detroit, we picked up His Holiness, who had his thumb out and a jewel-encrusted satchel over his shoulder.

"You should hide that thing," said Judy.

"Or swap it at Salvation Army for something, um, a little less conspicuous?" said Mel. "You know the Salvation Army has a store, right?"

"Very well," said His Holiness in his accented English. We couldn't tell exactly what he meant.

"You shouldn't be out here anyway," scolded Allie, who was scrunched between Mel and His Holiness in the back seat. His Holiness explained that he had come for us, not the other way around.

"I bless you tires, I bless you headlights, I bless you beautiful American noggins," he said, and did.

Much later, after we had let His Holiness off near Bad Axe, a light rain started to fall.

"I feel cleansed," chirped Judy, and we all laughed, but honestly, we were all glad to be close to Allie's house, her floor and couches, and some scrambled eggs scooped onto Dollar Store plates with birds on them.
_______

for Day 7 of my 39 poems in 39 days.

Triolet On Parting

This is an African wild dog, not a blackbird, obviously. But he inspired me.

The earth in motion, turns sun high, turns sun west.

We love, we leave, the blackbird and the marshland reed.

What is stone, what is wind? What is burned, what is blessed?

The earth in motion, turns sun high, turns sun west.

The bed and window, street and station, all our palimpsest.

Each in skin, each in summer; each in plenty, each in need.

The earth in motion, turns sun high, turns sun west.

We love, we leave, the blackbird and the marshland reed. 

______

for "Substitutes" at Real Toads.

Friends, I lack the words except when I write poetry.

And so, this poem is for all of you.

digital art by Andrea Hill

 

 

 

This Is The Last Poem I Will Ever Write (yayyy!) Oh No I've Changed My Mind Again (booo!) Good Night & Thank You.

Well...

I made it through day 20 of

non-dairy nano neener or whatever,

and now I need to 

 attend to important retiree shit.

^^^(not a poem)

I want my mornings back.  I need to binge watch something and eat ice cream out of the carton with my hands. I need to sing "Puff The Magic Dragon" in a heavy German accent. I need to look up Roger Freed's career batting average, and how to make a bundt cake and then not make a bundt cake.

I need to put my feet on the back of the couch

with my head off the edge and my tongue hanging out

while watching "Alice" reruns.

I need to ask Zacky Peanut "Who's a good boy?!?!"  

(Zacky Peanut is!)

I need to blast the stereo.

 I cannot brain today.

I have the dumb.

_________

 

When Eaten By Sharks

When eaten by sharks, try to stay calm.
If possible, write down the genus and species;
call your old professor if you think she can help.

Don't automatically assume that being eaten by sharks is pure disaster.
Imagine that smug know-it-all relation of yours. 
Imagine his face when you greet his latest pronouncement by leaning out from rows of enormous teeth,
waving at him from between shreds of seal, 
laughing at him from your unassailable new address.

When eaten by sharks, try to remember which shark took what portion.
By doing this, you may be able to reassemble a prototype,
from which a full replacement may be constructed.

Most of all, try to acclimate yourself as soon as possible.
Inside these perpetually swimming creatures, travel is yours.
If limbs remain usable, hit the inside of the shark's belly with an open hand;
the resulting bass beat will astonish nearby boaters.
"Listen," they will say to each other, "that's Morse code."

Send letters, long, short, long, describing being eaten by sharks.
Query editors. Self-publish. Above all, work quickly.
________

 

1972

Here is a lily, love.
See that y'never doubt me.

I have things to do this morning--
I can't confess them, and even if I wanted to,
they have burned the churches down in Belfast and in Derry.

Here is a kiss, love.
Do you need a promise, to know that I am true?

Bodies are fragile things,
and that is why I touch yours so tenderly,
as if you might be torn away from me in an instant.

You might, love.
There are still snakes everywhere, no matter the fairy stories.

In her palace sits a queen, and she has everything.
Still, her fingers are never satisfied unless they make a rope
to fit my sweet white throat.

I am a banshee, love,
and so I must scream. For you though, for now, I whisper.

God made everything in seven days--
that's what a good Catholic girl can do.
I have inscribed little crosses on the pipes and in the powder.

Remember me, if I should fail.
I have cut a lock of my red hair where your lips have been,
and nested it in a silver locket for you to keep.

Here is a lily, love.
A sticky for the Easter rising. 

I am not much, love, but I'm yours, no matter what happens today.
I am just red hair and some spit for the Union Jack;
a prayer for Mary and the thing that I must do.

 


 

The Cuckoo Child

Her water had broken,
and she counted contractions as the moon came and went.

She conspired with the window,
the clock,
and the ghosts of all the women in her line,

to hand out some bullshit story and steal away
into the woods.

She sent the doula on a fool's errand,
and dummied up a version of herself to leave propped and weirdly silent
in the four poster at the corner of the house.

How do you feel, they asked the doll, the changeling,
the shed skin of herself.
What a long wait they will have,
for a baby made of goose down and mattress ticking.

Under the trees like a morning dream she went,
as the sun came up
and the river called to her in a language past remembering.

Alone there in a mossy copse,
she bore the child and bit the cord,
blood giving way to a fierce rolling wave of love.

The tiny face, perfect hands,
the soul as open as an April sky,
made her know she could not take this one back
to the house, the keepers, the upstairs corner under the eaves.

Birds make fine conspirators,
and so she slipped her daughter into a nest like a cuckoo,
and, riven with what she had to do, 
carried a stolen fledgling back to her bed.

They took it, as she had known they would.
They taught it,
so well that it never sang a note,
never knew its wings,
the flight feathers plucked by hard lessons and bible spouting.

Meanwhile, she paced the widow's walk like a haint,
ears grown as keen as any animal's,
listening for wings or the call of her own, from out there.

When the house burned,
God did not intervene, but rather,
willed it Himself with a holy delivery of lightning to the cupola.

She was the only survivor,
and she sat on the incongruously wet lawn in the morning,
still as a stone, 
waiting.

Imagine the smoke-black ruin behind her.
Imagine the wind-stir in the maple branches above her head,
as thin as circumstance, yet strong enough to stop the sun.

Imagine the child appearing from the edge of the copse.
Imagine her moving slowly to her mother,
with the same black hair,
and the same instinct to survive.

Imagine their common language,
without words.
Imagine touch and tears,
and the years ahead like a natural migration,

direction in the dna,
and a way home, at last.
______

I don't know what this is. It just came to me, wanting to be told.

Note: the cuckoo bird finds another bird's nest, and leaves its egg there to be raised by the unknowing surrogate.

 

Job Application

Position: Flash Fiction 55 co-host.

Qualifications: I once met G Man in person. I am fluent in Englash.

Job history: fast food, phone sales, community service.

Why I want to host the 55: Because G Man threatened to expose my old sea monkey scam asked me to!

Co-applicants: Mama Zen, Saver of the Universe.

References: G Man, Kwame Kilpatrick, Babs St. Argent, Catblossom.

______

There is nobody who can host the 55 like our G Man can, but while Galen blazes new trails, it would be a shame to let the 55 die. 

So, on Saturday, May 3rd, it will take its place as a regular feature at The Imaginary Garden With Real Toads! (During April, The Garden is taken up with NaPoWriMo.) 

To keep the 55 fires burning during April, I will be hosting here on Tuesday, April 8th, and Mama Zen will be hosting at Another Damn Poetry Blog on Tuesday, April 22nd. 

Forgive the Tuesdays...I didn't want to compete with The Garden, where there is already a regular Friday feature, including my own. G Man put on his funny Pope hat and gave this his blessing! He better...he asked me to do this!

Photo: My beloved Aunt Lucy, posing in her car with Catblossom's dear old grandmother, "Muffy".