Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Peacock and Sparrow

Poetry is a peacock.
Poetry preens gawk-able form,
primps her position, her shape, her figure,
strews

......cascading

..................steps

.......................across

.................................the

.....................................page.
Poetry has designs on painting,
wants to be thick-as-icing wet colour,
3-D cool as marble Venus,
hot metal Moloch with outstretched arms,
the eternal stupefying Sphinx.
Poetry wants to play street side saxophone solo,
fragrant as a girl in heels
as she exits revolving doors.
Wants to be an art house movie with gritty city streets,
with jolts of altered consciousness.
Poetry wants to be the world
sucked from an ice cream stick.

Story, is a sparrow.
Story disappears, flits
to the landscape of another mind
nested forever in the hearer.
Story is a finger, bony and gnarled.
Story points away from herself,
points till the embers die
points till the last dull sheen
fades from the old clawed nail.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Things Not Being What They Seem

When real kitchen cupboards were carpentered
into place after years of makeshift
the little white fridge swung neatly into
a niche at 90 degrees to the original wall
where the door opens exactly
over the worn cork tiles, patina-ed by years
the sole shuffle that accompanies contemplative
gazing at illuminated left-overs.
And you'd swear by the evidence that the fridge
was first planted exactly where it sits.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

The Trouble with 'God is Love'

"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead . . ." Luke 10:30

On roadside rock, invites collision.
On bumper sticker, begs derision.
Across the walls, lost as graffiti.
Spoken plainly, dies of abstraction.
Said repeatedly, blands to blather.
Framed with flowers, suffers triviality.
Celebrated in poem, we fall enamored of the form.
Told as story, maybe then, on occasion, finds a pathway to the heart.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Petition

(response to Poetry Thursday prompt. 'river')

'Wistful, I gaze at the river's edge and hear the river's song.' Li Shangyin (812-858) from In Late Autumn Wandering Alone by a Bend in the River tr. by Ian Johnston.

Where dark sludge coats rusted carcasses
mucks unaccounted bones of Moloch's children
.......dredge me.

Where surface water rushes, feeble green light
gropes suspended sediment, out-wash of toxic cities
.......filter me.

Where night drops chill and roils the flat river
flecked with starlight and wing beat of warring angels
.......remember me.