A Sad Poem to Match the Weather: Poetry Gong #14

Some of Us Are Lucky Enough to Fly


I thought of birds and
their luck, how they rise…
- Karen Chase

When you said I was sad
I didn’t speak. The voice
I had been using all these years
had flown
out of the room.

Behind the feathers
I was a bird.
You didn’t see
because you were speaking
setting down in syllables
that which I know
that which I see
that which has eluded
me all along.

The sad girl is flying
now, winged, not free
enough to build a nest
but catching enough air
to call out.

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I could write more, but really, I hate sad poems. Maybe after the gong, I will revisit this. Think more about birds, becoming a bird, flying like a bird, dreaming of flying, growing feathers, replacing my heavy bones with tiny, hollow bones, choosing what kind of bird I want to be, researching what type of birds do not mate for life.

June Cleaver and the Soccer Moms Release Their First Single

No one heard us sing
so now we fly.

We drift through suburbia
flaunt our floating (it’s all we’ve got)
in front of the birds.

Why not?
The beautiful and drab sparrows
eat our food
dirty our walks
defy daily our call to silence.

We hold our babies to our breasts
hold our breasts
for better viewing
former rosebuds
now drying blooms
in our hands.

We fly
and boast
and dream
of being held like this
baby or breast
coddled
cradled
caressed
caught in an updraft
or cosseted in cotton.

Winged
wanton
we drift without cords.
Chordless,
we are a silent song.

So long
as we flock together
someone is bound to hear.

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Inspired, in part, by Rick Mobbs' gorgeous painting and this week's prompt at Read. Write. Poem.

Not to mention my obsession with June Cleaver.

Mother as Avian

Brilliant feathered kite
sweet aerie seed finch.

Try and try
to mimic home.
Wind stale blue plumage
about your straw bed.

Hover
follow

sing,
signal
for wing mate.

Nest beneath owl talon,

preen for dark raptor

night
after night.

Beautiful thing
swing fast.
Wait on bright flock.


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That Dana. She is such a good influence for thinking out of the box. The prompt this week at RWP is to use a random word generator or a list of random words. I finally, finally put to ue my new box of magnetic poetry--bird themed.

And, hey, why is it just when I sit down to write, my lovely adorable children all of a sudden need me to look at them and answer their questions and help them put a belt on? Why, when one minute previous, they were content to build a Lego ship and watch Pinky Dinky Do?

Can you make our pancakes?

Happy Birthday, Soph!

On the Wing Greetings

The hornet wishes you happy birthday, sends flakes of pinched skin in an envelope. He just doesn’t understand the customs. Do not be afraid of bugs, child. The bees, the honey. The mosquitoes, the bats. Honestly, the world would be a better place without invisible flying pain, small black avengers. I know. But it is my place to distract you from that which you should not be afraid of. My mother taught me. Do not fear. Do not cry over cancer, no-see-um. Say why not me? Say I will take the fish hook in the arm. Just untie the fly, would you, please. Read your fortune in the raised welts scrawling your tender arm. Pink salve will heal the bite. It’s pink, after all. Daddy Longlegs is just mommy’s wayward spouse. Bumble bees are cute. Roly-poly. Someone coined the phrase just for them. Clever, college educated folks designed spectacular beetles, bumbles bees, and lady bugs for your brother’s nursery. Flowers were good enough for you. And here is where I went wrong. Ay. There’s the rub. Flesh-colored roses for the boy. Sensitive. Sultry smiling bugs for the girl. Toughen her up. Sugar and spice. That’s what the bees suck, anyway. The next child will be called Ava. Winged beauty eating bugs. Best wishes without sting.

NaPoWriMo #15 - A Prose Poem

Mourning Glory Days

They say you can't go home again. Someone tell my brain, fledgling memory, all wet wings and flutter. Flashback. Each time I sail down the highway, winging curves like a fortune teller tracing love lines with a crooked finger, here come the boyfriends, flying back. Seasonal flightline. A whole flock roosting, making nests. Delivering writhing worms and stiff beetles to feed my starving memory. Once, I covered pine cones in peanut butter, rolled them in seed. Hung them by thick red strands of yarn from an overgrown lilac tree. Lover's string. Lovesick breakfast. The birds never came. It is never like that with the boys from home.

NaPoWriMo #14

The Woman Who Rolled Back the Boulder to Discover the Empty Tomb Must Have Been Surprised

For an instant I am convinced
a squirrel is attacking a blue jay,
tussling for life
or hidden nuts
behind the old canoe
in the back of the backyard.
Gray head bobbing
furred tail fluttering
blue wings waving
(not drowning)
for help.
Then flies in a second bird.
For a longer instant
I am convinced
the pair,
matched or mixed,
I can’t be sure,
are having sex in front
of the old canoe.
Tangling in the brittle branches
of last year’s Christmas tree.
How fresh.
I open my back door.
Invite them to get a room.
A single shriveled leaf flutters
just past the door frame.
Thin dead branches dance
over the old canoe.
The door blows shut.
I am convinced.

NaPoWriMo #5: A Terzanelle, of Sorts

Skeptics Say Mother Bird Who Gave Her Life For Chicks Is Nothing But Urban Legend

When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried from under their dead mother’s wings.

- from widely circulated inspirational e-mail

There are things a woman can not do.
Walk naked from house to house
asking for a cup of flour, a teaspoon



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Another positive day for poetry. I hope my muse stays in good form for the next three weeks (plus)! I did not stay completely true to the terzanelle form, as my end words do not all rhyme. I could change a few words to establish the rhyme, but it loses something, in my opinion. That is how I feel about revision...I don't like it, I don't like it, I don't like it. But I know I need to do it. I am so attached to my first words.

Year of the Goldfinch

Some notes, gold and gleaming, on a poem I must write about the goldfinch. Pretty sure the universe is sending me very clear gold and black winged messages about goldfinches.

• Every year I have a bird. Previously it was cedar waxwings everywhere I looked. For two or three years it was cardinals all year long. This year it has been the goldfinch.

• Aside from the oriole, truly the most breathtaking northeast bird.

• The bird I most want to see is the goldfinch, and this year it is. Flying in front of the car, coming to our feeder, at Fort Ticonderoga in the bushes, Cape Cod, on nature walks wherever we go.


• Today I was sitting on the couch bemoaning the fact (in my mind...no room to bemoan while the kids are wrestling all over the floor...who would listen?) that I had nothing to write about and what do writers write about anyway and where do otherpoets, especially moms, get their ideas, or for that matter, the time, to write? Mental whine, whine, whine, when all of a sudden I turned my head to the huge(finger printed) picture window and there is a goldfinch, right on the feeder. Hello, he seemed to be saying. Inspiration right here!


• Still feeling sorry for myself, dragging my feet getting the kids ready for the pool (augh!), I went to get a drink and there at the sink is a small little goldfinch statue. My husband's 94-year-old grandmother is giving things away and he brought this home, along with a glass collage of many birds. However, and I'm sure this is important, I was too mad at him that particular Saturday to even look at the treasures he brought me. So, today, 5 days later, I, a fairly observant girl, finally notice the goldfinch figurine. I have stood at that sink 20 times or more since Saturday.


• What is the goldfinch trying to tell me?


• Speaking as the goldfinch, if I may, "Dude. Lighten up. Eat some birdfood. Fly. Fly a little more. Lay some eggs in a nest. Chirp a little. Wear your feathers sunshine yellow. Show up when you're least expected. Implore a nice person with your eyes to please, please, keep the feeder filled. Pay a sad soul a surprise visit.


• Lessons learned from a bird.


• Why this year the goldfinch?


• Study goldfinches.


• Find out latin name.


• Take some pictures!


• Write the poem!

One for the birds

There is not a lot I can say about this week's prompt for POetry ThURsdaY. I'm not supposed to! The prompt is to write about something beautiful without naming it. Thing is, from whence I began, so far have I flown. Heehee. I'm getting silly. It's late.

Anyway, I was writing, writing, writing about the beautiful dance the birds were holding in my front yard. So many birds, more than I've ever seen on my lawn. It was amazing. Fast, furious, darting in and out of the trees like drunken sailors, and yes, by my estimation they were all men. So, I wrote the poem. Only to be left a little non-plussed by it. Then, on re-reading, I realized, the longing was reminscent of something from so long ago. The bad boyfriend popped into my head. He didn't deserve even a title on one of my poems, but here it is, nonetheless.

So much for not naming something. Thanks for reading!


How a Flock of Birds Brought Me Back to 21, Cheated On By a State Trooper

The birds are having parties in my trees
when I am not at home.
I caught you robin.
Big, fat harbinger of Spring,
I know for a fact
you and your red-breasted friends do not go South
when the snow flies.
And here you are, wings askew,
orange belly puffed out in pride or testosterone, proving my point.
But what of your cardinal friends?
What about the pretty boys?
Sweet red cowboys.
Don’t see their kind around here too often.
Loud, raucous bold as their bloody feathers.
They dwarf the smooth-crown regulars,
the black-capped chickadees
the house sparrows
and purple finches.
What’s the meaning of this?
What’s the deal with the crowd?
Pulling in my driveway
it looks like a tailgate party
in my front yard.
Wings tipped, breasts bared, feathers ruffled,
tufted titmice scrambling to cover their stiff crowns.
And red-headed wood pecker, is that a lampshade?
Where’s my invitation?
I would like to eat and fly.
After all, I pay the rent.