Wednesday, February 22, 2012

54. Breakfast Time

Silly things!
Scurrying ‘round in flocks of 2 or 3,
picking at the scraps:
French toast doesn’t remain
on the ground for long!

I can tell the females are
greyish; males maybe brighter brown.
I’m no ornithologist;
I can appreciate a good little bird
these little things are
little wonders,
aren’t they!

Look: this one has a
pink Fruit Loop
stuck round its beak:
if Kellogg knew how convenient
these were for the little birdies,
they would be proud –

How well they fit, like wreaths
around their beaks;
how well they fit down their little throats!
I don’t know if I should be mad,
losing bits of food to them,
or if I should be amused at their excitement, their sugar high;
or just to sit in peace,
regarding them
with such a
watchful eye!

"...daintily picking up a Cheerio..."
Photograph by Kelly Riccetti

Source: Red and the Peanut

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

53. Granted

It was just yesterday
you were a darling babe
in blue swaddling blankets,
who cried, yes,
but –
you were the sweetest,
littlest thing,

What happened?
Everything now is,
“No, no, no!”
Everything is
uphill struggles, battles of

You are now a slightly larger
bundle of rebellion.
I hope I am raising you up well,
but it’s hard to tell:
I live with so much
guilt, dread, regret;
I must be screwing up.

Thank God
you are just my brother.
I hope your life
is easier than mine,
that you don’t endure
the things I

But please, please, please
stop whining:
do your Goddamn

Monday, February 20, 2012

52. The Dead Poets

Society closes up its
entry is not permitted to

They create a world of
artisans, purported
sipping tea and critiquing
so-and-so's metrics,

Shameless feminists,
chauvinists, misogynists,
inept politicians, shockers,
potsmokers -
with a limbo-ing sexuality
for good

Yes, shun me from the
exalted doors:
you, who do not understand
true anguish;
you - who live to see your artless
names in
you -

I am disgusted, revolted
by this lack of Truth,
and this chaotic
struggle for

You are a cheap wine,
clich├ęd and overwrought
at best,
bubbling at snooty parties in
you are the sour milk,
curdling in the
August sun.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

51. Beneath the Summer Stars

The noisy filibustering
had thrust me out of doors;
there: tucked amidst the silenced hills,
the gypsy toiled away.

Her headdress marked with ancient signs,
magnetic, drew the crowds
exotic eyes aloof and dark,
aflame with prophecy.

And as I took my place by her,
a chill swept through my soul;
the Magyar sat across from me –
our eyes gazed potently.

She swept her skilful hands across,
the Tarok cards alight,
their cryptic symbols wild and strange:
and so she read my fate.

And as you watched me tacitly
the bitter breeze grew sharp,
tormenting my unready skin;
yet how I burned within!

Yes, as the gypsy’s tale had ceased,
I burnt with such a fire,
ignited by my destiny,
in fevered ecstasy.

As night wore on, I sat by you
and stole each glance I could
from those intense Uralic eyes;
they glanced at me so brief –

Despite the coldness of the moon,
which spilled across the steppes
and lit the gypsy’s secret craft,
bright hope had sprung in me;

but though I leapt into the flames,
the Fates could not be moved:
forever am I doomed to live,
recounting such a loss.

Friday, February 17, 2012

50. An Apology

The first time,
I recognized that awkward way
you tried to strike up conversation,
succeeding, yet failing –

The second, I thought
you would have forgotten:
I was busy stuffing my mouth
with free Timbits.
I did not look attractive
(this is an honest admission) –
I was startled
you even remembered

It’s scary, wonderful,
knowing –
someone pines for me
as I languish for others.
A strange twist of fate that
we must all suffer at
each other’s hands.

I see you sometimes.
I would like to say, “Hello”
and explain,
but I cannot recall
your name.
Maybe success demands
that I break hearts,

Sunday, February 5, 2012

49. Staregazing

Across this galaxy,
the multitude of light between –
a star shot ‘cross the sky!

The twinkle in your eye
ignites the ruddy brown in mine:
our galaxies collide –

Emboldened, bravely stare:
too curious to look away,
too startled to persist.

I want to be that doll
residing in that fiery eye;
I want to dwell in you,

the way you live in me:
illuminated in the sacred halls
of cross-stitched memory;

Oh, tell me – are you cold?
This blazing brilliance, upon
a skewed trajectory?

Or is this distant fire
a stare to set alight my hopes,
and do you burn for me!

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

48. Becoming: Immortal

Dare I say it?
Applauding, simpering,
fawning –
is This what It is?
I am disappointed.

Awards and recognition,
laurels, plaques, and accolades:
ah, to think –
this once meant something.

I have waded out too far:
the land I see is
seen by none;
I wander with the dead
in silent Purgatory.

To have died before a death:
to watch one’s body
while alive;
to be dissected, analyzed,
interpreted – to see this
failure to
“understand” –

It is not death in life we crave for
but quite the opposite.
Do not forget me –
but in life, let me be.

The grave is silent:
I cannot hear your