Hummingbird Incident (revised class submission)

A hummingbird accidentally

entangled itself in her

niece's hair, so she did 

what any aunt would do,

she reached over and began

to untangle them;

as you can imagine, there

was a shared anxiety 

between all three

as her hands began 

to separate hair

and hummingbird,

it was an unusual sight,

her hands trembled, 

seeking to harm neither

bird nor niece-

the young girl stayed 

as still as she could,

soon, her aunt held 

the hummingbird,

its wings still, neither flitting 

nor flying, merely sitting,

waiting for the right moment

to take flight once more.

Hummingbird Incident

A hummingbird accidentally
entangled itself into her
niece's hair, so she did
what any good aunt would do,
she reached over to niece
and hummingbird to untangle
them from one another;
as you can imagine, there
was a moment of anxiety
shared between all three,
as the aunt's hand began
to untangle the hair
and hummingbird from one
another, and yes it was a bit
of an unusual sight, though
one filled with a set of hands
delicately seeking to harm
neither hummingbird nor
niece- the young girl stayed
as still as she could, and soon
the hands of her aunt held
a hummingbird, its wings
were still, neither flitting
nor flying, merely sitting,
waiting for the right moment
to take flight once more.

The Queen of the City Knows What You Wish

From here to nowhere, where does we begin?
A flashing thought flickers, blood rushes through.
I can hear them say your beauty is sin,
do not listen, what do they know of you?

Beauty is Beauty, it never grows old.
Flesh shall whither, memory will remain.
Eternal goddess, you never grow cold.
Your divine image will always have reign.

Queen of the City, Queen of Fantasy,
velvet words fall like leaves in the forest.
Your graceful hand reigns by soft writ decree.
Footsteps, I can see the hem of your dress.

Wake up, wake up. I look and see no one.
A dream, a vision that has come and gone.

A Memory From My 9th Year

Smoke wafted from neighborhoods to the sky.
Cameras could only watch anger boil,
furious voices screaming for something.
Doors opened, feet ran out into the street.

Did they find what they were looking for then?
War came home to everyone on those days.
Sleep came uneasily as it crept near.
We couldn't go to school, we just waited.

Awaking from the nightmare, I peered out,
finding nothing but quiet streets and ash.
What was there for me to know about it?
Hollow store eyes told me everything.

Old scars cannot be forgotten quickly.
We bear them with us the rest of our lives.

what do we call home (draft 2)

The screaming ambulance passes

mother and child at the crosswalk.

The illuminated lemon tree waits

quietly for the children wearing

backpacks on a school day. Cars

wait impatiently for them to pass.

Our neighbor stands in his driveway

bathed in gray sun. A police cruiser

stalks its prey near the dreary liquor

store across the street from the dirty

motel. The congested high-rise freeway

casts a permanent shadow on the street

below. Garish neon alerts passers-by of

the strip club near the intersection.

The abandoned hospital is now a movie

set. The film crew loiters on the sidewalk

as the nearby church remains unchanged.

Apartments surround the aging diner,

while the corpse of the mall decays

into slow ruin. Jets and private planes

fly back and forth like rock doves.

what do we call home (draft 1)

The screaming ambulance passes

mother and child at the crosswalk.

Our neighbor stands in his driveway

bathed in gray sun. The illuminated lemon

tree waits quietly for the children wearing

backpacks on a school day.

Cars wait impatiently for them to pass.

A police cruiser stalks its prey

near the dreary liquor store across

the street from the dirty motel.

The congested high-rise freeway

looms near the intersection of life.

The abandoned hospital is now

a movie set. The film crew loiters

on the street as the nearby church

of our faith remains unchanged.

Apartments surround the aging diner

while the corpse of the mall decays

into slow ruin. Jets and private planes

fly back and forth like rock doves.

Self Portrait: Rejected Pop Song (after Dean Rader)

I am not the metronome

I am not God’s sense of timing

I am not the song stuck in your head

I am not the hit single, not the single

You are not the record company

You are not the music scene, not its artists

You are not hell’s amplified accordion

You are not the Billboard charts

Don’t tell me you’re the pitch corrector

Don’t tell me you’re the _____, the _____

Don’t tell me you’re the golden reach around

Don’t tell me you’re the new Motown

Just tell me you’re the spirit of soul

Just tell me you’re the perfect pair of headphones

Just tell me you’re the brown note, the brown note

Just tell me you’re the arpeggio

No one is the conductor

No one is the violinist’s bow

No one is the Grand Ole Opry stage

No one is the soloist’s anxiety

We are the inspiration

We are the groove

We are the sound, the sound

We are this the

How To Live (Draft 1. After Charles Webb)

Turn the volume of the car stereo

all the way up, listen to your favorite

song. Ignore the stare of other drivers.

Take a day off, drive down to the beach.

Eat your lunch on the pier. Turn off

your computer, write everything down

by hand. Pick a piece of fruit from a tree,

bite into it. Drive aimlessly time-to-time,

remember the journey is what counts most.

Look at childhood pictures of your family.

Don’t be afraid to cry. Remind loved ones

of their importance. Get drunk with friends

once in a while. Speak when necessary,

always listen. Try putting hot sauce

on your eggs for breakfast. Travel.

Read books. Sing off key. Dance as the moment

moves you. Don’t be afraid to be silly. Don’t

always act your age. Tell your parents they were

right. Have kids, or don’t. Talk to the old timer

at the bar. Have a favorite jazz musician.

Become a regular at a business. Visit

the grave of a favorite writer, have a picnic.

Take a road-trip with friends while you can.

Love wisely, love deeply. Never let bitterness

take root. Remember to breathe.

Be responsible. Visit your grandparents.

Look up when it rains, watch. Stay out late.

Laugh as often as possible. Don’t be afraid

to disagree. Learn to speak another language.

Mend fences, both literal and figurative.

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 3)

This heaven gives me migraine - Gang of Four

Helicopter blades whir and cut the air
over the city of good neighbors. The mall
sits empty between the catholic church
and the police station. The suspect is on
foot through the neighborhood.

Kids at the library after school, the computer
at home doesn't work. Cops station themselves
by the high school every day after class.
"Be true to your school," was written in
a different time, a different world.

Discount stores choke the boulevard
where families flocked to after Sunday
services. A plane takes off from the runway
of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,
flies over the city and towards the sea.

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 2)

                        This heaven gives me migraine.

                                                - Gang of Four

           

            Faint sounds of bygone summers

            linger through suburban avenues. Hotrods

            cruised on Friday nights full of kids

            looking for something to do. Football games,

            dances & hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn,

            another starstruck girl in the city light’s

            shadow, was called Norma then.

            Memory, a misty mizzle, evaporating

            under the warmth of the sun.

            Discount stores choke the boulevard

            where families flocked to after Sunday

            services. A plane takes off from the runway

            of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,

            flies over the city and towards the sea.

            

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne

                         This heaven gives me migraine.

                                                - Gang of Four

           

            Faint sounds of bygone summers linger

            Through suburban avenues. Hotrods cruised

            On Friday nights full of kids looking for

            Something to do. Football games, dances &

            Hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn was

            Another star struck girl in the shadow of

            City lights. They called her Norma then.

            Memory becomes a misty mizzle evaporating

            Under the warmth of the sun.

            At 3701 W. 119^th Street a young boy choked

            Back tears as he stared into the scarred

            Socket where his father’s eye had been.

            He could never let his sons forget

            The sacrifice he made.

            

Searching For The Wolf (Tradition:draft 2)

Ma soeur was never sure where the 

Lumiere went when it was dark.

"Is it magique?" she would ask me.

"Je ne sais." I would say to her.

"Le Loup swallows the sun every night,"

grandma would say. 'How macabre' I'd think

to myself. "The machoire of Le Loup

can also swallow Le Lune" she said.

Our eyes became Louche watching the heavens

over many nights. It was magnifique

searching for Le Loup every evening.

We are older, yet we look restlessly.

Through my Lunettes I now watch

as my daughter combs the sky.

tradition

Ma soeur was never sure where the
Lumiere went when it was dark.
"Is it magique?" she would ask me.
"Je ne sais." I would say to her.

"Le Loup swallows the sun every night,"
grandma would say. 'How macabre' I'd think
to myself. "The machoire of Le Loup
can also swallow Le Lune" she said.

Our eyes became Louche staring at the sky
over many night. It was magnifique
to search for Le Loup in the sky each night.
We are older, yet we still search the sky.

Through my Lunettes I know watch
as my daughter combs the sky.

Regrets

Her regret sent me here. Remember?
Yes. Level sneers, vent, revere, express
here. Get between her knees tenderly.
Keep Ben here. She sent the rent Brett.
Get bent! They keep sneers between them.

They knew regret well. They were men.
The perplexed sense between them
never left elsewhere. She knew they
were there. Her element greeted
them well. The net regret never left.

Palm Psalm

I drew simple inspiration

from a few words of

another poet as I read

through her book.


The words flowed simply

and carefully through

the forms laid upon

the pages.


I couldn't help but

ponder the words of

a book aptly named,

"Hilarity."