A POTATO FORK POEM
(for Brenda)
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Fellow forks, beware!
Do stay away from here!
Brenda takes us
then she breaks us.
Oh tremble! Feel fear!
Come only if you dare!
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Digging rocks and boulders
(Putting bodies in the ground?)
Brenda will abuse you
Aggressively use you
Your handle’s snapping sound
Means you won’t get older.
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Forks, do NOT come near!
Get the fork out of here!
I’m chilled to the bone.
I wish for a wood stove:
that crackle and flash,
heat that sinks in deep,
defines cozy comfort,
makes me want to sleep.
I can hear my mother,
If you’re cold, put on a sweater!
I want a wood stove:
the summer scent on logs,
I want
warm feet on a hassock,
hot cup of tea,
well-written mystery.
Fine, Mother.
I’ll get a sweater, too.
Oh false friend!
Yesterday, blue skies smiling sweetly,
warm sun embraces,
led to
short sleeves and picnic tables.
Today, an inch of new snow tops the table
and sky is full of malice,
tiny shards of ice,
stabbing the heart of spring.
Winter wins another round.
Beneath a cloudless blue sky
I feel the storm coming,
black clouds gathering.
Could they reflect black shirts?
I ponder,
seriously,
if I should be building false walls
to hide those who will be escaping tyranny.
I wonder,
if I am far enough from a border to avoid
occupation.
A century ago,
they didn’t understand the signs,
but now we do.
Those who read are the first removed
when the evil rises.
Do all those kids who demanded,
“Why do we have to learn this?”
remember that their teachers said,
“So you’ll see the signs.”
“So it will never happen again.”
“Remember, they elected Hitler;
“they heiled and fell for his lies,
“because they wanted to believe their superiority,
“wanted a scapegoat for their troubles.”
There can be no excuses.
Shall I buy bricks or drywall?
Where will I construct false bottoms?
Where will we hide in the resulting rubble,
when the jack boots stomp through?
Another cristelnacht, this time in New York?
The hammock swings its consolation:
It can’t happen here.
It won’t happen here.
How many said those words a century
ago?
How many grew to knowing the meaning
of fear?
Oh winter!
Release your tenacious grip!
Quit dripping this mix
of snow and rain,
that piles up in my yard.
It’s making me insane!
It’s April now, and white
should be from blossoms,
not snow falls; this isn’t right!
Oh, winter, we’re through with you here;
go visit the Southern hemisphere!
NaPoWriMo 2018 #1
The sheets are clean,
fresh outside,
brought in,
crisp newness,
start again.
Wait for you,
to dint the pillow,
breathe deeply in sleep,
inhale promise,
clean sheets.
The Lord of All Knowledge,
Gatekeeper of Truth,
says the poem means this.
Generations of readers bow
before this wisdom,
even though they don’t see it,
can’t believe it,
they just accept it.
When the poet reads
the critic’s piece,
she laughs and laughs
at the irony of such arrogant
assumptions!
Oh, student!
Good reader!
There are no errors
of interpretation in poetry!
Your experiences show you a meaning,
and if you can find lines to support,
your responses are just as valid as any critic’s.
(So the famous poet said to me,
and he should know).
You ask me for my email address
When given, much to my distress
You claim it’s already registered.
Why yes! I tell machine, that’s me, for sure!
You ask me for user name and password
But when I type them, you claim I’m invalid.
Oh, you passive aggressive machine,
You’re not acting like part of this team!
Inside the circuits of your brain
you’re plotting how to cause me pain.
I can hear your fan blade snicker,
as you plot to raise blood pressure.
Oh computer, use your power for good,
and work like the techies claim you should!
.
.
(Another day, another frustrating encounter with technology!)
I feel your ethereal pride
in my accomplishment
as firmly as I used to feel
your embrace.
Upon my chest, the moonstone pendant sits.
I gaze down at a clear rock streaked with white
and wonder what happened to the glow that
captivated me from the display case.
.
Busy at work,
“I’m sorry,” the lady says, “I don’t mean to stare, but
does your necklace have a light in it?”
“Yes,” another says, “I was wondering that, too.
It’s beaming from your chest! It’s so amazing!
What kind of stone is that?”
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Moonstone, you teach me a lesson:
While we are looking down at something, we may not see its potential
to reflect a glorious light.
In unexpected moments, a glow reflects what it can be.
Shawn L. Bird 