Posted in Poems & Stories

The Crane, the Heron, & the Magpie 

Once there were 3 witches. 3 is the perfect number. Remember that, little Ducky. 

2 of them were good witches, and one of them wished she was good. Their names were Crane, Heron, and Magpie. And what brought them together was songs. 

You see, songs require a special kind of magic. Each song has a special weave; a spell of melody, meaning, and love. And Crane, Heron, and Magpie brought this magic to their songs. 

Everyone knows that Magpies are good singers. Their fluty caroling is favored among many an old poet… but so were the magpie’s omens. 

The first omen went just like the old rhyme says: “one for sorrow.” You see, some magpies steal their song weaves from other birds. Mimicry, they call it. And soon, Crane and Heron found that Magpie was stealing even their spells. As Crane and Heron channeled their songs into the stirring pot, Magpie stood in front of them where they could not see her. And with hidden hands, she stole their spells and wove them as her own. 

She stole songs from the deer; she stole songs from the rabbits; she stole songs from the squirrels. She didn’t care who they were, just so long as she could be at the center of it all. 

Being good witches, Crane and Heron didn’t want to think the worst. But they had to when they felt their own energy draining. After every song, Magpie would dart around, energized with stolen magic; while Crane and Heron could barely lift their wings. 

Heron had known Magpie longer than Crane had, and Heron felt the omen the strongest. And with a little Egret at home to take care of, Heron couldn’t afford to give up anymore of her self. So Heron and Crane set out to reclaim their lost song energy. 

As they began to stir the cauldron of their next song, they let Magpie stand close to the pot like she always did. They all whispered the secret song words that ignite their channeling, but this time Heron and Crane remained quiet. And when Magpie should have been chanting her song, she wasn’t. 

Magpie’s face grew red, her eyes widened, and she began to scream. A scream like no other Magpie had made before. It wasn’t mimicry, just rage. She tore at the earth, she pulled her own feathers, and she did her best attempt at a curse. But nothing came out. She had screamed so much, that her voice was just a squeak. There was no power there anymore. The only mercy was for Heron and Crane to fly away and leave her in her loneliness. 

Ah, but the story doesn’t end there. You remember that important number? The number 3. Well soon, Heron met the most beautiful Stork. In old stories they say that Storks bring babies; but birds don’t deserve the credit for the magic that women create. 

And that’s where you come in, little Ducky. Heron and Stork wove a beautiful new song, and life emerged. Aunty Crane chanted an orb of protection as they welcomed you into this world, and little Egret couldn’t wait to tell you all the sister secrets. And now their song weaves are more powerful than ever. 

Posted in Poems & Stories

Crickets

Like a sound you can hear
when nothing is there
long after it’s gone
it lingers on.

Yet, people claim to hear crickets
when something uncouth is said,
or when a joke goes awry.
Yet crickets are what I hear
when there is nothing to hear.

They’re fewer now, you know.
They paved over the old sycamores,
and the bugs and birds lost their homes.
And without the trees and bugs and birds, the food chain and ecosystem collapsed.
It was ravaged by greed.
Rich getting richer.
3,000 dollars a month rent
going to people already making money hand over fist.

Capitalism is a nasty habit.

Old, freezing up, and corrupt.
The only interest they have is “I.”
They ask, “How do I get more [fill in the blank (i.e. usually money, i.e. whatever our species decides equates to power on this planet)]?”

Their power lies in a made-up system
of metals and former trees
being exchanged at different numerical rankings
for items of varying arbitrarily determined worthinesses.
(What is worthy?)

Greed.
Greed that uprooted native peoples from their homes.
Their lives.
Their homes.
So much greed.
So much grief.

It bleeds us of our ambition and tells us what to want.

Someone else

tells us

what’s important

to us.

Creams to make us younger
In this youth-obsessed culture.
Youth-obsessed, future-afraid.
Stay young and don’t think about what all those plastic vials are doing to your people’s future home.

They’ll ravage her,
They’ll bleed her,
They’ll take everything,
and not even ask her her name.
For coal, for oil, for metals and made-up paper.
She won’t have any air left to spare.

(Who decided that one life was more valuable than the next?
Who are these destructive, scaly dragons with their hoards?)

It’s getting late and capitalism keeps me up.
But even though I don’t like the air, I just can’t stop breathing it.


I really hope Jane Fonda has a good plan for this.


FOOTNOTE
The line “But even though I don’t like the air, I just can’t stop breathing it” was inspired by the lyric “I don’t like this air
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop breathing it” in Built to Spill’s song “Center of the Universe.”

Posted in Poems & Stories

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolet
Ultraviolence
Radiation, Mutation

Deoxyribonucleic acid
The name sounds more dangerous
Than the Sun’s ultraviolet rays

But you let them in
And they changed you
Changed you at the cellular level

Genetic instructions didn’t serve you
So you sought change to suit you
And the change you got multiplied

Growth beyond your control
A hostile takeover
That you invited in

cactus-ball

Posted in Poems & Stories

Waiting

Fighting for air
But none are here to listen
A room full of flare
Things are aglisten

Tarnishing from the inside
A collection of dust and mold
To take in and abide
And embrace all the old

Reject the gut’s compass
Just try to keep it down
Survive by drinking piss
Never wear a frown

Choking on pride
Not the only plight
Hide, don’t show that you’ve cried
Your eyes will never be dried

tree

Posted in Poems & Stories

What Was It?

I dropped it in the water by the dock
I didn’t know how deep it was
And, though it seemed pointless,
I dove down and felt through the muddy bottom

I didn’t count the time
But when I shot to the top
I was gulping for air

I pulled myself up
And lay on the dock
In disbelief I’d actually found it

I felt something else while I was down there
But it was pitch dark and I couldn’t see
I could only feel

Its smoothness intrigued me
But though I was curious, I left it
And took back to the top what I came for

  

Posted in Poems & Stories

Winter Treasures

When the trees no longer whisper
Squirrels turn up past treasures
Storages they’d forgotten
Their excitement like finding a twenty dollar bill in last winter’s coat pocket

Stories they’d forgotten
Roused by the sharp winter air
Shared over squirrel’s wassail
Next to the warm winter hearth burning cozily within their trees

Where summer divided their ways
The cold pulled them closer together
As they sat arm in arm
Telling of their year’s adventures

One squirrel sat idly by the fire
Looking for the answers in her flames
He grew colder and lonelier
As the laughter rose around him

And as it turned to embers
And he remained the last in the room
He found peace in the solitude
And repose in the quiet

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Posted in Poems & Stories

The Wind

Voices dripping with whisper
As silent airs breath in
Capturing the secrets
From the walls within

Troubled are the gusts
A rheum shaking even quiet lungs
While wisps travel
Over empty souls

And passion ships sink
When filled with heavy burdens
Led by kings
Whose men die for a stranger

So let the wind
Carry the thoughts
For they are lost
On those who do no speak

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Posted in Poems & Stories

Squalor

Misery earned
Merriment learned
Hiding behind blame
Feigning the game

Projection of fault
Squalor the result
Guilt will consume
Every empty room

Fill the house
With faking about
Putrid memories
That no one else sees

And in that place
Lurks death’s face
With rancid breath
And a face of meth

Still the sweetest kiss
To release what’s amiss
And spare the rest
Of such burdensome mess

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Posted in Poems & Stories

Passion Flower

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Didn’t make it
Through the winter
Still can’t
Remove the splinter
Just seen
Beneath the surface
Unreachable
Abyss

Shone brightly
In the summer
Teeth reveal
The number
Of times
The faces smiled
Beside
Her open fire

Then voices
Became whispers
No sight
Of either dipper
On clouded
Starless nights
Forgetting
The best advice

Palsied seeds
Of despair
Stale petals
Once purple flare
But now forget
For she is gone
No revival
Just in a song

Posted in Poems & Stories

Lover’s Leap

It’ll be like a dream
Always falling
Through the seam
To an endless reality

We’ll wake up
When we hit the bottom
Filled with regret
In a place that’s rotten

People will be there
But they’re not friends
Taking pictures
Of how we came to our ends

The sign will mark
How we met our fate
At Natural Bridge Park
On our last date

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