Thirteen Myna Birds

13.

I Swear to God

sometimes it seems like

the goddamn cynics and nihilists

and various other strains of nattering

nay-sayers of hopeless negativism are right,

that nothing really matters

in the grand scale of things,

that there’s no real meaning to anything,

as in nothing you do can really mean

or change or add up to something greater

than just a lumpy sum of parts.

Or, at least that’s the line of (quasi) reasoning

I use, occasionally, to justify and / or excuse

those days that come along every now and then,

when you wake up around ten or eleven

and maybe it’s grey and raining

and thundering out there, or,

better yet, one of those quaint,

postcard perfect / phone book cover photo

of a perfect spring day kind of days;

either way, probably best to spend

the better part of it in bed (just to be safe),

the shades pulled down most of the way,

some solo Monk or Red Garland on the radio,

a box fan blowing out a rough accompaniment

from the corner and nothing to do

but drink beer and write poems (maybe even

one about drinking beer and writing poems)

in bed all day.

~Jason Ryberg~

*

12.

Bird in the Rain

Cloud                      

banks

that look

strangely like

early 20^th

century socialist sculpture

have pretty much laid claim to the day, and the trees are

having an animated discussion with the wind,

      sending what’s left of their leaves to

scatter in every direction, and so far it’s been

one of those mornings where my mind 

is hopping ‘round from

puddle to

puddle

like

a

bird

in

the rain.

~Jason Ryberg~

*

11.

Bird, Homeless

The arborists have come
to chop down two crabapple trees
wedged among the maples,

whose canopies and roots
have tyrannized the garden for years.
Mourning her loss, a female robin,

who just this spring had guarded
three blue eggs on her crabtree
perch sheltering the nest, is upset.

Perhaps she heard the buzz saw
growl, ready to hack away
the fragile twigs that etched

their own elegy on a twilit sky.
Her branch has vanished, and,
checking my curbside mailbox,

I hear her flapping, feel the edge
of an angry wing on my cheek
as she dives at me, seeking her sentinel

post, which has disappeared into eternity.
She tucks her panic under a wing,
chirping her dolor into the spring air

that used to be sweet.

~Donna Pucciani~

*

10.

Colossus, Revisited

For Emma Lazarus

Give me your tired, your poor…
Lady Liberty holds a torch in one hand,
a tablet in the other, inscribed July 4, 1776,
when men in powdered wigs signed
a document now shredded by those
who are not tired, or poor, or huddled,
except on a golf course.

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore ….
My grandfather Carlo arrived in steerage,
not on a rich man’s yacht, in 1903,
with only his carpenter’s tools and the shirt
on his back, white sleeves rolled up,
ready for work, a word unknown
to the moneyed classes. He didn’t know
a golf ball from a bocce ball.

Like the biblical Lazarus, whose shroud
unwound him into life, Emma reveals us
to ourselves, shows us what kind of country
we are, what we will become,
and what will become of us.

I lift my lamp beside
the golden door.

~Donna Pucciani~

*

9.

The Poets Consider Death

Featured in a recent anthology on age,
we confer tonight via computer
as the coral sun sags in the western sky
and a gusty wind captures branches
in backyards from Chicago to Cheyenne.

Faces, sophisticated or frowsy,
subtly wrinkled or creased
like an old bed-sheet, prepare to read
versed pronouncements
on widowhood, sudden tragedy,
or the inexplicable prospect of non-being.

Sonnets and sestinas weave stanzas
together like Rackham’s fairies at play
or witticisms at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
The tongues of poets seduce the Reaper,
confronting his ubiquitous scythe
with syllables of prophecy,
beyond dark humor about taxes
or the deep drama of Hamlet’s soliloquy.

Afterwards, we all click off computers
in darkening offices and bedrooms
all over America, as one by one
we welcome the gathering, wordless dark.

~Donna Pucciani~

*

8.

ON A THEME FROM WAGNER

I told many lies in the Covent Garden Opera House.
                                                            —Richard Wagner

                            (Quoted in Alex Ross, Wagnerism)

The opera house tells many sharp lies.
Later, after curtain, voices bleed downstage.
The next audience loses them in the lights.

Girls dressed as dolls and boys in tight new ties,
enter by twos, told they’re the proper age
for opera houses. They lick up sharp lies

that cling to old horsehair seats. Children’s eyes
notice it all. Then, at a certain age,
that aria comes back—notes like loose lights

tickle back those untruths. Then someone’s wife
gets hurt. No reason, police say—just rage.
An opera program’s open and cold lies—

just clues that get missed, like dull sets that fly
to darkness. They vanish into a cage
of ropes the audience loses to light.

There’s no crew here to make a curtain rise.
Everything stays blocked—her body. The stage—
A house opera composed of sharp lies.
The audience leaves. No music. No lights.

~Mark J. Mitchell~

*

7.

NOWHERE NEWS

It climbed out a nowhere then turned back
before light found it, burning it with fear.
Too much reality hurt and cold facts
couldn’t be climbed, so nowhere called it back
and held it. Whispered—shush, it won’t attack
another like you. Just stay close, near
this nowhere. Don’t climb out. Never look back.
Light won’t hurt you. The burning’s hope, not fear.

~Mark J. Mitchell~

*

6.

“Wristwatch Grave”

I buried time beneath my bed,

A twitching watch in blood and dust

Its tiny hands still ticking red,

Like guilt that moves because it must.

The years rot slow in mason jars

Beside the songs I shot on sight,

A broken lamp, a childhood scar,

A lullaby I set alight.

You ask if I believe in grace

I grin like someone wired with sin.

I’ve memorized its velvet face;

It always looked like discipline.

And faith? A chain of rust and rain

You wear until it snaps your name.

~Joshua Walker~

*

5.

Father Figure

The day I slugged my father was forgettable, as I recall.

I must’ve done what a thoughtless boy does—

to someone—or to something.

Or perhaps I did nothing—

and that… was the sin.


I heard his heavy steps,

stomping down the hall,

toward my tiny space.

Closing in—

another beating from loving dad.


Crashing through the door,

thick fingers stabbed my puny chest.

His lips peppered foamy spit.


Untethered, my robot fist punched him

square in his fleshy jaw.

Bulging eyes and gaping mouth,

he dropped like a spent puppet.


Shame-wrapped, I stumbled back.

He pummeled on to my pretend tears

in our circus bear dance.


I feared, in that moment,

the tiny crab-apple would one day fall

at the foot of the hoary tree.


We knew no better…

I still grieve.

~SJ Harrold~

*

4.

Being a Fly

It must be hell to be a fly.

Think about it.

Life begins as a wriggly maggot

swaddled in steaming cow dung,

gorging on bovine waste,

then collapsing into a food coma,

emerging… a pupa.


Precious days are slumbered away—

dreams of soaring with eagles.

When awakened,

the pupae crawl out of the excrement,

to unveil shiny forewings

and flit off,

yearning to leave their mark.



Having skipped adolescence,

there’s much a fly should’ve learned

in fly school,

had there been such a thing—

avoiding flypaper parties,

not preening on flat walls—

lessons learned the hard way.



When the thrill of flight wanes,

the fly is shocked to learn

it must vomit on its food—

else it starves.

Another lesson missed in fly school—

had there been such a thing.



The resentful fly might long to be

a flesh tormentor,

like its green-headed cousin.

Though it consoles itself, knowing

it sows pestilence everywhere it lands,

and rocks showy reflexes,

when not gorging filth.



Alas, the end will come,

far too soon for the poor fly.

An unpleasant demise?

Afraid so.

Smeared on a windshield, arachnid-sucked, or worse,

wings plucked by a monstrous boy.

All inglorious ways to punch a ticket.



So next time pesky muscids

land on Aunt Flo’s potato salad,

remember they were once larval lords

reigning over fecal kingdoms.

As adults, they took to the wind,

living their pitiable days

in less time than Flo’s cycle.



They incessantly buzz about,

taking what they please,

leaving nothing but stomach acid.

The miserable fly merits a swift reckoning.

Roll the towel, strike true,

and send the wretch to fly paradise…

—don’t squish the mayo.

~SJ Harrold~

*

3.

AND THAT WAS THE NIGHT

The rain washed away the perverts
tweakers in the park roamed around
and stole money from the elderly.
Black boots stomped on the pavement
white socks pulled to ankles, knife between strings.

Breeze blew onto buzzed hair
keys dangled from a skinny wrist.
Tattooed arms flipped an empty garbage can.
A fight broke out by the stairway,
punches hit against soft skin

Teeth knocked out of a shiny golden mouth
blood spilled out juicy red lips
he took out his phone
and recorded a video.

A rooting crowd circled around,
clapping and cheering on the brawl.
Silver sharp knife split a stomach open,
worms slithered out a bleeding heart
and the water peeled a wet banana.

The fire sprung and rose into the streets
teary eyed ladies howled, called the police
and that was the night creativity began.

~Maceo Nightingale~

*

2.

EYE IN THE SKY BLINKED RED

The train roared underground
employees chatted on the platform edge
drank lit up coffee cups.
Red eyed rats coughed out tracking devices
glass doors slid open,
crowd of cyberjocks
boarded the subway.

Steam razzled into the city
hot dogs served after hours
construction workers hammered
away the glitching advertisement screens
selling discounts on marijuana dreams.
insomniac zombies paid for coffee.

She wore gray headphones
and stared at the blue graffiti
sprayed onto the underground walls.
Static clicked, metro tickets swiped.
Late night musicians played their
synths in return for credit card chips.

Gamers sat hunched over computers
drinking caffeine till the morning sings
barista with purple hair called out in a name
she shrugged and poured a drink.
Vaporwave soared out of the speakers
Bass
hummed
low,
cocaine
served
upstairs.
Living
off
broccoli
and
protein bar
Pigeons gathered by the station,
pocket full of breadcrumbs
apples munched by silver teeth
Crunching
video game
tokens
Dancing
in a
pink
suit.

~Maceo Nightingale~

*

1.

BEDROOM LAMP

Glass shattered onto a fat red nose
the neighbor in 4B danced naked
in the street,
thick legs grooving to harp strings.
Melodies flicked through cocaine
chords plucked on a sleepless night.

Aliens crawled out of a phone,
neon eyes poked through the screen
little legs twitched and leaked purple juice
feedback sang out of abandoned malls
night vision goggles hung up on a burning car.

Blackjack hands on surveillance cameras
paranoid babies, diapers of cow milk
and the blue lesbian wigs lost anonymity.
Firework explosions cracked open the soda bottle.
Eyes blazed in blue smoke, ears sniffed red tomato sauce.

Same sex marriage on a tennis court
swung the wooden racket at California
and stuffed the prop 8 sign
into the trunk of the car.
Mask on, gun reloaded,
One eyed twitch for a rang bell.

~Maceo Nightingale~