Monday, July 25, 2011

Low Hanging Fruit

When I saw a redwinged blackbird the other day,  I couldn't help but think how that red spot brightly declared that bird a target for a hawk.

       Low Hanging Fruit

Camouflage I can comprehend;
blending in with the background –
changing like a chameleon
or staying still and praying like
a mantis are ways I’ve dealt
with the world.

Mock aggression makes some sense, too;
a good offense is the best defense
for hissing cats, puffing fish, and
helpless men.

I even understand playing dead,
like cornered possums, gopher snakes,
and the clinically depressed.
Sometimes no one bothers a corpse.

But I cannot explain the red winged
blackbird, the lightning bug, or the
slow flying moth always found
so near the flame. They seem to shout,
“Here I am. Kill me if you must.”

How do such willing victims ever
survive? Is it the kindness
of strangers, disdain of the easy
mark, or pure chance that lets us
evade every predator except
 the last?

Monday, July 18, 2011

Lemon Tart

This is, in part, about a dessert I had recently that was baked just a little too long.

     Lemon Tart

Yes, I like the creamy filling well enough –
citric sweetness that lives up to its name –
but I love the bottom crust the best,
especially when it’s nearly burnt but
not bitter: singed crunch that clings to the pan
it baked in and takes some digging
to get it all. Without it, the center would
not hold and melt away, like joy that is uncontained.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Memorial Day

This is actually what I saw in preparation for the 4th of July, but I imagined it for Memorial Day as well.

           Memorial Day

Empty lawn chairs have lined Main Street
since sunset, saving the best spots
for seeing the perennial parade.
Now the sunrise finds them still
waiting for the marching band’s one
performance without a half-time
score, for the Chamber of Commerce’s
convertible – complete with smiling
queen, and for the kids on bicycles
wheels woven red, white, and blue.
It’s hours before the scheduled start,
but the real parade has already passed –
as invisible as the absent crowd,
as silent as the deserted street.

Monday, July 4, 2011

The Poet's Farewell Address to His Tropes

This is a draft of the poem I didn't have time to write for my 181st entry.  I suspect it might be a bit too esoteric.  The title is an echo of "George Washington's Farewell to His Troops", except trope is a term that means any poetric technique.  I hope the other terms used in the poem become clear through context because that's the main point ot the poem; he uses the techniques as he bids them farewell.

P.S.  For some reason, this poem did not successfully posted yesterday (Monday).  Here it goes again. 

The Poet’s Farewell Address to His Tropes

     Today I must say good-bye
     To all who have served me so well.
     To you, Metaphor, who have been
     The rock, the foundation , the anchor
     The compass, the alchemy, the Muse
     And the mechanic behind all
     That I have done.
     And to you, too, Simile, who like
     A more modest younger brother
     Have ventured only similarities
     And not bold assertions
     As your more humble inheritance.
     And where would I be without
     Those closest of kin,
     Cosmopolitan Paradox
     And his country cousin,
     Oxymoron, whose amusing
     Duets produce such discordant
     Harmony?
    Then, of course, there is
    The maker of all patterns,
     Repetition,
    The maker of all patterns
    As Alliteration always attempts to attest.

    Then there are all those others
    Who are sometimes forgotten:
    There’s Synecdoche’s tongue
     And the pen of Metonymy-
     Or, forgive me, is it
     The other way around?
      Likewise, I must thank Hyperbole
      A million, million times
      For the billion, billion things
      he has done for me,
      And to diminutive Litotes
      Simply say, “Not bad.”
      But I go on too long and
      See Concision begin to frown,
      So I must finally thank
      My truest friend, Personification,
      For helping me with this address
      And beg forgiveness of Almighty Rhyme
      Whom I have neglected almost entirely this time.

      Thus end I with the poet’s ultimate inverted Irony:
      When he finally puts away all his tools
       So they are hidden well from view,
       It is he who disappears.