A Flock of White Chickens

I can take little credit for this poem.  Except for a few connective phrases I provided, it's made up entirely of phrases and images from the students in Professor Kitsi's Poetry Workshop class at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki, Greece.  They all created poems in response to William Carlos Williams's famous piece about the red wheelbarrow and the white chickens.  I have merely taken phrases I liked from each of their poems and tried to arrange them in some sort of poetic progression.  My apologies to the students for altering some wording slightly and putting their ideas into a different context in order to make the poem work.  I hope they will forgive me and can hear the poets inside them speaking in this poem. 

                                                        A Flock of White Chickens


                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    your nicotine lips
                                                    and a sea of wasted sips.
                                                    Upon my looking for a part
                                                    to solve the puzzle
                                                    of my old square heart.
                                                    Upon my hearing a white sparrow
                                                    singing in the rhythm
                                                    of the leaves.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    silent breaths
                                                    in the snow,
                                                    the solitude at the heart
                                                    of winter-
                                                    like a white waterlily
                                                    on a long river -
                                                    and misty eyes singing
                                                    farewell.
                                                   Upon a tiny spider
                                                   hanging
                                                   from a broken lamp
                                                   and a shepherd
                                                   whistling
                                                   his own little tune.

                                                   People call it love.
                                                   I call it your name.

                                                   So much depends upon
                                                   the way some people
                                                   make your heart
                                                   decay
                                                   and others
                                                   give you a caress
                                                   that makes your body
                                                   burn.
                                                   Upon a caring voice,
                                                   a generous smile,
                                                   your light blue eyes
                                                   a bright blue sky
                                                   bright gold sunshine
                                                   and a bright moon
                                                   and stars that flicker
                                                   in a darker sky.

                                                   The power of willingness,
                                                    a bird’s faith
                                                    in its ability
                                                    to fly.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    sleep
                                                    even when nightmares
                                                    are present
                                                    and upon smelling white roses
                                                    despite the thorns.
                                                    Such roses cover lovers’ beds.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    some thoughts next to
                                                    the sea
                                                    and the waves that compose
                                                    the sea
                                                    and the black and white
                                                    keyboard that plays
                                                    the music
                                                    in the words you say,
                                                    and every note, every word
                                                    is a beginning.

                                                    No one knows
                                                    what is beneath the sea
                                                    or what that little bird
                                                    is singing as he dances
                                                    alone,
                                                    stuck in his tree.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    dreams that sing
                                                     inside me
                                                     after moments we had
                                                     together
                                                     speaking or not just
                                                     speaking,
                                                     the silence that accompanies
                                                     the break of dawn
                                                     and sets fire to my soul.


                                                      The fresh air
                                                       messes my hair
                                                       and fills my heart
                                                       with joy.

                                                       So much also depends upon
                                                       sitting alone
                                                       in the attic
                                                       or screaming in the middle
                                                       of a crowd.
                                                       Upon truth seen
                                                       through a child’s eyes
                                                       or life seen from
                                                       a cold bed
                                                       in a hospital.

                                                      An old lady with arthritic
                                                      hands wears a wedding dress.
                                                      Girls are laughing
                                                      in the forest,
                                                      dark tree trunks
                                                      and dead leaves
                                                      drenched with rain:
                                                      the laughter sounds
                                                      in the darkness
                                                      of your soul.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    these heavy drops
                                                    of rain interrupted
                                                    by the rising sun
                                                    and the mix of colors
                                                    that is the rainbow
                                                    we can walk on.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    love.