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?

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.

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.

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.

A Final Fortune Cookie

    This is the 181st day if my poetry181 blog, so this is the final daily entry I'll be posting.  I don't want to stop completely, though, so each Monday I'll be posting whatever I've written that week - at least one piece, I promise.  Please check it out and spread the word about this blog if you've liked it. 
   Maintaining this blog has been a true educational experience.  I've learned that necessity is truly the mother of invention (that's one reason I want to retain a weekly requirement for myself); I've also learned that invention is exhausting.  I'm not sure I've become a better poet - yet - but I think I'll eventually learn from this experience.
   It would be great to hear from you if you've been reading this blog and enjoying (or not enjoying) it.  All I get from blogspot is stats about number of pageviews.  I can't tell if people are viewing the pages and leaving quickly in disgust or staying and savoring every syllable, so your comments would be much appreciated. (You can post anonymous comments if you like.)  I'm especially curious about the pagviews from places like Russia and Iran, places where English is not widely spoken.
   I'm afraid I'm going to end this phase of the blog with a whimper rather than a bang, a short two liner rather than some eloquent epic.  ("The Poet's Farwell to His Tropes"?) 


     A Final Fortune Cookie

The longest journey ends
with but a single stop. 

Medusa

This one comes from an in-class writing assignment in a poetry class I'm currently taking in Chautauqua, NY.  (I highly recommend the Writers' Center here for its fabulous workshops.)  The assignment was to adopt the persona of someone from mythology and explore how things might look from his/her perspective.

               Medusa

It was no better when I was a beauty.
Even then each man who saw me
either froze or blindly fled.
And as for the gods, great Poseidon
simply seized what he wanted
then left me to Athena’s care.
She, my patron goddess, was more concerned
with her temple’s purity than my body’s rape,
and I, her priestess, became her pariah –
my punishment: these serpentine curls,
this stony stare, and statues for friends.

Now I’m worse than the sightless,
the blind who have no gaze at all.
Mine kills what it longs to look at,
making lively scenes tableaux mordant.
That’s why I’ve let Perseus steal upon me,
to safely see my reflection in his shield,
where I can also savor his brave surprise
as he finds my features both fierce
and fair. It is too late for us to stop
his sword, but I feel strangely fulfilled.
To see and be seen seems worth being killed.

Further Snapple Real Facts

Here is some more bottle cap wisdom, as interpreted by me.  Hope there's one here you like.

                               
      Further Snapple Real Facts


                   #868
Thomas Jefferson invented the coat hanger
and declared independence from his coat,
which now could be kept in a closet
and not on a public hook or tree.
Little did he know to what other uses
his original product would be put:
harmonica holder, car door un-locker,
unsafe backstreet baby killer.
Is this the price of liberty?

             #44
A bullfrog is the only animal
that never sleeps,
but even a bullfrog
must eventually croak.

           #36
A duck’s quack doesn’t echo:
Nature is too embarrassed
to repeat that sound.

           #50
Mosquitoes have 47 teeth
but seldom have cavities.
Blood may be better than fluoride,
but braces are better than DDT.

                         #25
The only food that does not spoil is honey,
but sweet nothings are the first words to decay.

                      #673
The average turtle can’t reproduce
until it’s 25 years old.
No wonder they’re known as slow.
They’ve got a job before they can go steady.
If only humans were also ready
to say stop even though they can go.