Watermark

2010 Feb 24 - snapshot poem

there are winged women
in my garden. there are two.
no. three. they are heavy.
they are made of iron.

once they were the legs
of an antique table. now
they are poised to fly
from the garden fence.

and then there's me.

2010 03 feb snapshot

can i still write a snapshot poem?
is it still in me?

the sky is grey, but high
earlier, there was a dull purple beneath 
a glow 
that made the sky seem higher 

sparrows at the seed 
and fighting in the vines 
is it really the weaker sparrow 
they gang up on? 
maybe it's a bad sparrow 
perhaps he molested a chick 
or stole from a widow 

they drive him from the garden 
much loud peeping and violent 
flutters 

dead leaves crash to the ground 

belle brings me her toy 
attacks the scratching post 
stops to stare at me 
demanding -- what? 

is there a poem, anywhere? 
where where where? 
i am here, at the keyboard 
i am listening 
but all i hear is the radio 

the muse does not so much as murmur 
not a whisper, not a nudge 

belle crashes around the living room 
colliding with furniture 
attack mode 

attacking a poem does not work 

belle comes again 
stares into the toy basket 
i offer a catnip mouse 
she pounces, but soon bored 
comes back for something else 

glares at me in disappointment 
why do i not give her what she wants?

what does she want? 

i try the rubber fish 
no 

the rattly ball 
no 

i suggest she choose for herself
no 

perhaps the poem is in the aquarium
empty but for bubbles 
awaiting a fresh fish 
for the slow, mysterious kill 

perhaps the poem is in the pillow 
cranberry toile, two people on a mule 
an obedient sheep 

belle comes back to stare accusingly 
the poem is in me! 
is that what she says? 

i offer a furry mouse with a feather tail 
she explores it 
briefly amused 
but only briefly 

the basket is nearly empty now 

she noses it 

her tail sways

no 

a miniature blue tennis ball? 
it bounces down the stairs 
she follows! 

she's back
she jumps on my legs
a questioning look 
she goes to hide behind the ottoman 
waiting for the next throw