Poems Descending Like Hummingbirds to a Bath

Some of these hummingbirds don’t play fair. Fair warning.

Hummingbirds Play in Homemade Bird Bath

Hummingbirds from all over the neighborhood enjoyed the homemade bird bath that was put out for them. They swam and cleaned themselves with a gorgeous backdrop. Subscribe For More Videos: http://bit.ly/DailyPicksAndFlicksYT Check Out Our Website: http://bit.ly/DailyPicksAndFlicksSite Like Us On Facebook: http://bit.ly/DailyPicksAndFlicksFB Follow Us On Twitter: http://bit.ly/DailyPicksAndFlicksTW Hi and welcome to Daily Picks and Flicks – viral videos, funny pictures and odd news blog.

Earth and Green

and all the smells

that most folk think

should be shriven from our noses.

There is always dirt and scroffle from the fields

and the garden.

Get the fuck over it.

Learn to love the wild tang of life.

How Bad

“How bad is it where you live,” he asks.
“Difficult,” I say.
What I would rather say is, “You think you have problems…”
But I know we all got problems.
These are our problems, not yours.
Rural.
Flyover.
Crumbling social and physical infrastructure.
Bad net access.
Opioids spread
on top of a karst of misery and poverty
and dead agri-culture.
Our kids leaving us behind with wet eyes reflecting back in the mirrors
that let them know that the family they see in the mirror are closer than they appear.
And they yell as they peel out in a cloud of gravel lime dust,
“Get off the farm. See the real world before it is too late.”
And these last words are layered on all the extinctions and all the signs of catastrophe:
bats gone
pollinators gone
planting zones changing
ash trees and red oak passing away like so many chestnuts
and so much die off that we never…even…. see
and will never…ever… know.
And why won’t we ever…even…see?
Because
as a race
we are more ignorant than a box of pundits
making the rounds.
How bad is that?

Sounds You Might Hear at 10pm on Saturday Night from My Front Porch

Sounds You Might Hear at 10pm on Saturday Night from My Front Porch

The diesel electric trains 
that no longer carry people 
unless you consider corporations as people. 
Seasonal sounds: 
    Cicadas, 
    the silent blink of fireflies, 
    the dusty whirr of a hummingbird moth, 
    automatic rifle fire from our neighbors a mile away because it’s open season on the moon, 
    the creak of ice cracking open another red oak weakened by ants and climate change, 
    the silence of our nearest neighbor’s home, abandoned by family, mind gone and done been sent to a another ‘home’ that no one in their right mind would rightly call home. A windchime set off by the resonance of a porch swing with me in it,
the ticking of an abscission layer on a leaf as it releases its green self, free to decay.
the endless whirring clock of the Milky Way spinning ever on and on 
the condense and release of dew from a metal roof rolling down until it finds the verge…and then drips
into a rain barrel.
Or maybe none of this, just other, less civil fearful heartbeats, and squeaks and screams
of predator and prey .

Worksheet

OK,

I will worksheet my understanding

into a series of corrales called text boxes,

just so many sheepish thoughts milling about,

Flocked and bleating,

calling out to other thoughts in other boxes

waiting to be sorted

waiting to be bought

by some slaughter house

for consumption,

frightened by strange smells

and even stranger others’ thoughts

in the worksheet.


Abandon ye…

If you have read this far,

and you still have hopes

and you are at Dante’s verge midway or farther

upon the journey of your life

and finding yourself

within a forest dark

and from the straightforward pathway been lost

and seeing this above the lintel of doorway to somewhere:

“Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate”

then be disabused.

I am empty of expectation.

I don’t even use the word hope.

If you do use that word,

you’d best be ready to die to back it up

and go all the way through every bolgia of hell

shouting hope at every denizen

just like Dante and Virgil.

4 Comments


  1. // Reply

    Hi Terry.

    I lived on a farm for a couple of years as a boy. We rented. I think of it as I experienced your reflections in this post.

    Do you fully own your property, or are you still paying the bank?

    How long have you lived there?

    I think a long time, based on our past conversation.

    I think owning gives a different depth to your words than still paying.

    I envy your opportunity to sit on that pourch.

    I share your sadness at what has been lost, and what will be lost in the future.

    Hope. We each get up every morning to see another day.

    To me, that means we still have hope.


    1. // Reply

      Do you fully own your property, or are you still paying the bank?

      We own it.

      How long have you lived there?

      Thirty years.

      I think a long time, based on our past conversation.

      I have seen redbud and gingko whips grow into towers of wood and leaf.

      I think owning gives a different depth to your words than still paying.

      Rooted and ready.

      I envy your opportunity to sit on that pourch.

      Every heart has a porch, a stoop for hunkering with the neighbors.

      I share your sadness at what has been lost, and what will be lost in the future.

      Loss. Even the word falls in frequency. Loss.

      Hope. We each get up every morning to see another day.

      Every day.

      To me, that means we still have hope.

      Yes, if we act on it and not, like Obama, just mouth it.


  2. // Reply

    Upon the wings
    of hummingbirds,
    there is no metaphor
    to be written —
    only a creature
    forever on the move

    Kevin


    1. // Reply

      Even a hummingbird
      Needs it ablutions
      before it moves on
      for more nectar.

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