the magpie nest
An assortment of shiny objects for brief bathroom visits or bus stop interludes
Concrete
(1/14/21)
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Be careful not to trip on wet concrete
On rain water
Water?
On wet concrete
In puddles that
Came alone without rainfall
I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that
Concrete is the boring accomplice
Gray bleach spread over a scene
Made to look innocent,
To bore the eye into moving on quickly
Not seeing the puddle that
Came without the storm
Or the cracks in the seams
Whose sprouts are stained red
Don’t slip and put your fist
Through the layer of cement that
Should be less hollow than it is
Should be a lot of things
Anything but
What you’ve sunk your fist into.
Alaska
(1/19/21)
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Life in Alaska
small
But very stubbornly living
in a world flipped around and ladled in darkness so many hours of the day
A timeless icy plane
Forced by the rest of the planet into copying their rhythms,
I’m sure they must look at the rest of us
Laugh to themselves,
“You think you’re living an adult life?”
Imagine living happening on its own,
Life being a constant, and leaving luxurious room for you to make things of it.
Alaskans must have such a superiority complex i think
Working so hard
To live on land that tells them “leave me alone” with every swallowed sun,
Eaten from the sky as soon as it comes
Maybe if the sun leaves,
Thinks Alaska,
The people will follow.
But no such thing.
They lose sleep patterns,
Don’t know the feel of jentacular sunlight
Or warm pavement on bare feet,
But they stay.
They survive.
They live.
It’s rather beautiful.
Ars Poetica
(1/25/21)
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i wrote in conclusion once in an assigned paragraph
“el arte del poeta es tomar ideas frías y
suavizarlas con sentimiento humano
para nuestro consumo.”
the art of the poet is to take cold ideas and soften them with human emotion for our consumption.
my teacher was skeptical -
and i don’t know the word for skeptical in spanish,
so with more arguments in incompatible languages in each of our mouths
we agreed perhaps it’s one of their jobs.
Accentual Meter
(1/12/21)
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Beware the hand
That feeds your mouth and grows your limbs
Measure closely curl and curve
Lest mother be an untrue word
Keep a candle at your bedside table
Mark a line in powdered chalk
And should her feet be drawn in white
When through the window comes the sun
Pack your things and check for stitches
Running up her neck and fingers
the soup stirrer and the home maker
The soft song singer
Beware the lie
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