Hidden Bird

After the silence,

in the grave calm,

I hear the voice

that belongs to no one

except the hidden,

the half-guessed bird,

black with insight,

steady in presence.

I fear to wake

that voice, deep within

that waits

with claws secreted and

wings folded,

as patient as judgment.

The moment I take breath,

prepare to explain myself,

he spreads his wings

and covers his face.

A Question Awaits my Waking

Does it matter, at the moment of death,

if you are praying or remembering a poem? The question

was there when I awoke, along with a deep

and resonant hum – that was my waking impression.

Shaking off sleep, I slowly recalled

vague memories, jumbled, mostly debris,

then awareness bubbled up as a porpoise

erupts from the sea.

In my dream, a man was bent over a bench,

fixated on a task, using magnifiers, tweezers

and pliers. He was focused, intent on repairing a clock,

delicate, intricate, and in pieces.

Around him, a miniature mountain

of parts, wheels, weights and gears

of all sizes. Dispirited, head bent,

he seemed to be holding back tears.

In his past he’d been hurt,

betrayed by those he had trusted

and cared for. He moved in a haphazard way ―

it was clear he was exhausted.

Then he tripped ―parts whirled, scattered,

clattered. His face filled with dismay

as he reached behind him, opened a secret door.

All the parts of the clock blew away.

An All-Consuming Project

On the back left of my kitchen sink,

it squats, dark, dank, discolored.

This old brush, used to scrub

produce from grandma’s back garden,

scour off Rhode Island Red’s chicken shit,

reach into the crevices of carrots and parsnips.

Made in grandpa’s workshop behind the barn,

bristles: stiff, pushy, impatient.

Even now, in its dotage,

the boys fight for it to clean their soccer cleats.

Thank you, pig.

Chaos Echoes

In early morning we awaken from

dreamed ricochets of chaos,

echoes of insurrection.

Nowhere is there any sound

as the mob melts into the crowd.

Nowhere is any end but cinders.

This is our world on fire;

this fire, putting out the sun.

Justice Prowls

Justice is on the prowl.

deceit, innuendo, equivocation

crumble in her path

Muscled loins flex,

feet wide, eyes ablaze.

She roars,

Stand strong or leave me! 

See Injustice? Cut off her head,

let her pallid blood evaporate,

vinegar her spores.

Be alert! She recovers,

mutates if we look away;

shapeshifts,

twists

to forms

attractive to our eyes.

Ode to Pernicious and Exultant Ivy

She reclines on her cedar chaise,

sleek in her emerald bikini. Raising

a sinuous arm, she toys with her absinthe martini;

hums her anthem of Now.

Her past, a shadow box of delights.

What matter if a fucking gardener

calls her a weed?

In the dancing days of Greece they were wiser;

she was cherished, adored. They saw

eternity in her evergreen,

worship in her steady coiled ascent.

Darling Dionysus wove her into wreaths,

spiraled her on fir branches to inspire the revels.

Dear Druids, Celts ― they knew her worth.

The moon-loving month of her flowering

they named for her ― Gort.

She was the pointer’s knuckle

in Ogham hand spelling.

At Christmas, she was honored as the Virgin,

(accompanied by the prickly one).

Her special women quietly

used her alone to deck their halls;

assert the strength

beneath seeming compliance.

She sips her martini and smiles.

Magna Mater

She keeps her twig-fingers busy,

grasping the brittle leaves that tumble

from her hair, once fulsome,

Now, scent of burning.

Her hands reach out

to the frightened doves and gulls

who circle her.

Their eyes scan the waters, but

see no ark, that animal wedding chapel,

or muted rainbow this time.

She pulls her knees high

as the water rises.

Her feet, stretch screaming tendrils,

bonded with the earth.

Around her waist, seaweed and rosemary flow.

In the bruised sky,

leaves, like calendar pages, swirl and darken.

She misses those old concentric days.

Where are her hunters and gleaners?

She rued that ill-omened day.

One tribe betrayed the balance

with planted fields, fenced-in wild ones,

brought all the poison of have and have-not;

dragged time out of its sacred cycle and pulled it straight.

In the menacing winds, her hands reach

the ax in the back of her trunk-neck.

She murmurs to herself,

This was not the original plan.

The Destruction of Nature by Marie-Adele Fandos

Strange Sights

The second strange sight was the cascade of blackness

that rolled off my shoulders, slid down my breasts.

Tar snakes and soot lilies, veined in scarlet,

rooted in my back, between my shoulders.

My fingertips slashed by glass-edged shards of trust.

Coppery scent.

The first strange sight was your face after betrayal.

Chin high, defiant stare.

In your hair, embers of burnt commitments linger;

tumble and drift in the icy wind.

The third strange sight was my face in confrontation,

eyes steady, face frozen as death.

Voice cushioned in politeness;

numb through the quiet battle.

Within,

I wander, chilled,

in this new barren maze.

Tina Blondino

To Resist Change

An expert asked –

What will happen to those who

resist technology?

 Won’t adapt to this multifaceted,

multicultural, multilingual world?

He answered himself with a question.

What happened to the hunter-gatherers

when farmers began efficient farming?

In the pause, he answered ―

they became extinct.

Did the hunter-gatherers grieve

It’s not fair for others to invent new ways?

This new breed is twisting fate.

Our steady present is ordained.

Did they create a shell around themselves?

Swear fealty to the roughest, loudest of their tribe?

Vita Interruptus

We’ve been through the plague together;

we’re bonded, branded, special kin.

Have a little hesitation step all our own.

Experts at silence, we practice our diphthongs.

Three times a day we say aloud two complete sentences.

Ten minutes each day we walk around the room in shoes.

What in a line

Take a number 2 pencil,

soft lead,

no eraser.

Sketch the outline.

Mark the shadows.

Note the highlights.

In pastels

detail the work.

Add perspective, dimension,

point of view.

Shade in tang.

Let it rest.

Draw it again –

in vivid markers.

Like Picasso’s bull.

Just the bones,

the important ones.

Then erase half.

Does it squirm?

Terse in its candor?

Then it’s a poem.

My Pandemic Life

Since its Thursday, do yoga series 5; check Amazon deliveries; weed the lettuce; check the on-line medication order.

Listen to news. How many newly dead in the state? in the nation? in the world? Read on-line paper updates, Send donations to Church and to Food Bank.

Since its Thursday, remember Zoom cocktail party with F & V at 5:30. Check level of gin.

Wash hands. Change from singing “Row Your Boat” to “Mary had a Little Lamb.”

Ignore the calendar. Don’t count the days.

Check school district website. Is there a change? If schools are open we want to be there. Research Kawasaki Disease.

Since its Thursday, put on gloves, mask, take car for its weekly drive. Don’t think about the olden days, when drives to restaurants or movies were every day easy.

Buy new hair trimmer; I’m sure it was the trimmer’s fault that J’s hair turned out that way.

Find flour. Buy some on Etsy? Email K for bread recipe. Search for Mother’s recipe. The scent of baking bread evokes stability, safety, security.

Since its Thursday, do Facebook post so the rest of the family knows we’re still alive.

Tell R about dream of trying to attend five different on-line funerals at once.

Check with F. Can she Zoom babysit Sunday afternoon? The kids love to play the game she invented.  R and I need some time together without kids.

Call bank. Check on options for partially paying the mortgage.

See if there’s TV channel for Korean baseball.

Since its Thursday, put out the ballerina costume; I’m going to follow the Australian pandemic tradition and dress up for garbage day. It will be my Bin Isolation Outing.

Fountain Dance

I want to let it all loose –

my hair, my skirt, my blouse!

No carving me.

I’m movement and desire,

depth and laughter.

I stretch my neck,

giraffe with arms flung wide;

at one with the vampire bat.

My feet move                                                                                      

in the cadence of the panther.

Oh, friend,

this is the me who’s been

covered over, plastered down,

chained with weights.

Come dance

as the earth slows,

as the plague grows,

forests burn, shorelines dissolve.

There is a newness coming –

our dance is its birth shiver.

Indigo

The lid slides off

the deep caldron.

Inside, slow transformation.

The dye embraces,

enfolds the folds of fabric.

From the cobalt depths

I drag the cloth,

in its lime green natal state.

It marries the air.

My poem bubbles in opaque silence,

amorphous,

writhing in its darkness.

I befriend its raw obscurity.

As we entwine,

pigments shade and tint.

It morphs, delineates.

Born of confusion,

oddly familiar.

Strange Sights

The second strange sight was the cascade of blackness

that rolled off my shoulders, slid down my breasts.

Tar snakes and soot lilies, veined in scarlet,

rooted in my back, between my shoulders.

My fingertips slashed by glass-edged shards of trust.

Coppery scent.

The first strange sight was your face after betrayal.

Chin high, defiant stare.

In your hair, embers of burnt commitments linger;

tumble and drift in the icy wind.

The third strange sight was my face in confrontation,

eyes steady, face frozen as death.

Voice cushioned in politeness;

numb through the quiet battle.

Within,

I wander, chilled,

in this new barren maze.

Tina Blondino

Swept

It fits easily in my hand, an old friend,

this broom handle, this broom.

I place my hands where Mom

caressed it in the fingerprints of Nana.

I sweep the kitchen floor,

smoke grey porcelain tiles

where brick-shaped linoleum had been.

I feel the rhythm of the sweep –

long, short, short,

long, short, short.

Mesmerized by the motion,

I am part of the timeless guild of sweepers;

those who swept dark caves, dank hovels,

palaces, log cabins.

We sweepers, we sweep away

stale conundrums, fractured anxieties.

We sweep russet mud tracked in from feeding chickens,

pine needles, on our boots from mushroom hunting;

insults, dog kibble, 

scraps of yarn,

scribbled apologies.

We gather them, bless them and take them away.