Friday, April 13, 2012

Eye, Fly, Awry in this Landscape of Words,

They say don’t feed the birds, you encourage
dependence, promote non-native species.
who knew, it seemed such a harmless lark.

And what is the result of my two week vacation,
starvation throughout Brentwood stretching to
Dalhousie and Charlewood, or is it more widespread.

They do fly after all and we go through a lot of seed,
will they be dropping in Shanghai and Topeka,
and if not mass starvation, perhaps delinquency.

The whole of bird society breaking down, begging,
sexual license, belling cats, downing power lines
pushing each other into the air intakes of jets.

Or could it be positive, native species returning
Bluebirds, Martins sundry Warblers all jostling
wildly for the vacant nesting boxes and bird baths.

Maybe we should think big, Passenger Pigeons,
Carolina Parakeets, Labrador Ducks, who knows
what these misplaced Weaver Birds were up to.

Maybe we will see the great brown spurts of Bison
moving out of the river valleys with their attendant
packs of Grey Wolves and lumbering Plains Grizzlies.

And if I stop feeding the sleek Black Squirrels
that hang like misshapen fruit from my feeders,
what can I get for that?



Tuesday, April 10, 2012

by Max

The Cat Wishes to Use the Pen

To write doubtless,
about the space under the rug where he keeps things and
the spot under the coffee table where he also keeps things
including himself, dreaming of jungle, he would like to
immortalize lurking unseen.

Unless he wants a drink in which case he will write
of the white porcelain tub where he sits demanding
a drink from the faucet. Or yowling through the house
until someone follows him to his dish to witness
the wonder of a feeding cat.

He would include a triumphant inventory of the
clawed furniture, the red leather chair, the sofa, the
good  Lazy Boy. The declawed cat broke lamps but he
is all about fabric, sweaters, wedding dresses,
comforters and of course the good Lazy Boy.

He would surely write about laying across a warm chest
with one paw extended purring happily. But there will be
no mention  of the small white dog who sniffs his butt,
let him write his own poem.