Surface

For this week's prompt, I want you to write a poem that looks beneath the surface. For extra effect, you could possibly title the poem after your subject. For instance, you could title the poem "Happy Birthday" and then look at how it's not happy; or you could title the poem "Self-made Man" and describe how that might not be such a good thing.


Poetry

a whistle without wind comes down the street
a street in the past
on which we walked
best friends on the road
lit by the star-glown fields of Vermont
just walking once
laughing to trim in the edge of the woods
with our lacing

the words now a whistle without wind
down a night country road made of one letter after another
to describe a life before the turn in the road
long before and on the surface
these things
this whistle
this road
these footfalls are haunted

serious
serious
oh geez
give it a rest
as
almost always about two scuffs
of gravel (imagined)
that ache for four

what was so funny?
we laid down on the road
laughing

that the old years can whistle
without wind or whistle
down a road - now a neural pathway -
can glow
without lights, without star-glow
without opening the brain to the sun
this is good
this is happy
that the firefly
always lucky
pulses by the side of a road
tucked under a wild bluebell that does not
did never exist

every sound and non-sound.
every brush of cloth against skin
or vibration in the tiny sea of the inner ear
where we cannot stop giggling still

this, as is life,
is, in its every increment, of gratitude
and joy.
what it all has been
- from the first division of a cell
to be given a name
to be called that name by
loving
funny
others

some people miss that,
miss the whole thankful point,
looking at the surface.
worrying as they hear the words
again, crying themselves to sleep.

The Unicorn Tapestries

(just realized that the poetry asides site that i did the poetry marathon with has daily prompts. This. pick a headline and write a poem). This should be a nasty one. Here goes.




The Unicorn Tapestries: Three Youths Stamp Fawn to Death

The perspective is a bit wrong
on the fence that circles the unicorn.
The slant light from the cloisters

catches the warp and weave of the final panel
and reveals the beast contented in captivity
returned, iconic
mystical and good for us
after we'd slaughtered him
a spear through the throat
the dog licking there

preceding panels show the hunt
the men and dogs waiting as the unicorn
dips its horn
purifies the water
of poison

there

carry on

beautiful
mystical
beast

and then the dogs
the men and dogs
chase to kill
the men and dogs
chase to kill
but cannot

all arrows sharp, long,
directed, pointing at
what eludes
the kill

leap
beast
away

next
the woman,
gracious,
who - irresistible - charms
so the dog takes a bite
and the animal then kicked in the muzzle
stepped on with tunes blaring
the eyes gone wild
little sounds, little,
dampened with an untied shoe on the throat
parts going limp
soft dots of fur
naming innocence
reddening and youth
embolded snapping new bones with a two-heeled hit
their power visible from the side of the road
fuck you, mom. fuck you, teacher
and you. and you.
and whoever
and whatever
and whatever.

and the magic eyes look up to one boy
and go black.

and in this way the fawn finds himself
in a circular pen in heaven
more perfectly beautiful
this way

than that

how it would have been

his white tail
disappearing into
the broken
light of the forest.