Bird Point Magpie Tales #72

Bird Point

We walked the corn fields
that sweltering Missouri July
I in summer-hardened bare feet
a polka-dotted sundress
you in those obscene cut-offs
cowboy boots, can of beer in hand.

We searched for arrowheads
there'd be dozens you swore
Pulaski county--once home to the
Quapaw, Missouria, and the Osage.

Heat dazed, I followed your
long-haired, flat-assed self
shared your bitter beer
visioned another me
in buckskins and braids
beads and moccasins
pounding meal from corn
both me's oblivious to
coming dissolution
in moonshine and disappointment.

We returned home
sunburned and tipsy
the single chipped bird point
rough in my hand.

It rattles in my handkerchief drawer
even today.

read more poems and tales around this prompt at Magpie Tales. Photo of Van Gogh painting provided by Willow.

Flight

Flight

He comes to visit
my friend's crazy son.
I'm not sure why.
A frisson of fear
outweighed by compassion
and a bit of wonder.

The year he works at
an auto sales he
arrives in a spiffy silver
four door, AC, push-button locks
something an insurance
salesman might choose. Certainly
not myself.

"Let's take it for a test drive," he says.
"You'll be sold."

Now and then I feed him lunch.
Once, I find him standing at the back
of his car, trunk open,
brushing his teeth.
A jug of water and a spit cup.

He calls me asking
for a ride to the bus station.
I find him leaping around
his living room searching for a sock
an open suitcase on the floor
clothes scattered.

"We just have a few minutes,"
I say.

"Let me drive," he asks as he throws
himself and his suitcase together.
I decline.
Later, I picture myself a prisoner as
he drives past the bus and onward to Maine.

The scent of his aftershave lingers for weeks.

photo courtesy of Willow. For more stories and poems evolving from this image see Magpie Tales.

Dad

Dad

I, perched on the arm
of the chair
he, comfy in its embrace
the book open on his lap
in a voice resonant with music
he read.

Night after night
until eyelids closed
then opened and closed again.

That wonderous gift
given kindly with love
for words
for literature
for me.


for more poetry and prose inspired by the above prompt see Magpie Tales. Top photo courtesy of Willow. Second photo from my family archives. Me and Dad of course.

On being an artist

On Being an Artist

The rose window fractured
by a fierce wind
shards on the grass
till he came along
collected the fragments
crafted a kaleidoscope

Fractured
by the tornado of life
for two years I lay on the rug
my thoughts scattered
Now I must turn my mind around
create beauty from the ruins

photo by Willow. For more magpie tales using this photo as a prompt click here.

Rising

Rising

A pot of tea brews
on the table
a bunch of violets in a glass
the smell of grilled bacon tints the air.
Together we watch the chickadees feed
the hawk circle.
Your lips taste of Earl Grey, mine of mint.
Your hands burn through the silk of my kimono.
A beautiful day in the neighborhood
the weatherman murmurs
and we smile.

And I recall when it wasn't so
when rising was solitary and faint
like the morning moon
and the cottage shook and chattered
with a cold, cruel wind.

Listen to me read if you wish.

Bridges

Bridges

A prim hobo she boarded the train with a ticket
wearing an orange and black California skirt,
her knees still raw from the playground.

An Oakland bus carried her over the bridge. She lost
her hairdryer but soon her hair was long
frizzy with the wet air; it didn't matter.

To the haunting chime of the trolley,
she rented a tiny apartment on Nob Hill. Standing on the window ledge
she gazed over the rooftops, watched the boats in the harbor
while down in the courtyard the wild cats came to feed.

Her legs ached from walking the steep hills past
mysterious houses behind tall fences, past
the bay, the basking seals. The Sutro baths echoed. The
seed pods strung around her neck clicked.

Everything was free: the food, the clinic, love. The Mime Troupe played
for free in the city parks, park benches became beds.
In a piano bar Little Richard played for free
and a ten dollar drink.

In Sausalito she ate newspaper wrapped fish and chips
bought Capezios and hitchhiked back
across the fog bound arch with an elderly lady in a
maroon Desoto.

Now elderly herself, she sits on a ragged porch
in Vermont and sucks on her artificial teeth,
watches her tame cat stalk the spring robins in the
muddy field while the early morning
fog lifts in its own good time.

The Model Magpie Tales #59

The Model

Who is she they will
whisper in years hence
but he doesn't know that
as draped in wig and
full-length gown he sits
before the blank wall like some
Viola in the Globe and watches
his lover prepare the palette
dim the light.

He readies for days of stillness
the rasp of brush on canvas
the smell of solvents
giving once more his angelic face
and roseate form to genius.

Photo prompt courtesy of Willow. For more stories and poems based on this prompt click here.