mjh's blog

The End of National Poetry Month

For the record, I posted one of my poems every day during the month of April, except for one day, when a technical glitch stopped me. Moreover, I have 47 poems on my blog at this time (one is up twice and I don’t want to delete the duplicate).

http://www.edgewiseblog.com/mjh/category/poems/

choke

What about those poems
I never wrote
ideas unborn
left to float
like pollen in the air
those unsung poems
coat my throat
and cloud my thoughts
with possibilities
I wheeze
and sneeze
and blow my chance mjh

2/9/2005

Icarus

I first knew something had changed
when I thought,
“my wing has fallen asleep” –
my wing? I sat up heavily.
The dog ran from the room
as I spread my wings out
six feet either side of my body
(no exaggeration).
I ran from the house
and all the birds for miles
were silent.
My cat eyed me coolly.
I leapt and fell.
leapt and fell.
I ran around the yard
trying to glide.
I climbed on the picnic table
jumped
and fell on my face
my wings folded elegantly behind me.
My neighbor came out at the commotion
and I wrapped my wings
around my nakedness.
“Why are you wearing a leather cape?,” she asked.
It’s sort of a gift, I answered.

Since that day, I’ve gotten used to the stares
and whispers.
I’ve learned to wax my wings
against the creaking
and the mites.
I sleep standing up –
rarely upside down.
I’ve jumped from buildings, bridges and planes
each time falling like a stone.
Some gifts are hard to take.
Some gifts aren’t all that great. mjh

9/7/2004

[for another take on this imagery, see going home]

at this very moment

If you are wondering
what I am doing
at this very moment:
I am writing a poem
that might be read
long after I’m dead
by someone not yet born,
so that I might know
what they are doing
at this very moment. _mjh

3/08

Where Is She?

When I come in from the garage
the dog’s look asks,
“Where is she?”
Gone, I say, she’s gone.
He stands at the door
head tilted, he listens
for you.
I open the door
and he walks around the car
pausing to look up into the
windows on both sides.
“Where is she?”

All night he sits by the window
rising up at any sound
he looks and waits
for your return.

And I am there beside him
sharing his hope
for your return.
Where is she? _mjh

6/19/2004

Poetic Justice

1.
The burglars kicked in the sidedoor
and invaded our kitchen
stealing 22 years of safety
and a cheap TV.

2.
We painted that kitchen
in a project which
began with stripping ugly wallpaper and ended
with a pretty security door a week too late.

3.
Thieves ransacked the dresser
she bought from her landlady in Virginia,
the top strewn with a lifetime’s sentimental baubles
pawed through by worthless thugs.

4.
In the garage,
a thief spread the contents of the glovebox
over the seats,
as if taking inventory before a long trip.

5.
Back at their hideout,
the burglars exclaimed,
“Man, those people had nothin’ worth stealing.
We were robbed.”

9/16/2009

Birdsmith

The poet stands before a cage of birds,
contemplating his next words.
He snatches up a finch
and deftly dips its feet in ink,
stamping glyphs across the page.
All the while, the bird sings softly,
adding a common tone
to this pedestrian poem.
Returning the finch to its pen,
the poet mutters,
"I should have used a wren." _mjh

11/24/2009

surrounded

the alpha wolf dreams
she is on her greatest hunt.
the prey is worthy & strong

her twitches and yelps
awaken her pack
they stand around her
recognize the cues
this is a great hunt.
as one, they lay down
and close their eyes

and she is surrounded again
by her pack
moving endlessly towards the kill mjh

8/18/04

dry spell

It is so nice of you
to ask about my poetry.
“Anything new?”
Only seeds
on fallow ground
my personal drought,
I reply dryly
through cracked lips,
my laugh the crunch
of leaves & snap of twigs.

In my hands this paper
browns and curls,
the pen melts,
and in flame
I remember
some seeds need fire
some brush must burn
before we grow. mjh

11/2/2003

slumber

at night
the wolves wait
on my temples
for the elk to venture
from my sparse hairline
onto my forehead

instantly, the pack pursues the herd
some escape into the thicket of my eyebrows
as the rest charge across
the curve of my cheek
longing for the forest of my beard

I sleep through the slaughter
on my jaw
soothed by the steady snores
of slumbering bears
in the caves of my ears mjh

10/12/2004

(Thanks to Merri for ‘slumbering.’)

Recycling

“Because of all the places within a year’s ride of here, this is the only place to be.” — World Party

Happy Earth Day, Everyone!

Some say the “Environmental Movement” has itself become a corporation indistinguishable from its foes. Some say that “the people” no longer trust “the movement.” Some even say the movement is irrelevant because everyone is an environmentalist now. Yeah, that last one is especially funny.

Whatever bits of truth float in those views, all of us are coming to realize how fucked up the World has made the Earth. We see the climate change, and the severity of destruction it spawns. We see the diseases that may very well be Earth’s antibodies against humans. We see the end of the Era of Fossil Fuels and the shorter-term sputters of that dying system. We have a good sense of what is wrong, how we play into that, and how we are going to be part of the change. We all *know* that in a single lifetime everything will change dramatically. Our house is on fire. mjh

PS: Wow — I used that analogy 10 months before Al Gore used it. (4/22/06)

mjh’s blog — I’m Recycling on Earth Day

Earth Day 2002

I celebrated Earth Day idling in line at the drive-up window. As I burned my part of the world’s resources, I waited for chemical-laden beef raised on clear-cut forest land, served with genetically modified potatoes grown in the desert, watered by rapidly melting polar icecaps. On the radio, the president called for arctic drilling. On the TV, the vice-president called for nuclear power plants. On my cell phone, I called for replacement batteries for my laptop, my digital camera, my CD player, my pacemaker. On my palm-pilot, I wrote “need to get away.” I used a search engine to look for a campground with hook-ups, preferably near a convenience store. mjh

[This consolidation of previous posts first appeared on 4/22/07.]

A Finger in the Eye

Another recycled post for Earth Day 2010 (originally posted 3/28/07):

Billboards are a finger in the eye. An erect middle finger. A billboard is a selfish and cowardly statement. It says anonymously, “my profit is more important than the environment.” It places personal gain ahead of community values. Every billboard in the world should be pulled down by angry mobs.

Isn’t this picture beautiful? Doesn’t it make you proud to live in New Mexico? The mighty Tijeras Arroyo is already doomed by Mesa del Sold. In the meantime, enjoy the view. As you drive this stretch with its dozen billboards, notice most are for Clear Channel, the owners of most billboards. Buy stock and demand they get out of this business.

Farther south, Isleta shows what Indians really think of Mother Earth, with their dozens of billboards north of Los Lunas. No stoic native with a tear in his eyes at the sight of all the garbage — those are dollar signs.

Where’s your shame? mjh

‘Billboard King’ Reid Looks to Leave Mark on Senate War Funding Measure By Elizabeth Williamson, Washington Post Staff Writer
Continue reading A Finger in the Eye…

The Bright Side

“When he’s dead,”
she says,
“I’ll finally get that dishwasher.”
“And when she’s dead,”
he says,
“I’ll knock a pass-thru to the kitchen.”

Either could have what they want now
but these are little improvements
they can look forward to
as if one day
the end of the world
could have a bright side
like that trip to Europe
after the dog dies. mjh

11/14/2004

Finally

The day finally comes
when you have to lift your dog
down from the truck.
It doesn’t matter that for years
he has cleared that distance
in a bound.
Or that he hates for you
to pick him up.
He stands at the tailgate
eying the distance;
does he think his leg
may give in again?
He waits a long time
as if just surveying the scene —
not asking for help,
just enduring it.
With a dignity
That makes you cry. mjh

7/17/06

(Written 3 years before Lucky Dog died.)