Birds

What would the Seagull say to the Arctic turn,
The rat speaking to the squirrel.
Do you work?
Do you save yourself?
Why? Do you know my ease?
Do you sea me,
Sitting on my thrown, same thing everyday
Eat, smile, be wealthy.
The wind rises though,
And carries Her on,
She's gone in a moment.
But they know the truth,
The sea breeze is the softest pillow.
The land you are lead over will provide for you.
You are not lost,
You will be back again soon.
And till then hold my memory close,
So that that ghost comes to life on my return.

My Calendar

What day is it?

I do not know, I’m sorry.

My calendar hasn't changed for longer than I’d like to say,

And the picture of a kitten,

Poised in a basket, starring out into my empty room,

Has been there for the past few months.

I’d occasionally flip through the months of the year

And let the puppy with his head cocked,

The dog with a kitten perched on top of his head,

All got a glimpse of me and the pale white wall behind.

That’s all they’ll probably ever get to see.

He is extremely cute, the kitten of this month, that is,

But I've begun to feel his eyes on me

Whenever I am around

Even while I’m falling asleep.

Poor thing, he is bored.

He wishes I would change the month

And that this window would close,

So that he can stare out of a different window

Onto a different landscape.

Or maybe just a different, plain, sparsely furnished room,

Occupied by some different boring boy or girl.

The Life of a Puppet

I feel sorry for you,
Your shaped plastic, paint and thread,
Sentenced to death by hanging.
Brought back to life by the strings
That broke your neck
That now move the plastic jaw,
Arms and legs of cloth.
And dance you around on stage.
You only come to life through the hands of the puppeteer,
Who's skill is limited,
And emotions are hampered with translation.

Steal a knife,
Cut your bonds,
And escape your jail of children shows.
Stun your jailer with your cry for freedom,
Leave this life to build a better one.

Someday soon I hope to be sitting in a cafe,
Considering the politics of drinking coffee to fast or to slow,
And see you flash by on the street.
Free to be your own puppeteer,
Expressing your emotion without translation.

Saturday Morning

I sat in your living room

Listening to the buses and cars

Drive by, nine floors down,

The sound filtered by the sheer curtain

In front of the open window.

My tea tastes strange,

I haven’t taken the teabag out yet,

And the taste of metal has stepped from the spoon,

With the tea leaves, into the hot water.

And you keep talking

I came to listen to you talk.

Lean forward in your chair

Hold the paper still on the table,

Now fling it around in your hands.

I’ll stretch and suppress another yawn

As I try to follow and understand.