no more the bird with the piercing voice

The Meaning of a Sappho Fragment

“no more than the bird with the piercing voice”

 

night is rendered mute

blanketed in storms

of soot, smoke, blood stains

the youngest are always

led away first in no

particular order, maybe

by height; eyes eloquent

shrieks strafe the air

in the beginning but

shortly it is silence

that makes the eardrums

throb and bleed

LOSER

And as easy as saying,

“Pass the salt,”

She says to my son-in-law

About my brother, long

Estranged, “I guess you

Could say he’s a real loser.”

Years fall away

And I picture that little boy

He is curled up on the steps

Head on knees, sobbing

Somebody else beat him up

At recess, called him stupid

Stole his good shoes—again

He is not yet ten years old

But he wants to die, he says

Nobody loves him, he sobs

I do, I tell him, I do

When did I stop telling him,

I wonder—

When did he decide for good

And all, he was a loser

When did I let him go ...

I shudder as I speculate

About how likely it is

those events

are all connected ...

Trapped Between Eras

In the hanging garden of wronged

Angels and children not yet conceived

You find one trapped in amber not yet

Hardened and determine to set it free

Knowing there is savage trickery needed

If success is to be had, you disguise

Your intent, become stealthy as

A sly sleek snake slithering around

The edges of Eden looking for his woman;

You shed your scales and stand just

Before you reach the drop caging it

Then, hold it high against the dying light

Alarmed to note it no longer stirs,

Fearing it has succumbed to its future

In the present tense, you cannot resist

Shaking the bead like a baby’s rattle

It is no use, time has won out

This one is frozen in place forever

S.E.Ingraham©

A Silver Teardrop

Dangling off the edge as if weeping,

Lonely for its mate, rests one silver

Teardrop earring – the edge being

A bone-china saucer minus its cup

Another solitary that should be part

Of a couple; as if to complete the

Collection of lost singles, a pair of

Sunglasses minus a lens, stares at

Nothing.

Mile High Reflections

Expecting snow, and ski-crazed folks

And finding sophistication and politeness

That made us feel more Canadian than

We were used to; Saks Fifth Avenue

Solar panel crops, Hermes, sky scraping

Buildings that seemed sculpted to suit

The landscape and everywhere flowers

 

A city as lush as Victoria, on Vancouver

Island, with out-sized blossoms all over

Even though it was a dry spring and the

Creek was low, the cottonwoods just now

Beginning to blow fuzz; Pike’s Peak still

Heavy with its bounty of run-off not yet

Forth-coming; hard to imagine it would

Get greener still, this Eden-like Denver

On Wings of Silver

It is dawn, or very nearly so

And from outside my tiny window

I can see the far horizon’s rosy glow

A coral shade that’s only barely there

Beneath the faded blue of everywhere

And still old Luna, she’s stays up, and fair

At forty thousand feet, we’re flying up above

A planet far below, the third rock that I love

And as always, I am travelling with a peace dove

Nestled deep, well-hidden within my heart

A symbolic bird of hope, as real to me as any part

Helps me to stay a course I’ll try never to depart

Hours later, sleep-fed, and many miles gone too

I know that soon I’ll land and then I’ll be with you

Luna is pale but winks at me, even she bids me, adieu

Z is for Zee, or Zed, or Zenith

Just when you suspect you might be getting

A little bit past your prime, not old exactly

But no longer a youngster either – the coolest

Thing can occur; if you happen to be one

Of the lucky ones, you’ll get a grandchild to love

And this gift will slough years off you as if

You’ve had surgery, remarkable, magical surgery

Where once you might have been winding down

You will begin again winding back up

Re-energized, filled with a joie de vive

That you vaguely remember from when your

Own kids were young and everything seemed

Possible, do-able, and potential was unlimited

It won’t be the end or the middle even but the

Best of all possible times, the zenith you’ll

Think, has finally arrived, and you are ready