Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Poet Laureate Joy Harjo:
Planetary Friends
Mercury and Venus have drifted out of
reach. Earth stares at Mars all day. Jupiter
acts like the boss, but he’s full of hot air.
Saturn is engaged. Uranus swings by
every 84 years. Neptune has turned cold
and distant. Nobody has heard from Pluto
in years. Earth’s green eyes are slowly
turning brown. She’s sick.
Rattlesnake
The venom moves slowly,
From bite to vein, from heart to brain.
It is gruesome and beautiful,
This painful end.
The permanent curl of her lip
Betrayed nothing of the fangs
Or the slippery tongue beyond.
Ss, ss, whispered secrets
A flick of silver.
Body begins to burn inside
Hurl. The contents of a stomach
The timepiece on the mantle
Either could serve.
If she were a true rattlesnake
I would like her more. Maybe I
Would not tread on her.
A quiver of empty shells shook
She signaled a threat
But I did not see, they never see
This golden pattern woven
Into Life’s quilt.
Body begins to stiffen and yet
I will suck
And pray to escape alive
From venom.
From venom.
Rules are Rules
Rules are rules; you make them
You follow them, you break them –
Rules are good, created for routine
For structure, for understanding –
Rules make sense, of Life
of Gods, of Nonsense –
Rules are a force, for square pegs
in round holes, with three corners –
Rules make boxes, they won’t close
Their contents crammed, overfull –
Rules are wrong, obstacles
In our way, trip our toes –
Rules are limits, unnecessary
Confining, make us proper –
Right rules. Wrong rules.
Rules for how to speak to Elders.
Rules for maintaining your body.
Rules for good and bad.
Rules for me; rules you made.
Rules for who and how and why.
Rules are rules; not my choice.
Rules are rules; not my choice.
Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Elizabeth Alexander:
Quack I Am a Duck
Quack!
I am a duck
floating gently upon
the surface of this pond.
Plunging my head into the
water, I swallow snails
and slugs and grain. I like
when my neighbors call my name,
although sometimes the tiny neighbors
race to see who can smell the grass
the fastest. I don’t know why.
I can’t see very well underwater,
but I dominate the skies. I am a
secondary for now, but mom says
I’ll be a formation primary next season.
When they say sleep with one eye open, they
got that from me! The duality of
my brain is more dynamic than yours.
Cough Medicine
Grape Robitussen tastes like melted lollipop.
It sits by my bed, heroin melting in a spoon.
I want it. I want the grape. I want to sleep.
Already in school they have us read books
where the junkie goes cold turkey, shakes and
shivers on a cot. I am an opium-eater
who swigs from the bottle, falls into swollen sleep.
I ride the horse. I have a monkey on my back.
Already I am the kind of child who should not
be allowed to read so much or late at night.
But now I am coughing like the consumptives
in my books, match-girls black from chimney dust,
and if I cough I cannot sleep; if I on’t sleep
I cannot dream of all I’m reading: bony fingers
that snap off and turn to candy, children who slip
down the bathtub drain, who are frozen in place forever.
I Am Squid
What if I was a selkie, but not a
seal, a squid. A deep diving, twirly
whirly type of squid. I would soar
past a giant clam, nestled in the
safety of lobe coral bigger than
my apartment in Cork City. After saying
hello to the bluefin tuna than hangs
around the not-so-common common
clownfish, I’d get to see the chinook
salmon, if she isn’t too camouflaged.
Perhaps the lemon shark can show
me the way to the blue king crab.
I have never met the king. When
I arrive, will he be perched on a mound
of gold like the cartoons? Or will
he cower in hiding as a victim to
predation? After I meet His Highness,
I will grab coffee with my dearest friend,
the bull shark. My human friends are scared
of her, but I know her best. She is aggressive,
yes, but with affection and tact. She likes to be
around people, my little social butterfly. After my
travels, an olive ridley turtle takes me
back to shore. I climb into bed, with a
new seashell, my feet damp with adventure.
(Read) Between the Vines 