Sitting by the Birdbath~He noticed the sloshing had suddenly stopped~Looking over his book to take a Gaze~A bird he did not see~but He DID see a Face with legs~Glaring with  RED  eyes~that had a piercing effect~making him not fear~but rather be Drawn~to this face on the Birdbath~He saw no wings~but as he approached~he watched  the feet Push the head upward~Wings from his ears~stretched it seemed for 20 feet~And as it Lifted~not screeching as a Bird might do~but simply with firm clear WORDS~stated;   I'll return at Midnight, , ,     BE Ready for the Journey..........

Morning mind crackles,
Darting flight of spooked birds,
  .  .  .  One lover has left.

Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.

Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.

Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.

The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.

I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.

Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
  all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.

A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.

I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.

Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.

I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.

Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.

Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.

River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs

Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up

Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...

Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio

She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring

And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....

From my window sill
saw the moon in a birdbath
relishing a soak.
5/3/2019
Haiku

I continued the gentle climb
passed building, birdbath, “bathtub Mary”
and was stopped by the sound--
Endless mission of the river
as she made her way over the rocks of early summer.
I knew I'd found our home
At the top of the stairs
a wooden deck off second floor
Up the fourteen stairs to our new door

I could see her now fully
gleaming
beyond the red oaks and wild cherry
framed unspeakable
by greens
and fragrance of the multiflora rose
just coming into bloom
I could go on-- but there are so few words that fit
the sound of a river so content

She whispered to me between her gurgling song
“Hush....”

I catch the rapido train from Milano and edge slowly westward through the stops and starts of frozen points and village stations. The heating fails and an offer of warmer seats in another compartment. I decide to stay here. I put on my coat, scarf, hat and gloves and sit alone. In my grieving time, I feel closer to the cold world outside as it moves past me, intermittently. Falling snow in window-framed landscapes.            

Sky gun metal grey
shot through
with sunset ribbons.
                                                                                                          
Dusk eases into black-cornered night. After Maghera, the train seems to race to the sea. It rumbles onto the Ponte della Ferrovia, stretching out across the Laguna Veneta. Suddenly, a jonquil circle moon pulls the winter clouds back and shines a lemony silver torch across the inky waters. Crazed and cracked sheets of ice lie across the depthless lagoon. The train slows again and slides into Santa Lucia. I walk into the night.                                                                                               
Bleak midwinter      
sea-iced night wind
bites bitter.
                                                                                                      
No. 2 Diretto winding down the Canal Grande.  The foggy night muffles the guttural throb of the engine and turns mundane sounds into mysteries. Through the window of the vaporetto stop, the lights of Piazza San Marco are an empty auditorium of an opera house. Walking to Corte Barozzi, I hear the doleful tolling of midnight bells; the slapping of water and the *****-***** of the gondolas’ mooring chains. Faraway a busker sings Orfeo lamenting his lost Eurydice, left in Hades.
I wake to La Serenissima, bejewelled.                                                                                                                           
Weak winter sunshine
Istrian stone walls
flushed rosy.
                                                                                                          
Rooftops glowing. Sun streaming golden between the neck and wings of the masted Lion. Mist has lifted, the sky cloudless; I look across the sparkling Guidecca canal and beyond to the shimmering horizon.          
Molten mud
bittersweetness demi-tasse
Florian’s hot chocolate                    

I walk the maze of streets, squares and bridges; passing marble well-heads and fountains, places of assignation. I walk on stones sculpted by hands, feet and the breath of the sea. Secrets and melancholy are cast in these stones.                                                                  

At Fondamente Nuove, I take Vaporetto no.41 to Cimitero. We chug across the laguna, arriving at  the western wall of San Michele.  I thread through the dead, along pathways and between gravestones. At the furthest end of the Cemetery island, Vera and Igor Stravinsky lie in parallel graves like two single beds in an hotel room. Names at the head, a simple cross at the foot of the white stone slab. Nearby, his flamboyant mentor Serge Diaghalev. His grave, a gothic birdbath for ravens, has a Russian inscription; straggly pink carnations, a red votive candle and a pair of ragged ballet shoes with flounces of black and aquamarine tulle tied to their the ribbons. So many dead in mausoleums; demure plots; curious walled filing cabinets, marble drawer ossuaries.
                                                                                                      
Bare, whispering Poplars
swaying swirling shadows
graves rest beneath          

I walk to the other end of the island and frame Venezia in the central arch of the Byzantine gateway.  I see that sketchy horizontal strip of rusty brick, with strong verticals of campaniles and domes. It is here, before 4 o’clock closing time, I throw your ashes to the sea and run to catch the last boat.                                                                                          

Beacon light orange
glittering ripples
on the dove grey lagoon.

© M.L.Emmett
First published in New Poets 14: Snatching Time, 2007, Wakefield Press, Kent Town SA.
To view with Images: Poems for Poodles https://magicpoet01.wordpress.com

cookie tins and tea
your faded grade school drawings
and her chipped birdbath

I wanted to be Baptized in a birdbath
Overjoyed like the birds
who dipped over and over

Unlike the birds I was baptized behind the altar
I rose shedding water
and religion

The old man walked up and sat beside me
On  the city bench inside the park

"Whew !" was all he said and gave me a well worn cookie cutter smile

I nodded an annoyed smile hoping he would go away

Then he got up and smiled and said ,"I will come back later , I see you are not ready ."

Puzzled by his statement
I looked straight ahead
only turning seconds later
to find the old man had disappeared

Sweet sylvan birdbath,
Crows leave bones— pure waters taint,
  .  .  .  Machiavellian.

A thousand gods
under the cricket moons
couldn't even save one little bit...
     (salvation is the enemy of
      a violet world)
the same lame-*** gods
that made us educated
and civilized.

Why not a cosmic birdbath
or eternal blissful garden
that happy children frolic
in amongst springy damp
Bermuda grass and Birch
trees that shine like a
trillion flawless diamonds,
almost as beautiful, at dawn
when lightly frosted?

Regardless,
days like these i wake up
full of vigor, dreamy-eyed,
complacent, full of longing,
but still glad our gods
are dead.

Summer days,
summer days --
trees offer their
   gentle canopy;
roses, full-blown
scent the air.
Lizards bask --
the humble bees
visits flower after
   flower,
their hum enveloping
on a warm afternoon.
Beetles scurry
hurriedly working
their naturnal jobs.
A ****-robin
sits upon the birdbath,
and barn swallows
dip and turn
on sky-borne currents.
An orange cat
naps in the cool
   shade
beneath the mulberry
   tree --
while butterflies
   linger
by the garden gate.
Summer days,
summer days:
this season reigns
so beautifully.

i.
Evil sleeps in an orchard
not far from here.
The apples sweat him out.
Dressed as god, the Sun
watches and nods.
He bleeds for them
out of his own mouth.


A god's mask
means protection.
But in time,
he will **** them dry.


And autumn will fall.
Postures will fall.
Pulses will fall,
like pills,
like poison.



ii.
A cloud forest
signals the first
of the shadows.


Summer is nocturnal.


A buttery Moon
leaves the world
warm and breathing.


The trees stir,
the stars hiccup,
and Nighttime climbs onto the birdbath
where it tells you all its tricks.



iii.
Evil blinks from a tree
where the apple skulls
intrude.
The garden combs you
through its arteries,
scooping
your midsummer grave.


A beautiful accident
closes in on itself.


And then a light like milk.
And then the whistling.



iv.
Summer whistles in the dark:
The sound of Evil kneeling
to the imagination
undoing him.


A deadly glow
becoming
a romance
on the white fences.


Nighttime draws dust
away from your shoulders,
translates Summer sound
and says,


You are your own harvest.


Your madness is only there
when you want it to be.

Feathers fluttering  .  .  .
Shine from heavens after rain,
  .  .  .  Shy dove in birdbath.

Coastline yellow dawn,
Overflowing fountain
Untrimmed garden,
Left to Decay
Rot in the sun

Bluebonnet field,
Honey suckle sweet breeze
Left to flourish,
Their petals reach to the sky

Light step, on the untreded
Birdbath with feathers flashing about it
Dawning spring, swallowing following
Enchanted breeze, dew on the leaves

Break the cycle of the illusion
Never ending we march along
One step higher another step closer
At the end, Door Closer locksmith
I have to see beyond this

Lilly's little birdbath
Sitting on a dirt path
From the bowl she did drink
In the water the did sink

I was on the gurney
Belching my guts out
After eating surf and turf
I'll fill you in
I had whooping cough
And a case of the Monday's
I had worn out and overstayed my welcome
My attempt to out eat the local human garbage disposal fell flat
Now they put water from a birdbath in my drip bag
I'll clue you in
All the energy I could muster up was used to say
"I'm off Wednesday, but it's Tuesday but it feels like Friday

you trespass in my heart
when my mind isn't looking
hopping the low fence
I thought you were art

the roses I planted
your slender fingers wrap
and tear them from their bed
I used to think you enchanting

you dismember my apple tree
smirking at the snap
apples were your favourite
my sweet delicate gemini

and so i restart
replacing the trampled flowers
fixing the smashed birdbath
in the garden of my heart

I cant deal with this anymore
I cant be a puppet
moving to her every command
i cant do everything that she wants
only in her benefit.
does she look at other people?
Does she care about others feelings?
no.
she never gives me the chance to explain.
she never lets me in
she never lets me out.
it a continueum of fighting when we are together.
neverending.
like birds in a birdbath with one drop of water
fighting till death.
do us part.
this is mine
no wait that ones yours.
theyre both mine she says.
its all mine she says
truth is
it doesnt matter what i say
wrong or right
this void in my heart that will never be filled with love from my
one and only
sister.
my void is whole and ready to except her
but still she chooses
to ignore
to avoid
to disreguard
my every word in hopes to get her to understand.
this is a simple minded animal with the brain of einstine
feelings mean nothing, theres only room for fact.
this is mine.
no wait that ones yours.
truth is nothing is mine
because it will always be hers.

The falling snowflakes
cover the birdbath.
White and pure now
the winter torrid garden.
Gifted with the renewal
of a state of grace.
Like  a confessed soul.

The red candles flicker
and glow in my window.
Lighting the falling snowflakes
a kaleidoscope in motion.
Empty now your chair
your pipe still unmoved.
Remember how we loved
the first snowfall my love.?

Walking feeling the crunch
like glass shards
.beneath our winter boots.
The gift of the full bright moon
beaming on the boughs.
Creating daylight at nighttime.

All the pathways in
your beloved garden
,Are filled with fresh snow.
An even layer of purest white
filling all the voids
in the backyard.
Just as you once
filled all of mine.

purple petals in a birdbath -
like rafts during the rain -
bobbing briefly with each drop -
like memories on the brain -

Not coming out
Spring...
Except through
Your fingers ...
Through Your eyes ...
A rainbow,
arched over rice fields
frogs,
Start croaking...

I Become a mother ...
In A bright Sunny day ...

Illinois cornfield...
too many fireflies at once
too many fireflies...

Oh my little black star!
I know the grooves between your hands...
Smelling you Among my bright motherly clothes
Oh white and free lily,
In my June ...!
The butterfly’s
flaming wings
on the rim of the birdbath...
You are the
  Honeysuckle,
Blooming in the wind ...
You are a fetus,
You have not been
In my femininity
womb ...
O my flesh!
O my spring!
And O beyond my
cadaver...!
Rainbows dancing
Happily...
In the glitter of your eyes ...
Oh, my flower of the moon!