The Carrion Flamingo
The carrion flamingo is an undead parakeet
with feathers tinged the iridescent pink of rancid meat,
whose wingspread is high-handed, while its flapping seems effete;
its hooded gaze is overcast with just a hint of sleet.
It lays an addled egg, abandoned just before it hatches.
Its heart looks like a casket or a book of soggy matches.
Its skin is pale and leprous – pocked with sores, it sheds in patches.
The smirking beak invites you, though you wonder what the catch is.
Some lair in mausoleums, others underneath a rock.
Their voices shake like rattlesnakes; one quails to hear them talk
about the corpses over which their sunset shadows flock,
and few sights are as ghastly as their limping, gimpy walk.
They stand as still as statues just before the chase is on,
and make folks blanch on mornings when they find them on the lawn,
carnivorous as hearses with the silken curtains drawn,
their plastic hues a mockery of rosy-fingered dawn.
by Ed Shacklee
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Editor’s Note: Imagining plastic flamingos as living birds only leads this poem back to the dead.
A lake the size
of a small room
an island no bigger
than a single bed
when you set out in your boat
you’ve already arrived
to lie on your back
beneath a dazzling sun
so small you can blot it out
with one finger
by Ciaran Parkes, first published in Poetry Ireland Review.
Editor’s Note: Ten simple lines still somehow paint a startlingly vivid picture in this poem.
In a matter of days,
the starving dogs of desire
learn to identify
the punctual chimes of affection.
Domesticated into contentment,
they salivate at the seven o’clock ring
and its announcement of love.
On the day the bells cease,
the hounds are shaken into
an unbearable awareness of their needs.
They pace their cages,
bearing teeth and growling.
Wonder how they became
so easily conditioned
by Rebeca Ladrón de Guevara
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Editor’s Note: Allegory is both subtle and shocking in this poem.
What Is Lost
What is lost
returns in dreams,
what is missed
clings in memory
like morning fog
in river bottoms,
the touch of a hand,
a conspiracy of bodies
in dark receding rooms.
by Stephen Bunch
Editor’s Note: This imagistic poem is one long sentence, forcing the reader to make associations from line to line, until the last two settle into the mind with shocking realization.
We feast on color, ravenous for red,
devouring violet, savoring sky blue;
we swim through fields where buttercups are bred,
awash in waves of grass and dirt and dew.
Inhaling trills that flutter from the throats
of robins, we join in the wild gavotte
that breezes blow, and bask in sunny notes
of bagatelles the winter ear forgot.
Indulging in a pagan’s wanton passion,
our games undimmed by caution or by shade,
we try to prove, in humble human fashion,
our fitness for the glittering parade—
and neither doubt nor reason can infect
the holy foolishness we resurrect.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 4, 2015 — by Jean Kreiling
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
In the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars,
From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
. . . . . . . .We rise:
To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.
. . . . . . . .We stand, then,
. . . . . . . .To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
. . . . . . . .A day.
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
She paid five bucks a month to have a star
named after her.
She would point to the sky’s crush of stars
and say there it is.
This is the same Viola whose creditors
took away her furniture every quarter
as if her house were a stage set.
Viola, who used to pay me
to pull Spanish moss from her oaks
as she lay in a lounge chair,
the bachelors in the apartment complex
eyeing her through binoculars.
Viola, whose husband came home one night
and threw her lover naked
into the street.
who reprimanded her husband
for not trusting her, demanding an apology.
Viola, who I learned today
died several years ago. Viola,
who I suddenly miss. I squint up
at the night sky. I wonder how many times, Viola,
your star has been renamed? It’s missing,
as if you didn’t keep up the payments.
Like you, reclaimed by your creditors.
by Bob Bradshaw
Editor’s Note: The narrator’s casual voice belies the sudden grip of nostalgia for a more innocent past.