Redbird, Blackbird

the red-breasted birds visit
with us again, heads half-cocked,
trilling the morning and evening song

banishing those blacklegged birds of
somber hue who croaked through the
days of November, their sour edicts
now forgotten

he knocks on the door again, the
devil of self-doubt, greasy noose of
a collar tight about his neck

and Fogarty gives him a couple
of swift kicks, sending him on
his way, stomach still pinch-cramped

with want of food, mouth dust-dry,
tramping down the walk, exhaling expletives

as Fogarty pitches empty jars into the blue
bins, clink, clink, clink, crash, scratches
out another list, the words totter on the
page, top-heavy, indigestible as wallpaper paste

black on white, the printing as plain as the
mark of a finger through a furze of dust

Clockwork

tock-tick, tock-tick, tick, tick, tick
black of night
leaves the red electric numerals
graved upon the eyes

tea kettle waits patiently upon
the range for the ringing of the
bells....5:50, 6:00, 7:00....

blindslats yield, curtain-panels drawn
left and right, encroaching sun creeps
above the bridge to glint upon

the windshields dashing past
the funeral home
(whoosh, squeal, crash)

as smells of eggs and coffee
seep into the hallways--doors
open/close open/close open/close
and soles
slap slap slap upon the stairwell,
followed by
a
BANG

women leave traces of
scent behind, by the mailboxes,
while they, bag and box laden,
make their way to station,
school, or office on heels of
all descriptions

at mid-day the bells ring out
and we pause

at three there is the riot
of voices, color, movement,
unceasing, pulsing forward
as the tide

walking home: hand in hand,
flesh against flesh, our voices
piping up against the wind, twin
strands intertwining, knitted as
we once were....

the peace of bed, sheets the white of
bones and eggshells, dark locks
damp upon a forehead pushed
aside to give leave to the lips
to place their imprint there

to bed, again,
with tea and tablets to
urge the drowse of sleep
against the ringing of the bells,
tinny and obnoxious by turns,
these unwelcome heralds bleating,
breaking silent dark in twain

Sunday Dinner

oh yes, this green and
pleasant land, milk
and honey drenched,
away and away, beyond
the river, beyond
the band of railroad
tracks rusted over, the land
of soybeans, corn, and kale

where the ladle does not hit
the bottom of the pot,
beef to the heel on the
weekly joint, and all will be
in abundance (the chorus
repeats) all will be in
abundance

as the sun rises over thick-bladed
fields bordered by wood and stone
birdsong rises up to the blank blue,
a slate waiting for our writing

The View From the Monkey Bars

I.
fat sparrows stab at
the jagged breadslice,
the heel of the loaf half-soaked
in a gravy of rainwater
puddling under the arches,
whitewashed, framing
this postage stamp of green
--hedgebordered, at the
center a fir, heavy-branched,
garlanded with
electric orbs in April

II.
ah, and do we see
the lights dim--oh,
Burke, think well of
charges, and surcharges,
I charge you, reconsider
these attachments of
our income

III.

rain pours down,
triple lights swing
as paper lanterns do,
almost weightless,
battered by the character of wind
that raises up
wreaths of leaves, smoothbrown,
thinveined, brittle-edged,
a rustling crown to
dip and edge away,
finally undone entirely,
sent their scattered way

as you puzzle out the traces of the
weird script sandblasted
off the blond bricks, so
many bars of gold, they
glimmer, mirage-like
as you perch on the monkey bars

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MaryAnn is now podcasting poetry!

Check out her first recording at:

http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com

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After the Gleaners

I plucked the flowers sprouting from
your fingertips,
green, ripe for the taking,
those awkward stalks
you begged me take

into a jar I put them, onto
the sill they went,
each speaks in turn: I
was a night of sighs, and
I the lace of a cobweb
stretched against your hand,
voicing the insubstantial

and, after the gleaners,
she gathers what might yet
be found, the noise of the
combine harvester long gone,
only the birds for company

shining grains to hoard
against the future, held
hard in the fist, a
promise of bread

and your lands shall
be mine and I
shall be yours

Elements

the well has gone dry again--
and still you sit there
on my fire escape, drinking
cup after cup of sweet tea

barely touched by milk, your
wily fingers wrapped round
the crockery: white, splotched
with flowers, a secondhand

acquisition rattling in my basket
until I boiled it clean, the
thickness holds the heat you
wrap your mitts round, sometimes

wagging a finger at me while you
tighten your greatcoat, settle,
and sip again, your eyes, pooling
black, stare, those ink puddles

as I protest, you see there is
dinner yet to be done, the
potting soil to be swept up, the boxes,
endless, waiting to be checked

off, my signature royally
scrawled on a permission slip,
dinner (never good enough) slapped
with a crack upon the table--

and you would have me go to
Spain, where it would be warm,
your shivers would cease, and
we should live elementally

on sun, and water, and stolen
pears, our kisses thick-sugared, all roads
lead to, all roads lead to....

I laugh and pour
another cup

Gingerbread House

gingerbread edgings are only the
start--see the velvet curtains
of the interior, your fingerprints on
the silver coffee service on the sideboard, a gift
from your aunt

is it bitter, now, in the winter? how are
the schools?

the felines lounge and stare--
they are not discomfited--they
will still be fed

in the middle of all towns there
hangs the traffic light-go-wait-
stop-green, gold, blood by turns

we wait to be told what to do,
we turn, thick with sleep, to
spill barely formed words upon
the table

we throw the stones, the bones,
upon the creaking floorboards--
they speak, tell their tales, in the night, the
long night and the moon
silvers over the grass, this

accidental working of metals, plucking
the strings there, and there again,
long time gone

the wind plays the grass--sweeter still
when cut and burnt over by the sun

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New group on Facebook!! Irish-American Poets.......check it out!!

Laundry List

so much of the domestic round,
the crumbs burnt black, the
bloodied meats shaken over
with salt, the neverending

circle of fortune turning, the
plate spun round while icing
chocolate cake with white ribbons, the
sugar cloying with sweetness,

the too much of it, the fist of
weariness crushing the cerebellum
so as to preclude speech--what
word comes next? I do not know.

powdered bleach and ammonia, preparations
of pine and lavender, the smiling
woman sells them--does she smile
when she uses them? Oh, the dull

domestic round, broken by sleep,
doctor appointments, church services,
putting on a face to face
this world, time passes through the
fingers like sand, like
floor sweepings thrown into the
bin, all the old dreams and
desires, having been neatly labeled,
tied into parcels, they are:

soft to the touch, fragrant, the
turkish towels (a wedding gift),
ribbonsilk bordered, embroidered, too
good to use.....

the hidden luxuries of thought, the
insurrection of letters strung together