Just Enjoy The Trip

—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anonymous Photos of Fictitious Birds

BEAK BOY

For his seventh birthday, the parents
gave him a jungle-themed birthday party.
Zebras, lions, and rhinos romped around
with elephants and monkeys.
But he chose the toucan mask.

An hour later, they found him squatting
in the tallest tree in the backyard.
"How did he get up there?" mother asked.
"It's just a phase," father suggested.

It's been months. 
He only comes down for earthworms
and slices of cake.  He doesn't do his
chores anymore but has built a rather
splendid little nest. 

The neighbors complain of late-night
video-game flashes and sounds
coming from the tree.  The parents
don't know what will happen when
winter begins to approach, but father
is still insisting it's a phase.


(first pub. at Strange Poetry)

 Food of the Gods by Ray Harryhausen

SYMBOLISM TAKES A SEAT

In walked dear symbolism,
whom I invited so often to
class with me and down
she sat.
Along the ride, she pointed
out the plumage of bright
birds flapping past, perhaps
resembling courage;
a pool standing stagnant
representing my lack;
an old man signalling
the inevitability of my fall.
Dear, you read too deeply,
she told me as she left,
just enjoy the rest of the trip,
which I took to mean life.
But maybe not.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

 Tchar of the Skorr

ABRUPTLY

In rushes the season, in rushes
the dog, small frantic creature.
I drain my life before the classroom,
seeping out my humanity
before an unforgiving audience.
The lesson could involve a dancing
tiger and there would be no ovation.
I could light myself afire and someone,
probably that shaggy shiftless one,
would declare, Boring, then return
to a private world of video game avatars.
My switch of gears is abrupt, threatens
to tear out the transmission of life,
spitting out gravel. Somewhere there’s
a new town with the same old “folks”
who populate this town, only wearing
slightly different shades with a variation
of the now-familiar vernacular.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review) 

 Dodo

JOHN RUM

When first domesticated, John was given
A power tie and a mug with antlers
He was informed about corporate life

Now he paces in the offices
Snorting and bucking, attempting to climb

The heights are sheer
This is what his hooves are made for

They talk about him at the water cooler.
 

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

 The Roc

AUTOMOBILES

Kid stuff, the revving engine
in the driveway. I love to take
out the car. The car never
gets taken out.

I was the kind of kid
who made mad car noises,
rocking in his seat.
No I wasn’t.

It’s always raining or about
to rain. It’s always damp
or cloudy. Or I’m just not up
to it. I’m not sure how the
gearshift works anymore.

The car has won awards, but
I never have. Maybe it’s envy.
The car’s red, not green, so
the envy must be in me.

Maybe one day I will grow up.
Or maybe I will finally
take the car out again.


(first pub. at Revolution John)

 Phoenix

SACRED

Some people put marks
around a spot of earth
and others hang glass on the wall,
or revel at ceramic figures
or write to famous persons

We collect small items
in boxes, wrap them in newspaper,
and store them away
then get out the old objects

Put them back up to change
seasons, and the cycle continues,
our application of sacred
given to tiny kiln-blown fragments
that cannot even say our names.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review) 

RUINS

When they have unearthed us, will they
look back at our architects and mutter,
How they rivaled the pyramids, or will
they first get hold of our wasted celebrity
adoration, our overpopulation, or propensity
for barbaric neighborhood yawp, will they
first peruse the words of Faulkner or Melville,
or lay their hands on the garish pop novels
we carry with us, with oversized umbrellas,
considering our culture with furrowed brows,
will their verdict be, Let us imitate them, or
No wonder they have all gone missing.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

SIMPLE VARIATIONS

I was a nose
and two eyes and a mouth
I was a gender
and a race and a class

I was a language
and a code and a system
a culture and a mass
and a movement

Once, but only once,
I thought I was a cult, then
thought I was magic, had
something like destiny,
a bubblegum world at best

Now I am just a voice
trailing off, not liking the
sound of itself recorded.


(first pub. at Revolution John)

LATEX

The slap of rubber, even in its clownish
lavender shade, conveys the deepest sense
of other, the hand arranging the needles,
shaking up the small bottles and I bidding
my love to go be prodded with those same
sharp implements, the smile on a nurse’s
face as thin and medicinal as those gloves,
a voice like the tapping out of air bubbles.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

 Firebird

 

MURK

You cannot see the bottom,
neither can I. Should we dive
is the question. I’ve got all
kinds of questions.

I never know the answers or
feel like I have an answer
until I hear someone else speak
more questions. Should we
dive is still the question.

There’s a leaf floating, a sense
of a bottom, or maybe there isn’t.
Maybe this tiny pool takes us
through the center of a quicksand
universe. There’s no pushing
through to the other side.
It’s not possible.

I have no choice but to dive.


(first pub. at Revolution John)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ORANGE EPIDEMIC
—JD DeHart

I dreamed about a world where, suddenly
at the edges of their being, some people
started turning orange, burning shades
of autumn, and so the landlords and officers,
wearing their capitalistic top hats, threw
these shades of persons into chains, stuffing
them into Orwellian overalls, and put them
to diligent work building a new country,
throwing up the guard of a new regime.
I have to stop reading dystopian fiction
before turning the lamp out.


(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for his lively poems, evoking the fictitious birds in these photos I found…

 —Anonymous

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.