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"Zoos"

Come walk
The streets of life
With me.
We'll see the sights
That most men
Go to zoos
To see.

Brooding

Seated by the bank of the brook,
I brood,
Playing out a dismal thought
That has imposed itself on my mood:
Death is a dog, and
We are rabbits in a field,
Pursued.

Emphasis by firelight

The moon was full tonight, but set hours ago.
As it got dark,
I built a fire upon a large gray rock.
At first the flames lept high,
But they fell as the wood burned up.
Now all I see are a handful of coals glowing red in the night.
The fire will likely have burned out by dawn.
It occurs to me that the rock will be warm
Long after the embers die.
Perhaps it is this that I should remember.

John L. Moore

Not to Keep

THEY sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying… And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive—
How else? They are not known to send the dead—
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, and ask,
“What was it, dear?” And she had given all
And still she had all—they had—they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, “What was it, dear?”
“Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again.” The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

Robert Frost
MOVING DAY

Forty years of life in crates-
Handle with care
These are memories, tangible and crumbling,
They must be preserved.
She is old; there is no time
To save up so much again.
If she travels,
It will be in the box
Marked “travel books”-
Her voyages are there, maps marked out,
Boats set for sail.
If she dreams
It will be in the box marked “letters”-
Her lovers are there
Tied carefully in faded pink ribbons
Repeating words she has forgotten.
If she plans,
It will be in the box marked “practical information”-
How often to water her African violets,
How to get gravy spots out of silk,
How to bake a richer pound cake—
For she has no time to find her way again—
She has done it once
And she is tired.

ARIADNE’S THREAD

Labyrinthine,
These corridors of love!
I seek my way
Blindly groping ever deeper
Into the mazes of my own making,
Spiraling dizzily into snail-shell comfort,
Twisted embryonically in soundless space.
Pulse-beats of pre-natal rhythms
Pitilessly pounding me
Into submission to my Minotaur.
Ready for his yearly sacrifice
Of seven foolish virgins
Entering darkened hallways
without oil in their lamps.
Love, like Birth is risiko!
I stretch my limbs
Kicking the womb-walls of my labyrinth
To make my presence felt.
My Ariadne-fingers
Grasping the umbilical ball of string.
My Theseus
Standing proudly in the sun
I wend my way to you.

CHRYSALIS

My daughter’s toes are butterflies—
She folds them small each morning,
Squeezing them
Into dusty cocoons of sneakers
Grounding them,
Forcing them
To pound the pavement dully
Through last year’s leaves,
At night
Quickly concealing them in covers
Her secret butterflies
Pressed between the pages of her dreams
On Thursdays at four o’clock
She sheds heavy cocoons
Placing them neatly side by side
Under the folding chairs.
Damp wings
Hesitatingly test the air; flutter;
In pink tights, plie first position,
Grasping her ballet bar,
Colors kaleidoscoping around her;
My daughter’s toes are butterflies.

PANTOUM

Polka-twirling my life round
Repeating patterns of three-four
My flying feet barely touch the ground,
You whirl me off for more.

Repeating patterns of three-four,
My face distorted in the glass.
You whirl me off for more,
I cannot see me as I pass.

My face distorted in the glass,
In your eyes my vertigo—
I cannot see me, as I pass-
And I must follow where you go.

In your eyes, my vertigo-
Hold me tripping, steer my feet,
You know I’ll follow where you go—
I who cannot find the beat.

Hold me tripping, steer my feet-
My flying feet barely touch the ground,
I, who cannot find the beat,
Polka-twirling my life round.

Kathleen A. Szautner

THE LEGACY

Knit four, pearl eight
Needles click the time away.
Pearl eight, knit four
Youth and beauty here no more.

Veins stand out on palsied hands,
Turn, twist, knit and pearl.
Hour glasses' running sands
Watch the knitted wool unfurl.

Death is but a step away,
Knit four, pearl eight
In these stitches life will stay
As I knit my life away.

Life's now painful, crude, and loud
Patiently I knit my shroud.

Annette O'Donnell

"Zoos" Come walk The streets of life With me. We'll see the sights That most men Go to zoos To see. Brooding Seated by the bank of the brook, I brood, Playing out a dismal thought That has imposed itself on my mood: Death is a dog, and We are rabbits in a field, Pursued. Emphasis by firelight The moon was full tonight, but set hours ago. As it got dark, I built a fire upon a large gray rock. At first the flames lept high, But they fell as the wood burned up. Now all I see are a handful of coals glowing red in the night. The fire will likely have burned out by dawn. It occurs to me that the rock will be warm Long after the embers die. Perhaps it is this that I should remember. John L. Moore Not to Keep THEY sent him back to her. The letter came Saying… And she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight, Living. They gave him back to her alive— How else? They are not known to send the dead— And not disfigured visibly. His face? His hands? She had to look, and ask, “What was it, dear?” And she had given all And still she had all—they had—they the lucky! Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissible ease. She had to ask, “What was it, dear?” “Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest, and you a week, Can cure me of to go again.” The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep. Robert Frost MOVING DAY Forty years of life in crates- Handle with care These are memories, tangible and crumbling, They must be preserved. She is old; there is no time To save up so much again. If she travels, It will be in the box Marked “travel books”- Her voyages are there, maps marked out, Boats set for sail. If she dreams It will be in the box marked “letters”- Her lovers are there Tied carefully in faded pink ribbons Repeating words she has forgotten. If she plans, It will be in the box marked “practical information”- How often to water her African violets, How to get gravy spots out of silk, How to bake a richer pound cake— For she has no time to find her way again— She has done it once And she is tired. ARIADNE’S THREAD Labyrinthine, These corridors of love! I seek my way Blindly groping ever deeper Into the mazes of my own making, Spiraling dizzily into snail-shell comfort, Twisted embryonically in soundless space. Pulse-beats of pre-natal rhythms Pitilessly pounding me Into submission to my Minotaur. Ready for his yearly sacrifice Of seven foolish virgins Entering darkened hallways without oil in their lamps. Love, like Birth is risiko! I stretch my limbs Kicking the womb-walls of my labyrinth To make my presence felt. My Ariadne-fingers Grasping the umbilical ball of string. My Theseus Standing proudly in the sun I wend my way to you. CHRYSALIS My daughter’s toes are butterflies— She folds them small each morning, Squeezing them Into dusty cocoons of sneakers Grounding them, Forcing them To pound the pavement dully Through last year’s leaves, At night Quickly concealing them in covers Her secret butterflies Pressed between the pages of her dreams On Thursdays at four o’clock She sheds heavy cocoons Placing them neatly side by side Under the folding chairs. Damp wings Hesitatingly test the air; flutter; In pink tights, plie first position, Grasping her ballet bar, Colors kaleidoscoping around her; My daughter’s toes are butterflies. PANTOUM Polka-twirling my life round Repeating patterns of three-four My flying feet barely touch the ground, You whirl me off for more. Repeating patterns of three-four, My face distorted in the glass. You whirl me off for more, I cannot see me as I pass. My face distorted in the glass, In your eyes my vertigo— I cannot see me, as I pass- And I must follow where you go. In your eyes, my vertigo- Hold me tripping, steer my feet, You know I’ll follow where you go— I who cannot find the beat. Hold me tripping, steer my feet- My flying feet barely touch the ground, I, who cannot find the beat, Polka-twirling my life round. Kathleen A. Szautner THE LEGACY Knit four, pearl eight Needles click the time away. Pearl eight, knit four Youth and beauty here no more. Veins stand out on palsied hands, Turn, twist, knit and pearl. Hour glasses' running sands Watch the knitted wool unfurl. Death is but a step away, Knit four, pearl eight In these stitches life will stay As I knit my life away. Life's now painful, crude, and loud Patiently I knit my shroud. Annette O'Donnell