A Special Place

poems and a review

Stream photograph by Ray Zimmerman at the Little River, Fort Payne, Alabama.

Great Horned Owl

In photos and film, their visage seems fierce.
In person, these birds can be much worse. 

I have heard them called the terror of the skies.
They eat any creature that swims, runs, or flies.

When they move in, other owls get quiet.
They know they are on the great horned’s diet. 

Neither eagle nor heron is safe from their grasp.
The owl eats their chicks, as quick as an asp. 

These birds build no nests. They find a hollow tree, 
or take over another’s nest rent-free.

Through cold and snow, owl chicks grow fast. 
They fly in March, and the nesting is past. 

The skunk is among their items of prey.
You will want to avoid them the following day.


Crows

Some will say crows are evil birds.
An author I read discusses those words. 

Some mothers will push their prams far away 
when crows take the park, they seem ready to stay.

Fish crows will follow the harbor ferry, 
hoping for food when the riders make merry. 

Though crows may mob an intruding man, 
they’re defending their young, an exquisite plan.

The crow’s call to me is a hearty laugh, 
expressing their mirth at each human gaffe. 


A Special Place

There is a special place in the inferno 
for those who design online forms.
The single mother whose public terminal 
shut down, just as she finished 
her employment application, 
will dance on your fingers 
as you dangle from a cliff, 
from which you never fall. 

If you designed a phone system 
to intentionally prevent the caller 
from reaching a live operator, 
you will forever push buttons 
that lead nowhere. 

If you have lost 
your travel visa for heaven, 
please push three.

If you would like credit 
for time spent in purgatory, 
please press four.

Your call is very important to us.
Please be patient. 
All demons are busily assisting 
other inferno bound customers. 


Aptitude

There’s an app for the car 
and an app for the house.
There is even an app
for your sister’s pet mouse.

An app for the day.
An app for the night.
An app for the way 
your airplane takes flight.

An app serves your meal
or can find you a date.
The Tarot reading app
predicts your sad fate.

An app for the dog
and an app for the cat.
Don’t forget the app
for your aunt Mildred’s hat.

I threw them all out.
They soon will grow moss.
I guess you could say
I made applesauce.


Interrogate the Dawn

It melts frost from a field of pumpkins,
those fruits of earth hugging vines
with personalities split between
Halloween and Thanksgiving.
Will they become Jack-O-Lanterns;
or pumpkin pies?

I recall my father’s walk
returning from the hunt.
He extracted a pheasant from the game bag,
no need to wring its neck.
I hushed as he cleaned the bird
copper feathers drifting away.

Oh, to cross time’s geography 
for a taste of roast pheasant
and mother’s pumpkin pie.

Here is a reprise of a recent post with more poems.