Human Kind

Human Kind

Today we will learn what went on

in the war while we slept

far from the whistle and boom

of Grad rockets on Kiev —

what flying steel will do

to concrete, families in basements

hanging on. I saw it

in my mind and on

CNN: fireballs —

the laws of physics splattered,

a family with suitcases

shocked to death by a blast.

No darkness without the lit places —

the downtown of the mind defended

by partisans. In the movies the invaders

appear from the skies, the myth

of the next great coming —

metal-limbed, reduced to circuits

without senses but sensors

we outwit and explode

back into space,

to planets we can only imagine, seek

to go there and destroy.

No one slept in Kiev last night

where it is night again as we wake

to tune into CNN to view

the damage. Clucking our tongues

at the invaders, rivers of grief, cities

shot to rubble, televised war

in real time, no hero coming

to save the day

but heroes none the less

waiting among broken concrete

and burnt tanks

for the Russians.

(originally appeared in the blog, RichardHowe.com March 2022)

When We Were All Still Alive

Now available from SPDbooks.org !

When We Were All Still Alive

Now available @ SPDbooks.org

Owls and Such

OWLS & SUCH

Because they are out there, they gather the night—

gather the river with their call, unafraid, announcing.

This afternoon parrots sing and squawk

on this white stone street, the sea’s

rhythm at the end of the block.

Shakespeare speaks to me in a sonnet 

about winter, here, in southern Spain,

where there is no winter. He says:

“How like a winter hath my absence been,”

and I listen, my own voice

mouthing his sounds, sleepy, in my head,

parrots cutting in

to wake me back to this world.

1/19

La Herradura

• 

In the Sweet, Cruel World of the Birds

In the Sweet Cruel World of the Birds/Quarantine Poem #

 

If you don’t pay attention you’ll miss it—

a small bird with an upright tail trilling out

a fierce song integral to this moment,

cutting across my lawn to the maple

that shades us for lunch, and perches there,

rattling out his desire loud enough to wake

the neighborhood. Then he’s gone, sung out, towards

Bobbie’s house. A small rabbit who moved into

the mini-jungle behind the patio fountain

peeks out. Today will be the hottest day

in the hottest summer since

last summer. Southern birds begin to

nest here. The ornamental grasses by the porch

grow inches with every thunderstorm,

hiding me from the neighbors.

 

billoetry.wordpress.com

7/27/20

I Can’t Breathe (repeat)

It’s quiet in the cul-de-sac.

Those screaming George Floyd’s name are far away,

walking the shadow of his body towards the police lines,

the memory of a black man (which one?)

killed by police over (choose two)

cigarettes, jogging, sleeping,

a fake $20 bill, for

learning to read, running away,

casting a ballot. Fear

of the blue lights flashing. Fear

of the dogs and whips, Vicious dogs

the president said, Ominous weapons.

 

I hear nothing but silence, the birds,

a skeletal re-creation of life, scattered births

in the trees, in holes in the perfect lawns.

 

Today I will walk untouched.

If a blue light flashes I know, secretly,

they work for me.

No one will touch my house.

No one will throw a homemade Molotov cocktail

through my window.

No one will throw me to the ground

and step on my neck (for 8 minutes)

because I didn’t say please, didn’t say

Sir, Master.

Yet.

Billoetry.wordpress.com

6/1/20

Nesting Time

A downy woodpecker on the suet cage—

Lady cardinal above on the Shepard’s crook

Waiting. Hawk is gone for now, the birds

Resuming their work songs, oriole

With a beak full of twig, robin

Sucking down a worm with

Two gulps, one eye on me.

5/7/20

• 

Midmorning Break

My mother had ten. We darted

In and out from under her wings.

She smoked cigarettes and drank

Tea that had cooled—a sip and a smoke

While we ran in and out, in

And out, the door a turnstile,

Noise from the yard filtering in

To where she sat until midmorning,

Still at the table after we’d

Gone off to school and the baby

(Which baby?) asleep in a bassinet

In the dining room, the two

And four-year olds amusing themselves

With baking pans.

billoetry@wordpress.com

1/19/20

DIRT

Give me dirt
That holds death dear, that knows
Leaves are dirt.
 
I tell my love
Our love is dirt
If we are lucky.
 
Worms emerge, the story
Of under. The snake stays
Close and slithery.
 
When I teach
It’s under my nails
Waving to make
 
A point,
Coming together
Like a man praying.
 
 
Bill O’Connell
billoetry.wordpress.com
2/4/20

THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

• 

The Wisemen have gone. I clean up

The last of the camel dung and dump it

In the fallow garden. Water

The nubs of rose bushes cut back

Last autumn. Sweep out the house.

The child cries, then sleeps

Like any infant: waxy fingers

From the web of his hands

Waving and swiping at his face.

His lovely face. Gifts

Linger where they lay: musk

Of myrrh like death, spice of frankincense,

The soft polish of gold glinting

In low winter sun. Today is Tuesday,

Laundry day. Soiled diapers

In a bucket by the door.

billoetry@wordpress.com

2/7/20