Marie is beautiful,
with her high spirits,
red beak and green feathers.
All day she amuses me, descending
from her bird house
and compulsively climbing up again.
She is fussy and picks through the cage's
floor for seeds, tossing
the bad ones aside
and keeping the good ones.
Her fortune is amassing.
Doctors and nurses
crowd around my bed
while Marie is content carrying
groceries up her penthouse's ladder.
I worry about my Old Marie.
I pray that next spring
I'll be here to feed her.
Bob Bradshaw, California, USA
Showing posts with label Bob Bradshaw. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bob Bradshaw. Show all posts
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Monday, 29 October 2007
Fire Ranger by Bob Bradshaw
From here it feels like I'm living
in a bonsai garden. Mountains
in the distance are smooth stones.
Scattered clouds
glow at sunset like Japanese maples.
Deer move through the grounds.
Headlights on the roads below
are as fuzzy as paper lanterns.
From this nest in the Sierras
I see a green cloudscape
of forest. Are you lonely?
everyone asks.
It isn't lonely in a tree house,
I answer. It's peaceful. Smoke
threads up through the trees
like smoke from a pipe.
My job's important. It's not
an escape, as you suspect. Why
don't you visit me more, you ask?
I'm not living on the upper floor
of a fire station, with a fire pole
to slide down from.
Don't worry. We'll keep in touch,
I promise. But friends up here
are like birds on a roof.
One by one they disappear
as the snow flies
in.
Bob Bradshaw, California, USA
in a bonsai garden. Mountains
in the distance are smooth stones.
Scattered clouds
glow at sunset like Japanese maples.
Deer move through the grounds.
Headlights on the roads below
are as fuzzy as paper lanterns.
From this nest in the Sierras
I see a green cloudscape
of forest. Are you lonely?
everyone asks.
It isn't lonely in a tree house,
I answer. It's peaceful. Smoke
threads up through the trees
like smoke from a pipe.
My job's important. It's not
an escape, as you suspect. Why
don't you visit me more, you ask?
I'm not living on the upper floor
of a fire station, with a fire pole
to slide down from.
Don't worry. We'll keep in touch,
I promise. But friends up here
are like birds on a roof.
One by one they disappear
as the snow flies
in.
Bob Bradshaw, California, USA
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
Running Baby Sea Turtles into the Surf - Bob Bradshaw
I'm down on my knees watching.
She is like a child digging
on a beach, flipping sand
into my face. Weeks later,
under a sky warped
by the shrieks of sea birds,
her baby turtles scramble
toward the surf.
Off shore
the sharks have gathered,
to gorge on them
as if they were floating dishes.
But before that happens
the sea birds are relentless,
plucking the baby turtles up.
I drop a turtle as I run it towards the water
and before I can snatch
it up, a frigate flies off
with it.
I'm like an armored truck's guard
trying to pick up
the scattered cash,
the truck turned over,
and the neighbors
swooping
in.
Bob Bradshaw
She is like a child digging
on a beach, flipping sand
into my face. Weeks later,
under a sky warped
by the shrieks of sea birds,
her baby turtles scramble
toward the surf.
Off shore
the sharks have gathered,
to gorge on them
as if they were floating dishes.
But before that happens
the sea birds are relentless,
plucking the baby turtles up.
I drop a turtle as I run it towards the water
and before I can snatch
it up, a frigate flies off
with it.
I'm like an armored truck's guard
trying to pick up
the scattered cash,
the truck turned over,
and the neighbors
swooping
in.
Bob Bradshaw
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)