Well, not in the stove— that’s where I thought he was, but when I parted the doors, willing to brave shit and feathers, hoping to save a tiny life, when I parted the doors, I found nothing but ash. I left the stove open, but the scribbler kept beating the same desperate lines. The bard is in the stovepipe, flapping out poems about the things we are willing to do— and about the things we aren’t— about the comfort of familiar darkness and the terror of brand new light. For years, I chose a dull ache over fresh, sharp freedom. For years, I held to fear as if it would keep me safe. For years, I tried to fly in every direction but one— away. Away, sweet bard! Spurn the darkness through which you have fallen! Fly for the bright unknown! I cannot force you from your dark tunnel, but the windows are all open here and the front door, too.
I would definitely choose bird over bat in stovepipe if given the choice. Love the cartoonish feel of this poem, the bat scrawling you a number on a post-it is good stuff :))
Bats eek! I know they are useful (and cute if you look at em!) but not in the house! I too love the image of the one just bringing you the note and going on it's way!
Oh my goodness, what a horrid thing to find in a crockpot, but I’m glad you did because this poem is a delight! There are so many tasty word morsels (WAY too tasty to have ever seen the inside of a crockpot) . . . “mid-century holes /gnawed by the century rats,” “fecal offerings,” and omg I simply love that the dead rat REPOSED! Of course he did.
My older kids later had rats for pets (from the pet store, not sourced from the Crock-Pot) and they were totally sweet, smart, and fun. It definitely changed how I see them. But I still don’t want them in my house…
Guinea pigs, on the other hand—they’re basically R.O.U.S.s 😳.
My adult daughter had 2 rats a few years ago; when one passed away, she rehomed the other to a friend with a few so she wouldn't be alone. They had quite the cage and setup!
One of my daughters made her rat a cape early on, and I really wanted to find that picture, because we used to sing “Super Rat, Super Rat” as she did cool things around the cage. Sadly, both our rats started getting tumors around the same time (apparently this is really normal for rats, but so hard to watch).
Oh dear. I would be the one throwing the crockpot out due to my extremely unrealistic fear of hantavirus!!! But what a memory - and a tribute to the midcentury holes and the midcentury rats!
Thank you, Karri! I’m feeling a little less self-conscious now that you said that, because I did throw it out 😳. I know it’s such a waste; I know we could have sanitized it. But all I would have thought about was that rat, flavoring our flavorless casseroles…
So many powerful metaphors in a single poem here, Lisa! I love the parallels you draw between this poor trapped creature and your own experience of being stuck in the dark. Who among us doesn't have a creature self that has been trapped in a dark place??? Also love the metaphor of the dark, desperate places pulling poems out of us. I hope dear Shakespeare has flown free, whether literally or in spirit. Here's what came of this prompt for me tonight:
internalized colonialism is the color I bleed.” Oh wow, this is so powerful! It turns out I bleed that color, too. After finally freeing Shakespeare from the stovepipe, I discovered mouse droppings in a cupboard (apparently they eat Ricola cough drops), and it was interesting to notice how I felt none of the tenderness or concern that I’d felt for my feathered friend! I would say my mouse-related feelings can be more fairly described as homicidal malice.
Gahh! Homicidal malice says it well, yes. Good to know about Ricola. I was surprised to find them going to town on my tea lights. Apparently wax is a tasty treat for them as well. But Ricola???? Must be the honey.
So far, the critters have not honored my boundaries well...something gets lost in translation! You must have some mad critter-boundary-setting skills <fist bumps to you>
Ahhhh yes, I am afraid I agree. I am a lover of creatures great and small but mice are the dickens to get rid of. My husband gets the occasional field mice in his garage and he has a no kill trap he will capture them in and then drives them away a few miles to release them!! But at my parents cabin up north, they have to be dealt with more, um, directly.
Believe you me, I have dealt with mice very directly many times. In my last apartment, I basically moonlighted as mouse undertaker in chief. I made myself do it, but I am no killer, and I found myself having quite a lot of nightmares about mice, so I don't know that I can go down that road again. For a softie like myself, moral injury can come from seemingly not very much at all. :((
Lisa, I just love this poem. I love that the bird is a bard, and how you layered your own experience within its situation. Please let us know if they got out safely!
I'm calling this one "why I don't invite people over" (I promise I'm not actually antisocial):
This was so delightful to read and also so relatable, A! It kinda makes me want to visit.
So my bird bard did find his way from the pipe into the stove, but by then, he was so weak (from hunger? Or breathing ash? Or the tumble down the chimney? Or beating his body repeatedly against metal?) that he didn’t make it. I carried him outside and laid him in the grass with a handful of berries, but he died there. 🥲 I’m glad he got to be outside for his last breaths at least.
Ah the thresholds/transition pieces of our cheap flooring are up at nearly every entryway, so I am constantly tripping over them. And we have to keep these short gates up for our dogs that you have to step over - just a hazardous place to be!
I love this so much, A! I was laughing out loud — and relating — the whole way through. Big parallels for me both with the “quirks” themselves (including the socially awkward dog) but also with the perpetual disclaimers to company. I love the reset at the end, at peace in your space.
I enjoyed this vicarious "tour" through your house, A. I can identify with the complexities of living in homes that are perpetually in-progress and the level of explaining and work-arounds involved in hosting folks in such spaces. For me, it is exhausting. I felt a sigh of relief for you and River in the last stanza.
This is lovely, Tamsin! I'm thrilled that you're sharing here! I love how you begin and end with the image of you, leaning against the handle. I can hear the rattling and clanging and feel the incessant hunger and need of that old Rayburn and understand why the "lack of nighttime drama is highly praised," now that you've had an upgrade. Such wonderful wording!
I'm so glad we can occupy another space here together. I love reading your poems. I agree with Lisa, I love how this comes full circle to you leaning on the handle.
The first time through I read this metaphorically. About being caught in the dark, in its comfort, the dull ache that is so familiar. Then of course I discovered there's actually a bird in the stove pipe. This is what the best poetry does; it works on many levels at once.
I’m smitten by the phrase “in these wild days of Earth push back” and love the vivid imagery of waterfalls from your gutter and you, dry inside, praying for those without shelter. Beautiful, Larry! I’m so glad you’re back.
What a dramatic homecoming! I love the juxtaposition of Montana river and gutter river, and your palpable gratitude for shelter “in these wild days of Earth push back.”
Thank you A. It felt very disconnected and a bit clumsy, but a lot of my writing feels that way, consequences of an undisciplined inclination and mind!
Lisa, I have missed reading your poems and prompts, and the amazing gifted wisdom so evident in this blessed community of poet bards! Reading this tonight and look forward to reading the comments and contributions of others and getting out my poetry legs again! As for your resident bird bard, a chimney sweep may have some good and safe suggestions!
We had a nice trip to Minnsesota and Montana, and just knowing you all were here, there and everywhere feeding poetry to the world brought, and brings, me great joy!
We heard 'em.
Squeek.chirp.scratch.
Bats.
Dozens of them.
Down the chimney &
Jammed into the flue.
Nuts to butts if bats have nuts,
Following the leader like lemmings,
or those demon possessed swine in the bible,
they piled in.
Ugh.
Bats.
Sqeek chirp scratch scratch chirp.
I remember one somehow breaking thru and indignantly waddlehopping into the living room,
wings outstretched,
with a wide eyed
"what the heck, man, little help, please?" look on his face,
he hands me a phone number scrawled on a post-it, and waddles off
Got charile of "Charlie Carter Cleans Chimneys" on the very first ring.
“Nuts to butts if bats have nuts.” 😂
I'm sure you probably didn't think it was funny when it happened, but this poem about the bats delighted me.
That little hop/strut entrance was a classic.
I would definitely choose bird over bat in stovepipe if given the choice. Love the cartoonish feel of this poem, the bat scrawling you a number on a post-it is good stuff :))
Chuck, I laughed all the way through this. I mean, gross—but hilarious.
Bats eek! I know they are useful (and cute if you look at em!) but not in the house! I too love the image of the one just bringing you the note and going on it's way!
Aw love me a.little flying rodent
The rat in the Crockpot
.
Our old house is our darling, the beloved bygone
so even a little criticism is met with yells of
"It had a better yard! I miss the old house!"
.
But it can’t be denied that we had a problem
with rats creeping though mid-century holes
gnawed by the mid-century rats, no doubt
.
who loved the little house like we did
wanting to eat it up like the monsters
in “Where the Wild Things Are” (but I digress).
.
The holes were there and the rats used them
coming in when it was rainy or even when it was sunny
leaving their fluffs of fur and fecal offerings.
.
One day, firmly in my Crockpot stage of life
when I was sure that if I could do it just right
it wouldn’t be a beige pile of goo at the end
.
I went to take the appliance out of our crawl space.
Inside the pot, a dead rat reposed, asking
if his final form could be the centerpiece
.
for a hash that I would force myself to eat
because food was expensive and we couldn’t waste.
Oh my goodness, what a horrid thing to find in a crockpot, but I’m glad you did because this poem is a delight! There are so many tasty word morsels (WAY too tasty to have ever seen the inside of a crockpot) . . . “mid-century holes /gnawed by the century rats,” “fecal offerings,” and omg I simply love that the dead rat REPOSED! Of course he did.
😁 Rats enjoy being the main character (as the young folks say ;) in every possible scenario.
My wife would've freaked, chunking the crock w/rat out the back door.
I definitely freaked out at the time 😳. My now adult children definitely remember the screams…
I definitely freaked out 😳. I wasn't totally sure, when I first glimpsed it, if it was dead.
Oh, I agree with Lisa. There is something so charming about the way you wrote this absolutely un-charming event.
Thank you! 😊
......Fecal offerings.....
and the gnaw marks in the peanut butter lid. Arrgh.
🤢
I have some fairly vivid dreams about ratsxguinea pigs - they are not fun
My older kids later had rats for pets (from the pet store, not sourced from the Crock-Pot) and they were totally sweet, smart, and fun. It definitely changed how I see them. But I still don’t want them in my house…
Guinea pigs, on the other hand—they’re basically R.O.U.S.s 😳.
My adult daughter had 2 rats a few years ago; when one passed away, she rehomed the other to a friend with a few so she wouldn't be alone. They had quite the cage and setup!
One of my daughters made her rat a cape early on, and I really wanted to find that picture, because we used to sing “Super Rat, Super Rat” as she did cool things around the cage. Sadly, both our rats started getting tumors around the same time (apparently this is really normal for rats, but so hard to watch).
Awwww. Yes those small critters have such short little lives.
Agreed
Oh dear. I would be the one throwing the crockpot out due to my extremely unrealistic fear of hantavirus!!! But what a memory - and a tribute to the midcentury holes and the midcentury rats!
Thank you, Karri! I’m feeling a little less self-conscious now that you said that, because I did throw it out 😳. I know it’s such a waste; I know we could have sanitized it. But all I would have thought about was that rat, flavoring our flavorless casseroles…
This is so quirky and delightful — I love this poem, rat-topped hash and all!
Thank you, Rebekah! 😁
Margaret, this really right-sized my mouse infestation. Yikes! The legacy line of mid-century holes gnawed by mid-century rats is priceless.
Thank you, Keith! It’s not my only house rat experience, but it is by far the most disgusting 😁.
So many powerful metaphors in a single poem here, Lisa! I love the parallels you draw between this poor trapped creature and your own experience of being stuck in the dark. Who among us doesn't have a creature self that has been trapped in a dark place??? Also love the metaphor of the dark, desperate places pulling poems out of us. I hope dear Shakespeare has flown free, whether literally or in spirit. Here's what came of this prompt for me tonight:
*
I planned to live alone
in this 19th century house,
but a trail of tiny turds
gave tell of a mouse (or many).
I wanted to be nonchalant
about their having mistaken
the kitchen for the bathroom and
the drainboard for a commode.
I wanted to be cool like that -
no big deal. Easy come, easy go.
After all, they were here before I was.
But this was not the sort of
housewarming gift nor
companionship I had hoped for,
nor am I the sort of rugged outdoorsman
I fancy myself to be. And
yeah, I talk a good game of
equanimity and animism.
But when push comes to shove,
and I find myself squeezed,
internalized colonialism is the color I bleed.
I arrived on the shores of this new land
in my tight ship, ready to take control,
ready to read the riot act to the unruly natives,
raring to establish my empire.
Instead, I have been hobbled, humbled
by the small but mighty. They show me
how truly blessed are the meek,
for there is no mistake, the result is plain.
They have inherited, but I am dispirited,
even as I am begrudgingly hopeful
to be decolonized by degrees.
“But when push comes to shove,
and I find myself squeezed,
internalized colonialism is the color I bleed.” Oh wow, this is so powerful! It turns out I bleed that color, too. After finally freeing Shakespeare from the stovepipe, I discovered mouse droppings in a cupboard (apparently they eat Ricola cough drops), and it was interesting to notice how I felt none of the tenderness or concern that I’d felt for my feathered friend! I would say my mouse-related feelings can be more fairly described as homicidal malice.
Gahh! Homicidal malice says it well, yes. Good to know about Ricola. I was surprised to find them going to town on my tea lights. Apparently wax is a tasty treat for them as well. But Ricola???? Must be the honey.
Judging from an issue I had at my former office, they also enjoy ketchup packets.
They are truly omnivorous. They like many things. Many!
The turn at the end is everything.
Thanks, A. Yes - this one really sort of meandered in its tone, but as we know, the poems go where they want to go!
I give fair warning to mice,crickets,snakes,lizards, bats, and all other critters:
you have the whole wide world outside to poop slither scritch and scratch, but death to all who enter my house.
So far, the critters have not honored my boundaries well...something gets lost in translation! You must have some mad critter-boundary-setting skills <fist bumps to you>
Ahhhh yes, I am afraid I agree. I am a lover of creatures great and small but mice are the dickens to get rid of. My husband gets the occasional field mice in his garage and he has a no kill trap he will capture them in and then drives them away a few miles to release them!! But at my parents cabin up north, they have to be dealt with more, um, directly.
Believe you me, I have dealt with mice very directly many times. In my last apartment, I basically moonlighted as mouse undertaker in chief. I made myself do it, but I am no killer, and I found myself having quite a lot of nightmares about mice, so I don't know that I can go down that road again. For a softie like myself, moral injury can come from seemingly not very much at all. :((
Lisa, I just love this poem. I love that the bird is a bard, and how you layered your own experience within its situation. Please let us know if they got out safely!
I'm calling this one "why I don't invite people over" (I promise I'm not actually antisocial):
.
Come on in!
Sorry about the mess, and also
that lingering whiff of cat pee from the vent -
she was very old, and sick, you see,
and we just haven't managed to get
quite all of it yet.
.
I would love to tell you to sit down,
but the seats in here are currently occupied
by a mountain of school papers and toys.
Not to worry!
You can sit on the couch in the den,
we'll just wander through the kitchen
(the one we use, not the one
still in-progress) which is actually meant
to be a bedroom by now.
.
Just let me get the dog outside first -
she really struggles with meeting new people
(we have that in common, but of course
I don't bark at them).
.
Oh, you need a bathroom?
You're in luck!
This one through here is the working one,
although it currently stinks.
We believe there may be some mold
and rotting beneath the unsealed tub.
Careful not to trip over the strip
at the threshold. It's loose again
(and also over there,
where the vinyl meets the tile) -
there's also a broken piece
of tile, near the back door,
which is a pain to close sometimes.
.
And now that we've arrived in the den,
probably don't sit over there,
because the sun shines in so fucking brightly
at this time of day - oh, you can't stay?
That's a shame.
Well, perhaps another time.
.
*sigh*
.
You can come back in now, River.
You scared them away.
Maybe one of these days
you'll get better at company.
Want to come lay next to me
in my spot while I read?
The light's nice over here, and I'm tired.
This was so delightful to read and also so relatable, A! It kinda makes me want to visit.
So my bird bard did find his way from the pipe into the stove, but by then, he was so weak (from hunger? Or breathing ash? Or the tumble down the chimney? Or beating his body repeatedly against metal?) that he didn’t make it. I carried him outside and laid him in the grass with a handful of berries, but he died there. 🥲 I’m glad he got to be outside for his last breaths at least.
Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. But I am glad that he had you to help him out into the light at the end.
Ah, I'm so sorry the bird bard didn't make it! You tried!!
Ah the thresholds/transition pieces of our cheap flooring are up at nearly every entryway, so I am constantly tripping over them. And we have to keep these short gates up for our dogs that you have to step over - just a hazardous place to be!
Haha, we have a gate for the kids and dog that my husband and I have to step over constantly. Definitely hazardous.
I love this so much, A! I was laughing out loud — and relating — the whole way through. Big parallels for me both with the “quirks” themselves (including the socially awkward dog) but also with the perpetual disclaimers to company. I love the reset at the end, at peace in your space.
I enjoyed this vicarious "tour" through your house, A. I can identify with the complexities of living in homes that are perpetually in-progress and the level of explaining and work-arounds involved in hosting folks in such spaces. For me, it is exhausting. I felt a sigh of relief for you and River in the last stanza.
1st draft, 1st time contributing
Rayburn
A long, silver bar runs along the front of the warm black metal,
and I lean on it daily, my hands curling round the pole,
along with the towels and oven gloves dangling in front of the doors.
Coal dust settles on the red pamment tiles along the rusty edge.
mingling with the ash left over from riddling the grate.
It needs feeding regularly, the pressed oval shapes
falling, rattling, onto the glowing embers inside.
It is a temperamental machine, impossible to control,
pipes clang in the darkest hours as water boils within,
waking the household, steam threatening to spill.
The hot water tanks needs emptying, the fire dampening,
the animals calming, my siblings settling, and all with
the tympanic accompaniment of the now cooling pipes.
This beast is my master, a slave to its wiles, its
demands for more or less fuel never consistent.
Years later it is replaced with a new red Stanley, whose
regularity and lack of nighttime drama is highly praised.
I still rest on the long handle and soak up the warmth.
This is lovely, Tamsin! I'm thrilled that you're sharing here! I love how you begin and end with the image of you, leaning against the handle. I can hear the rattling and clanging and feel the incessant hunger and need of that old Rayburn and understand why the "lack of nighttime drama is highly praised," now that you've had an upgrade. Such wonderful wording!
Thank you muchly
I do like a good bookend
I'm so glad we can occupy another space here together. I love reading your poems. I agree with Lisa, I love how this comes full circle to you leaning on the handle.
thank you A. I'm slowly expanding myself into other places and love seeing familiar names.
I'm the same! It's comforting, having a bit of familiarity. It makes me a little more brave.
be brave, do it.
The first time through I read this metaphorically. About being caught in the dark, in its comfort, the dull ache that is so familiar. Then of course I discovered there's actually a bird in the stove pipe. This is what the best poetry does; it works on many levels at once.
I’m so glad you experienced it layers like that, LeeAnn! Thank you for sharing this.
Late to the dance, but ready to swing!
Waterfalls
Beautiful day along Flathead River,
around, across, among, alone
save the creatures seen and unseen.
Flashing power of roaring river,
on its proud descent to the valley,
the lake that bear its name
and on to the great ocean of the west.
Coming home, greeted by another waterfall,
torrents of water pouring over
beleaguered metal rain gutter,
overrunning flashing and diverters
like a river breaching its banks,
one element of fierce thunderstorm,
tornado driven winds
and grey-green sky.
Another trumpet blast from nature
that something is terribly askew.
We rush to our usually dry basement,
grateful that our feet find dry ground
this time.
We add severe rainstorm measures
to our mounting list of things to do
to our cozy small house that rewards
tender, loving care with another year
of shelter.
Storm waning, power out,
we bring out the candles
and note we need to add to our supply
for the inevitable next time.
We say a quiet prayer for all of those
who do not have shelter,
or have lost homes to
war, greed, age and indifference.
We fall asleep in the dark,
grateful that in these wild days
of Earth push back,
we have a home.
And dream of the river…
I’m smitten by the phrase “in these wild days of Earth push back” and love the vivid imagery of waterfalls from your gutter and you, dry inside, praying for those without shelter. Beautiful, Larry! I’m so glad you’re back.
Thank you Lisa! It is your inspiring, thoughtful and insightful prompts which brings out the best in us!
What a dramatic homecoming! I love the juxtaposition of Montana river and gutter river, and your palpable gratitude for shelter “in these wild days of Earth push back.”
Thank you Rebekah!! The earth is not just pushing back, it is kicking and screaming in hope we may hear.
This is beautiful, Larry.
Thank you A. It felt very disconnected and a bit clumsy, but a lot of my writing feels that way, consequences of an undisciplined inclination and mind!
I didn't feel that way, I thought it flowed well (pun somewhat intended) and I liked how you came back around to the river.
First of all, welcome back!
And so true...the Earth push back. And the indifference and denial of those who do not realize that is what this is.
Damn! What a poem.
It’s always my hope to make someone swear! 😉
Mine too :). It's my favorite compliment.
Lisa, I have missed reading your poems and prompts, and the amazing gifted wisdom so evident in this blessed community of poet bards! Reading this tonight and look forward to reading the comments and contributions of others and getting out my poetry legs again! As for your resident bird bard, a chimney sweep may have some good and safe suggestions!
We had a nice trip to Minnsesota and Montana, and just knowing you all were here, there and everywhere feeding poetry to the world brought, and brings, me great joy!
Welcome home, Larry! I'm so happy that you're back! 🧡
Thank you Lisa! I have missed you!
I'm so glad you're home safe and back with us here, Larry! 🧡
I've missed you, A.!
I've missed you too! It's not the same without you!
I have had a long day, and this is so sweet of you to say!
".....Fly for the bright unknown..."
(anywhere but my stove pipe will be fine).
Well, ideally not into the crockpot either.
🙃
I’ll join the chorus. You nailed it with this one.
I give all credit to the bird bard!
Half a jar of bread yeast
is what it looked like,
or a fistful of coarse sand,
spread across a sagging web
at the base of my new glass door,
a foot from its open-air flank,
where it was not yet foamed in.
.
We crouched down to inspect.
Some kind of egg, I reckoned.
Spider egg, he guessed.
Those come in sacs, I demurred.
Who else would lay their eggs
in a spider web, he countered.
Our mediator dogs arrived.
One snout at point-blank
was all it took to
start the ballet.
.
Our eggs had legs!
They fanned and swirled,
magnetically repelling each other
by about two millimeters,
so that every twist was synced,
a murmuration of tiny souls
numbering more than the people
I’ll ever know by name.
.
Once they settled, I fretted.
This many spiders so close
to my interior space?
They were nothing now, specks,
but what would they become?
We read up on hobos, recluses.
I eyed the gap at door left
that signified the threat,
and my regret,
and went for the broom.
.
My house is nothing if not
undone.
Shower is more caulk than not,
plywood waits for siding,
permafrost grips my
bedroom windows each year.
But these things do not
traumatize anyone but me,
and then only a little.
.
I tried to rehome them
in the dark slots
between deck boards,
in the patchy weeds that delineate
not-driveway.
.
Maybe they made it.
As for me,
I will keep making it, too,
this home in the sticks,
where I may yet
coexist.
I love your poem but am not sure I can come visit anymore if they turn out to be hobos or recluses. 😳
"My house is nothing if not undone" is so relatable. I just love the last stanza.
Nope nope nope nope nopety nope. No offense to your spider friends but nope!
This was going to be a deeper dive than what it turned out to be! Part noticing of flaws, part gratitude.
...
For 17 years and 8 months
We have lived in this 1300 square feet
The four of us, now down to 3
With a menagerie of furry family who have left their marks
On our hearts as well as our walls and floors.
Back then it was shiny and new, but then again so were we
Never imagining how much joy and heartache goes into living life
And how much life is lived in these four walls.
Closets overflowing, my constant need to purge battles your hoarding nature
And let’s not even think about the attic.
Outside the front porch is home to whatever sacrificial plants fit the season
And 1.5 acres of grass stretches between the rural road and the trees
You and Daddy planted as a privacy screen nearly two decades ago.
(Little good it did for the neighbor who chose to aim his archery practice our way).
Things are never clean enough, organized enough, maintained enough for me.
The furbabies perpetual providers of fur which seems to settle on any given surface
The walls need painting, the moldings need repair and the astronomical water bill
Revealed a leaky hot water heater that must be replaced.
Maybe I will clean out the hall closet tomorrow.
But for now, I thank the good Lord and Willis Carrier for the central air conditioning
Which we keep on 68 to battle the humid hell that is our summertime
As I sit and look around at this house that is our home.