after 2

Walking home alone after last call
a rising moon feathers petals
across the alley’s pits and peaks.
Lost and found glimpses flash muted night hues,
as clouds span Luna’s vast and shining face.

A powdered ghost shimmers, a sprawled victim,
outlined in chalk by GFPD staff long after
life’s last breath.
I stop to gawk at its empty space,
and try to unlock its stories
slammed into a silhouetted still-life ending,
written in stone.

Emptiness tickles night’s deep void,
running her fingers down
the length of my spine

Brenda Warren 2013.

Note: This is not autobiographical. I’m far too old to be out until last call. 😉

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102

for Shirley

Shirley’s Checkered Past

Elephant calf, culled from herd,
you travel to North America.
Endure the loss of country.
Endure chains and circus crowds.
Survive a shipboard fire, and
the jarring wounds of bullhooks,
keeping you in line,
keeping you dancing beneath
wounds the circus disguises for crowds
with pounds of velvet and rhinestones
that glitter under Big Top lights,
encouraging human hoopla
perpetuating elephant subjugation
and the culling of your herds.

After 30 years, a bull elephant
stampedes into you, Shirley,
breaking a leg that never sets right.
Earning you a home
in the Louisiana Purchase Zoo.

A lone elephant
and one man,
your keeper, your friend.

For 22 years Solomon James lays his hands on you, and
you gently push your weight against them.
For 22 years Solomon brings you
tree branch toys and company.
Shirley girl
For 22 years Solomon aims a hose
at your fire scarred head.
For 22 years Solomon
shackles and unshackles you
to prepare you for public pleasure.

The Journey to Shirley’s Future

After 22 years, the zoo retires Shirley
to The Elelphant Sanctuary in Hohenwald, Tennessee
where other elephants roam free.

Solomon shackles a reluctant Shirley and
lures her onto a truck with carrot and talk.
He does not hurry her.
Ratcheting and cranking chains help pull her close
until Shirley slowly lifts her bent back leg up,
and onto the truck that leads to her forever.

Yesterday never forgotten,
they drive through the cool of night.
Listening to highway sounds and dancing air,
Solomon imagines Shirley’s mind running
through the years, spreading out like sand
or the feel of her leathery gray skin
beneath the palms of his hands.

Shirley Comes Home

After 14 hours on the road,
Shirley steps off her last truck home.
Solomon unshackles Shirley.
She stands behind bars and in walks Tara,
the first elephant Shirley’s seen in twenty some years.
Tentatively touching trunks meet and greet
while Solomon smiles with glistening eyes.

As he bathes Shirley one last time
Solomon’s soft voice soothes,
“They’ll be no more chains. You’re free now.
I don’t know who was the first to put a chain on you Shirley,
but I’m glad to know, that I am the last to take it off.
You’re free at last.”

Tears flow from Shirley’s eyes
as Solomon’s strong brown fingers
spread love stirred deep into lines
that stretch years of stories across her skin.

Shirley and Jenny

At nightfall, a symphony of trumpets, grunts and groans
sing from the barn.

A year before Shirley’s injury,
elephant calf Jenny,
freshly culled and captive,
joined Shirley’s circus.
Jenny met Shirley fresh from the boat.
Remembered bonds bend steel bars that separate
until humans intervene to open elephant to
flesh against flesh.
Over 100,000 trunk muscles quiver to explore
the passage of twenty some years.

Later, when life becomes home,
Shirley and Jenny walk side by side
trunks placed upon each other’s hearts.

Birds fly above the pond where Jenny sprays
her beloved friend, her North American mother,
basking sweetly in the shady shallows
of a sanctuary pond.

Brenda Warren 2013

Process Notes:
The Elephant Sanctuary has long held a deep place in my heart. When a poem would not come easily this week, I decided to write a poem chronicling Shirley’s story. Here is a link to a video of the story: The Urban Elephant: Shirley’s Story. This 12 minute video makes me cry, even after more than two dozen views. If you are a teacher, share it with students. Spread the story. Compassion grows when children see Solomon say good bye, and then Jenny comes along. Double whammy! Not only that, your students will LOVE to see you cry.

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101

March 10, 1998

Snow dusts an upturned circle of earth
like powdered sugar on brownies
as sun blues Montana’s unrestrained sky.
A train masters rails through fields of calving cows
while fat bellied sheep stretch toward next month’s labor.
Its faint wistful whistle colors my coffee richer,
ushering in morning’s promise of a day to work dirt.
Gardens root me to earth and create space to thin thinking.

While mentally mapping out zinnia streets lined with thyme,
a rap on the door pulls me present.
Farmer Tom steps inside.
Working the bill of his hat with his hands,
words spill beneath sober blue eyes
words about school buses and trains
words that shouldn’t be paired
words that Farmer Tom shared:

“Two brothers died.”

Morning’s lovely face
swallowed them up
and their young bodies flopped like fish in a basket
when metal hit metal.

“Two brothers
were killed
at the crossing
on Buffalo Canyon Road.”

My shaken neighbor, forever changed,
apologizes to me for tuning in calls on his emergency scanner,
he apologizes to me for sharing the news,
and he apologizes to me
for being the only person he can find any place
on this still spring morning.

“Oh God,”
Farmer Tom puts his head in his hands
and he weeps.

Brenda Warren 2013

Process Notes:  This is a true story, except that I did not hear the train’s whistle that morning.  Poetic license placed it there. Tom and I also joked about how strong my coffee was, trying to make life seem normal. The oddness of that morning keeps it fresh enough to revisit in this piece. Ben and Christopher Petersen would be adults with rich lives now.

This is for the 100th Sunday Whirl.  Thanks for your continued support there and here.  You all rock!

100

Descending Book Spine Cento Ends in Blood

cnto1Descending Book Spine Cento Ends in Blood

Behind the beautiful forevers,
blinking with fists
the sun came down,
sailing alone around the room,
raising the dead,
parading through history.
Spirits, light and dark,
counting coup and cutting horses:

killing Custer.

Perma Red,
winter in the blood.

Brenda Warren 2013

Process Notes: My poet friend Richard Walker, Sadly Waiting for Recess, shared the idea of a book spine cento. In a cento you use lines or titles from another work(or in this case, book spine titles) as the lines in a poem. This is my third attempt. It was fun to pull out books and play with the titles. I am currently reading the top book on the stack.

Unaccepted Apology

A spree, a bender, a binge, a fling,
you swear it didn’t mean a thing.
Fearsome and away,
part of every day,
it haunts you with this
empty- bellied hole,
painted gone with window black
aftereffects of booze and smack
written in your intimate reserves.

A spree, a bender, a binge, a fling,
you swear it doesn’t mean a thing,
confined inside a mind that can’t remember.

Outsider, User,
Soul Abuser,
you cast your only able body under.

Brenda Warren 2013

Process Notes:
Bender, binge, and fling were all listed as synonyms for spree in MS Word. I liked the way they sounded in a list together, so I used that as a first line. With some direction from wordle words, the rest of the piece wrote itself, then I polished it.

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99

Whirl Twofer

buried and unbalanced

wings to carry me
wings to dry
wetness from my baby’s eyes
let me soothe him
dust his soul
bless him, bruised him
keep him whole

he deserves a first in life
screamed into a slap
a gasping instant
under all

a snare,
a breath,
an angel’s call

blue baby
dead baby
ride on wings
of dreams and prayers,
imaginings
murmurings of might have beens,
buried and unbalanced

Brenda Warren 2013

The drumming thrum of wings drove him mad so

His snare pulled her wings asunder
and he stared in her glistening eyes.
He knew he was blessed by the blue faerie’s
gaze, through the way she unbalanced his mind.

He snapped his hands cupped
and shut her in,
whispering silk
through his thumbs.

Faeries always succumb
to whispering silk
through thumbs.

Always,
they always succumb.

Beat a drum.

Always,
they always succumb.

Brenda Warren 2013

Note:  Not all poems are autobiographical.  The first poem uses all of the wordle words; the second uses some of them.  Both came quickly. They read well aloud.

Visit The Sunday Whirl.

98