a season for trees

Cold’s white mission frosts unfolding hills, muting the vanilla valley.
Crusted ice crystallizes prairie grasses into ivory luminescence
as darkness genuflects with subtle inklings toward dawn’s precipice.

Soon, Daystar swallows the moisture of night,
and flocked conifers melt, trickling wet rivulets
between bark’s incongruous trivets waiting for
the murderous onslaught of humans,
who arrive each year laden with hatchets and chainsaws,
chomping at the bit, eager to usher in December.

Brenda Warren 2011
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Process notes: Len and I had a roadtrip through Montana yesterday. We started early, and I wrote most of the piece in the morning, after driving through the Helena valley. Later in the day we drove through the Little Belt Mountains east of Great Falls, and saw vehicles laden with pine and fir trees, as families harvest them for Christmas. I finished the piece this morning.

This is a piece for the Sunday Whirl. The words were challenging this week, be sure to check out the work of other poets over at the Whirl.

sister wind whistles and spins

A fulcrum of momentum,
she wraps her wings across her breast
until she spins out brave new worlds
where long necked geese rise through ruddy sunshine.
Thrumming a rustle of feathers on air,
they become a subliminal one with wind,
riding on her smug untidy currents.

Urging migration, sister wind eradicates
the gullibility of yesterday’s unmoving mellow air,
twisting the shallows of the lake
into crystallized shudders.
A rush of ice forms and forces this wild congregation
to hoist their voices, unfold their wings, and sweep circles
over the freezing wet cycle of time.

Sister wind whistles and spins
as silver and black flutter and flash
imprinting seasonal patterns,
migratory gyrations that weave feathers
through the shimmering spokes of her spirit’s fierce wheel.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Process Notes:
After spending some time watching Canadian geese rise and fall across the expanse of Benton Lake National Wildlife Refuge, I wrote down twelve words for The Sunday Whirl. Check the Whirl every Sunday for a new wordle.

This morning, I morphed the words into this piece, which at first would not come. Once wind developed into “sister wind,” the piece flowed freely.

Sister wind whistles and spins for the geese. May they journey for many centuries across the prairie potholes that dot their North American migratory routes. May water fill these potholes each spring. May they flourish and flash with sister wind, reminding us of our relationship with the earth.

hope is a small thing with feathers

Selling souls for diamonds
he peddles to the fleeting rich.
Blood smolders in his fiery eyes.

Buy more!
Hoard more!

Build an army to gather and protect
the last food left upon the planet
after oil runs dry and ambition
drowns the mindless
in wanton desires
oblivious to the insidious nature
of the upper one percent.

Man your stockpiles!

He jacks up the price of his diamonds
muttering about his preacher daddy’s
trapped words
unheeded ‘til the end times
when the upper one percent
will send out their armies
killing all remainders.

One by one families will succumb,
gunned down in an oblivious search for sustenance.

He rants about sparks, trapped within
set free at time’s beginnings,
superseded by greed,
while centuries fell from the sky
like iced lightning
stabbing jagged sticks
through the eyes of the wicked
one percent.

Soon they will falter beneath the weight of diamonds,
drawn from blood that nourishes
the ginger-orange soil of Africa.

The clarity of diamonds belies humanity’s greed.

Centuries from now, goodness will rise
in the form of a young girl laughing.

Emerging from the fecund clay of everything that went before,
she will spread her wings and fly, engendering new beginnings,
fresh, beneath her finely feathered soul.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Process Notes:
My fears for our planet’s future play out in this piece. I imagined the “he” character as a street peddler, muttering prophecies, largely ignored. Left in the background to rant, pieces of truth fall from his mouth, dissipating in Earth’s dying air. Initially the piece ended with humanity’s greed, and that left me wanting hope. Emily Dickinson’s poem about hope sparked the last stanza, and gave the savior wings. The title is an adaptation from the first line of her poem, which you can find here.

Visit The Sunday Whirl

The Cleaning

When human beings are wiped from the face of the earth,
perhaps the eloquence of bees will buzz a balance
back into time’s swiveled fabric.
Slowly pesticides will dissipate and
buildings will crumble into cinder gray coral
that rises in pillars like fingers
ringed by soft hairy pillows of emerald moss.
The bees will dance from color to color
hovering as motionless yellow black points
to replenish the strength of their bumbling numbers,
basking in the glory of a rapidly blooming fresh new world.

Oh honey! Oh golden viscosity!
Let mama bear find you and feed her furry family
as they rumble through the safety of human remains.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Visit The Sunday Whirl.

delirium’s sweet breeze

Delirium swished her dappled colors against dawn’s clear sky
blue air pleated seemings like a god’s strident breath
reigniting dappled rays of sunshine
pitched in place by swirling seas
breaching the shell of delirium’s sweet breeze.

Brenda Warren 2011

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This piece was inspired by this week’s words at The Sunday Whirl. Check out the whirl for more pieces incorporating these words.

Caught

The colonel twitched
bloodied to a pulp in media gutters
he longed for a bottle of water
sitting at a sidewalk café
looking always looking
anywhere he wanted
glasses dark
fear flickering in everyone
who knew who he was
as he thumped his fist
against the side of his crooked legacy
carved out in bloody revolts.

He tried to control
the viscous gurgle
filling up his throat
and died sounding
like a weak man vanishing
while cell phone cameras clicked.

Brenda Warren 2011
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I wrote this piece from some words pulled from Mike Patrick’s poem, Singing on Murkle. While the gory ending certainly evokes the spirit of the season, it didn’t come out as a Halloween poem. It is what it is.

I used one of the 12 words this week in the title. To see more pieces comprised of words from Mike’s poem, visit The Sunday Whirl.

Redemption Island

for Ozzie

I wonder what kind of food
is served on Redemption Island.

Plates of regret
garnished with olive brances
followed by a chorus of Coaches singing

Alleluliahs!

Give it your best shot, Oz.
Rise on up out of those
shit stank tantrums
that scream echoes
through everything you
wish you never would have.

Peacock your way to tribal glory.

(or lose face and break something)

Either way, we’re starting
to get your number.

You cannot equalize.
You blow, dude.

Big time.

Get some help.
Redemption rarely happens
on reality TV.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Okay, I’m a bit embarassed that I watch Survivor, but this season has me hooked. Last night will go down in Survivor history. This poem is for Ozzie. If you watch Survivor, you know what I mean. Either way, I think you can get the picture.

war’s screaming night

Sky roils its clouds into ragged pillows
spitting jagged blades of light
to reveal a rusted-out river
mirroring rolling flashes of sky.

Foreign soil stretches
under years of rubble
as she mans her position
surveying shattered landscapes
that haunt her dreams
every chance she sleeps.

Straighten up and fly right,
her father used to say.
Straighten up and fly right,
face the light of day.

A bridge under siege
reignites broken connections.

Beneath its girders,
she listens to the cadence
of lightning and bombs.

A bridge under siege
shakes her foundations
drags up beginnings
takes her to a nod
when her father said,
Straighten up and fly right,
face the light of day.

Vengeance softens over bridges home,
forgetting for a moment
the killing
forgetting for a moment
the look in a soldier’s eye,
frosting her present with memories past.

Straighten up and fly right.
She straightens her spine and she smiles.

At that moment, a hand covers her mouth
and pulls her head back to eyes glazed dark with victory .
A blade cuts the width of her throat,
spilling her life in soil
a million miles from home.

Her memories fade into the quiet of war’s screaming night.

Brenda Warren 2011

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This week’s Sunday Whirl words were pulled from The End and the Beginning by Wislawa Szymborska. His piece discusses the idea that someone needs to be there to clean up the messes wars create in a landscape that eventually grows over and is forgotten. Directly after reading Szymborska’s piece and pulling the words on Friday night I wrote “war’s screaming night.”

The ending of this piece was born from a need to use the word “blade” in the wordle. It shocked me when it came, but I left it there through three editings.  It leaves me uneasy.

Vernon Reads

for PN and Sherman Alexie

There’s this student,
in my classroom,
Blackfoot,
quiet, observant,
too cool for school.
Vernon reads because The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
circles hoops around his adolescent brain
toppling his first weeks of school
I don’t “read”itude.

Gathering his ancestors,
words channel compassion,
weaving threads into familiarity,
weaving familiarity into a yearning to read more words.

Forgiveness hovers beneath
broken promises,
trails of tears, and treaties.

Every sign points toward his schooling’s demise,
when Vernon opens books to causes
beyond the intentional negligence of an educational system
that stripped his grandparents
of everything they’d never be again.

His eyes rise from Junior’s story
when RJ, this toppled white kid ,
enters late. Broken by years of hallway ridicule,
broken by a family that you do not want to know,
RJ’s eyes scan the classroom,
it’s a “free seating” day
and a pretty seventh grade girl occupies
his eighth grade seat.
With palpable anxiety he stops and
drops his eyes to his feet.
I move to get up,
when Vernon’s voice rises
deep and gentle, above his book,
“Hey, buddy, sit here,”
he pulls back the chair next to his own.

Blinking tears down into the shallows
of my lower lids, my eyes return
to the book I am reading in class,
thinking of the power of story,
thinking of the power of connection,
thinking of the power Vernon gave RJ,
shouldering his angst,
offering him a Friday home.

Vernon is a hero.
He eats up The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part Time Indian,
deepening his understanding
of what it means to not fit in.
Like Junior, no matter which direction
RJ turns, bolts of misunderstanding
burst in other people’s eyes.
Vernon watches.
He knows it is true.

RJ draws bold dark lines through the pages
of his classroom journal,
while Vernon keeps Junior’s story
quietly to himself.

Chuckling every now and then,
Vernon’s dark eyes shine.

Brenda Warren 2011
*******
Process Notes:
I pulled the words for this week’s wordle from The Powwow at the End of the World, by Sherman Alexie. Visit The Sunday Whirl for more pieces that integrate Alexie’s words.

Process Notes:
One of my students who claimed to never read, is reading Sherman Alexie’sThe Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian. We discussed the book’s mature content, and my expectation that he not point out inappropriate parts to other kids during his reading. I also phoned home to get parental permission for him to read it, because the content is mature. It is a story that Native American kids “get.” They love it. Many of my Blackfoot, Chippewa, and Cree students move back and forth between the reservation schools, and our school. The book’s narrator, Arnold Spirit aka Junior moves to an all white school, so the connection is strong, and Alexie is hilarious.

I wrote the first draft of this piece last night, and then watched Smoke Signals. Alexie wrote the screenplay for Smoke Signals. He based it on stories in his book The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. The movie is on Netflix. It is hysterical, heartbreaking, and liberating, and the soundtrack is memorable. One of the main characters, Thomas Builds-the-Fire, reminds me of Junior in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian. I woke up this morning, and read The Powwow at the End of the World aloud, trying to channel the lilt of Thomas’s incessant storytelling in my reading. After reading it, I revised this piece, and added to it to tackle that wordle list. Finally I changed the names to protect my students’ identities.

Mr. Alexie, if you happen across these words, thank you.  Your writer’s voice turns young people into readers.  Face keeps me returning to its pages again and again, I love volcano and its mosquito armageddon.  🙂

Reincarnated Rant ~ A Magpie Tale


I didn’t get spoons in coffee when I was human
and I don’t get them now that I’m stuck in this fat little king statue
trying to pull this scepter outta my ass.
Paperweight City had such a good deal on them,
little did I know it would suck me into it
when I fell in my eagerness to grab one.
Not this one, Heaven forbid,
I was going for a statue of Saint Francis
with birds flitting about my head
(my head…good god).
Forever made of heavy resin polymer
I hold down this blowhard’s morning news
while he tink-tink-tinkles the frickin’ spoon
over and over again
against his boring blue cup.

At least this morning I can read the news.

Didn’t Dominick Dunne die?
I wonder if he got the Saint Francis statue?

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A shout out to Tess for the image this week at Magpie Tales. The king would not let me go, he wanted his say.