Poetry

I saw a dead bird
floating down the irrigation canal
this morning.
And I couldn’t help but wonder
how it met its end.
Was it an electrical wire?
A barnyard fire?
Agricultural spray?
Or just plain old age?

And then I wondered
if its little soul had come back again?
I thought
maybe that little bird came back as?
Maybe a dog or a cat?
Maybe a little ant or the tiniest of gnats?
Or maybe that little bird came back
as an eagle,
and I pictured that. 

The look on its little face
when it realized it could soar,
or when it discovered
that its wingspan
was six feet more.
It might have scared the shit out of it for a minute.
But then I’ll bet that little bird
had the most fun
it’s ever had in its life,
soaring and gliding,
swooping and diving.
Boy, I’d like to have seen that.

And then I thought
what’ll happen to me when I die?
I guess I don’t get to decide.
They say that’s God’s job.
So, I said a little prayer.

I said, God,
When I die
I know you probably won’t make me an angel
because, well,
I might have smoked
and drank too much.
Maybe, you’ll make me a dog
or a weasel or something.
Then I pleaded just a little bit
and asked, God, if you see fit,
maybe an eagle?

spring of 2001, touched down in Kansas City,
stepped out of the airport and breathed in the air.
the heart knows its home.
tragedy struck, sadness knocked,
picked up and left, leaving the heart
behind.

throughout the years, through hardships and beers,
the heart’s remained planted
right here in the heart of America.
where everyone waves on old county roads,
and the eye can see for miles and miles
on end.

where Woody once sang of this land as ours.
where night gets so dark you see billions
of stars. where the Flint Hills roll and
the Missouri winds. where an angel is resting
up on a hill, the heart has remained and will
always.

walked beneath the smoke-darkened sky this morning,
ashes falling.
three crosses on a car’s window sticker looked like the devil’s pitchfork.
the catholic church bells started ringing,
sounded like the beginning of Hotel California.
got my coffee, went back home,
closed myself in, thought about life, and wrote this poem.
there’s still a little hope.

he was down by the waterfront
dreaming of being a captain
in the navy, wearing his old
captain’s hat and smoking his
corncob pipe. the crazy old man
said he was part of a special
mission to bomb the shit out
of those Chinese commies,
as he wildly waved his arms
and gestured toward the sea.

suddenly, he said it was cold
and he had to go to a funeral,
his car full of old garbage
and his few belongings.
he climbed in and shifted into
drive as I shook my head
and talked to myself in the rain
walking back to the hotel,
just a few years younger
and a couple more marbles.

somehow the winter knows
when to subside
and the grass knows
when to grow.

they know it’s change time.

no questions or fears,
no pondering, wandering
or hesitation.

they know it’s change time.

the rain knows when to fall
and the sun knows when to shine.

they know it’s change time.

today, i feel like winter, frozen,
yet starting to thaw.

i know it’s change time.