Between the Slingshot and the Prey

My son follows me through mud as we hunt
pheasants on a hill near a cairn of rocks.
We tally kill and stalk fowl with rough-cut
slingshots whittled by hand to take down flocks

that pilfer our wheat and corn. Like field mice
we scuttle around stones and chase after
carcasses of stolen life in a rite
of passage that instills thrill to plunder.

What spurs the wind to conspire with us,
wheedle plumes from birds trying to ascend
thermal currents of cumulonimbus,
and hinder wings on which they must depend?

Weather-beaten feathers show what it takes to fly,
what it feels like to be let go, yet not survive.

Shadowing the Farmer

Over the double-pitched roof of the barn,
blue silos cast a butter-knife shadow
across the tractor at rest on your farm,
where unmilked cows stand in their stalls below

the half-stacked hayloft, a refuge of cats.
No rooster crows, the lone bull won’t bellow.
Your pickup truck sits empty. Sunglasses
on the dash reflect a hint of yellow,

beckoning confused chickens that ask why
the tall man who throws corn is not in sight.
They peck at stones no bigger than their eyes,
cluck for food, sensing something is not right.

The wind refuses to lift their intention,
the weathervane searches for direction

Dandelions on Mother’s Day

What will you do about the dandelions?
a man from TruGreen asks me, matter of fact,
as I watch my neighbor’s wife load her kids
in a pickup truck behind her husband’s back.

How are you planning to get rid of them? he adds,
as three police cars sprout like unwanted weeds.
My neighbor’s wife lays down her mattress, then says,
I don’t love him–he’s got nothing that I need.

The biggest cop says, Hold on Ma’am. You just can’t
take your kids away from him—no—not this way.
She climbs in the truck without a word or rant.
She does not unload. She speeds out the driveway.

What will I do about dandelions today?
Maybe I’ll mow them down… or tear them out this way.

Who Unleashed the Sonnets?

Who UNleashed the sonnets, aaaaaaaalet them run free,
losing aaaaaaaaathe prosody of poetry?

Who thought it artful to let meter aaaaaaaaaaaaaaapart,
throw words around as if mere pointless d a r t s??????

What role did BIG BOSS marketing play here,
reinventing a WORDSCAPE most revered?

Were rogue typographerS the ones to BLAME
for reducing poetry to font games?

Is it time … aaaaaaaaaa4 a new ink aaaaaaaaaawell & quill
to keep lost aaaaaaaaapoetry alive aaaaaaaaaaand… well?

Or will the fate of aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(marginalized art)
depend on a NEW wheelbarrow… aaaaaaaaae-cart?

Quick! Jump in a pen, lass-oh a son-net.
We poem-pokes need to get write on it!

 

***

Sara Parrott’s poetry has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Nine Mile Magazine, Stone Canoe, Ghost City Review, and True Chili. Several of her haiku are featured on posters created by the Syracuse Poster Project, including a commemorative poster celebrating the 50^th anniversary of Onondaga Community College. Her first book of poetry is forthcoming from Nine Mile Books, and she has an MA from Binghamton University in Central New York, where she lives with her husband.