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Monthly Archives: March 2011

Month 4:5

“On the Occasion of Billy Collins’s Birthday”

A few ruffled grouse leave the woods, cross the road,
and toggle across a new yard in Sage Estates.
How off-beat they seem to me. Yet, somehow wise.
As odd and knowing as a poem about a lanyard.

by Therese L. Broderick

NOTE: Billy Collins wrote a poem called “The Lanyard.”

Month 4:4 (Perigee Moon)

O Perigee Moon, be not merely beautiful tonight.
Be cold: an ice dome to cool down Fukushima.
Be harsh: a searchlight to find the missing grandfathers.
Be empty: a broad urn to carry innumerable cremains.

by Therese L. Broderick

NOTE: A Perigee Moon appears tonight. Most probably, countless Japanese haiku have been inspired by the beauty of the full moon when largest, when closest to Earth. My metaphor above is not a haiku, but it does pay tribute to the tragedy in Japan. Tonight’s moonshine will be one kind of radiation above a very different kind of radiation.

 

Month 4:3

I slide The Sunday Times out of its plastic bag labeled
in three places “keep away from small children” as if
news reports were cheap playthings, flimsy, too many parts.
Caution, beware, caveat lector: 62 pages needing recall.

Month 4:2

“Green Anaconda”

Too late for her: Silences as antidotes, arriving only after
every Word she knew had proved itself an Anaconda
preying upon & crushing Elephants lost in thought.
Her Language a heinous evasion, an odious bond.

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 4:1

My daughter heads out alone to the pond
to photograph tree limbs, their scepters of ice
bestowed by a storm as regal and beautiful,
as evil to the eye, as The Snow Queen.

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 3:28

When its entire inventory of lumber
is liquidated, guys crowd the store
like loggers, like river rats in a jam.

 

by Therese L. Broderick

NOTE: Of course “liquidate” does not mean the same as “liquefy,” but I’m playing with words here, extending the metaphor/simile.

Month 3:27

The day when a foot of snow melts to two inches,
I tear open a package of  breakfast bacon to feast
my eyes on its sidewalks of raw meat, on how
its banks of fat — easy one, easy two — sizzle away.

 

by Therese L. Broderick