poetryrepairs #203 v14.08:085
BOB BRADSHAW : Turkey Vultures
HAL SIROWITZ : Like a Fish
SARAH KENNEDY : Reenactment
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Turkey Vultures
They're red faced and bald and couples usually mate for life. While one shops for supper the other putters at home, incubating the clutch. They savor hearty meals. But like any large family gathered at a dinner table, they're not shy voicing their opinions, hissing at those with rude table manners. Like us, sociable but shy, they make good lovers, and live out contented lives, indifferent or unaware of their less than photogenic allure.

"Turkey Vultures" was previously published at Celebratory Shoehorn
poetryrepairs #203 v14.08:085

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

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Like a Fish
Uncle Jack got caught driving while intoxicated, even though my Aunt had bought him a bar to manage across the street so he could walk home. But instead of walking he drove and got into this mess with the law. Plus, they couldn't visit our house since it was not near public transportation. The only solution was for us to visit them more. Uncle Jack was only social when he had a few beers in him. Otherwise, he'd give commands, like tell my father to drive the car around the block to keep the engine in good shape. Father didn't like traveling in circles. But Jack would have him test the horn until they became the center of attention. Father would tell us privately during the ride home that if you drink like a fish you have to endure the consequences of being one out of water thrashing about, not getting anywhere.

poetryrepairs #203 v14.08:085

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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The cavalry is a vision in uniform, wandering the field, restless Morgans and quarter- horses stomping up bombs of dust. Infantry at attention by the creek. The narrator with his microphone reminds the crowd of danger from sun: protect the kids from radiation, cover your heads. One cannon fires, initiating action, and a couple of soldiers dive. Somebody's cell phone rings. It's not real, a boy complains, that dead guy rolled over. Shouldn't there be some blood? The mounted ones, of course, must not fall, cause all that chaos, though one young Palomino shies and dumps his rider. The paramedics in the golf cart flick on their walkie-talkies, they're set to pull him out the back way but he's OK and a Union soldier's on the trail of the runaway who's racing back to his stall. The artillery fires perfect smoke rings into the hand-to-hand battle and people gasp and point. Wow. It's just like TV, except that when the bayoneting begins, the fallen sneak to their feet and become the reinforcements. An hour later, everyone's up, neat as a recruitment poster, and the viewers click off their cameras, turn back, not to the war-stained world (Who won, the boy asks, yanking his father's sleeve, they're all still alive), but to Sutler's Row, where there's gear for sale, everything guaranteed: weapons, ammunition, mourning clothes.

from poetryrepairs archives
poetryrepairs #203 v14.08:085

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR : resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary


BOB BRADSHAW : Turkey Vultures
HAL SIROWITZ : Like a Fish
SARAH KENNEDY : Reenactment

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