Poetry

Mornings with Wyckham

I wake to a subtle little chirping and stirring coming from beneath the quilt thrown over
the bird cage.
My parrot Wyckham is waking up.

Are you ready? he asks.
Come on. Come on. Want to go downstairs?
Is he waiting for a response?
Does he already know the answers to these questions?
I think that he does.

He is like a little attorney in there, grey suit and all.
I have been told that they never ask a question unless they know the answer.

Are you ready?
I am.
Want to go downstairs?
I do.

The tougher questions he does not ask.
If he were the kind of parrot that I could train to talk,
I would teach him to start the day with proclamations, rather than questions.

Life is a gift!
Each morning is a fresh beginning!
God loves you!

And then I would add a few commandments:

Be grateful!
Don’t live in the past!
Love one another!

As it is, we start the day with questions,
the bird and I.

Line Dancing

I awake, the thoughts of my dream still filling my head. I lie there between two very
real places.

One, a room full of people line dancing, practicing new steps while familiar country
and western tunes play on, one after another.
The beat is catchy, the lyrics poignant.
This is the real thing.
We are all wearing cowboy boots and hats, plaid shirts, jeans,
and leather vests.

The other, a warm and comfortable bed, with my cat curled up on my pillow.

It was her paw on my throat that woke me up and caused all of those dancers to stop,
look up, and wonder what had interrupted the music.

They were just started to really get the steps, and now they’d have to wait until I
finally got back to sleep before the party began again.
I think that they knew, but accepted with good grace,
That I might not end up there after I finally fell back asleep.

Would the dance continue without me?
Or am I an essential guest--the life of the party?
There, as in real life, I suppose I will never know.

It’s Not About You

In the dimly lit little cell
With the mosquito net pulled securely around the bed,
I pick up my book and begin to read.
But then hear a soft voice, audible only in my heart.
It whispers---it’s not about you.

In the middle of a conversation
When my emotions begin to charge,
And I feel anxious and frustrated,
And too involved in the matter at hand,
I hear it again---it’s not about you.

Then again at the opening reception,
Where the wine flows, the food is lavish
And the spotlight is on art.
I begin to take it personally
And get a little inflated.
Then there’s that little whisper again---
It’s not about you.

When I look up at the night sky
And see all of those stars
Spreading out and lighting up eternity,
Or gaze at the ocean, the waves rolling gently in, caressing the shore,
I hear it again, this time in my whole body---
It’s not about you.

But what is this “it” that isn’t about me?
What is this “me” that isn’t it?
Who is whispering this phrase in my heart?
The questions persists and I continue to ask,
And hear once again---
It’s not about you.