The Windhover
God's Grandeur
Toys
Among the Rocks
Art Thou Pale for Weariness
Epilogue
He caught the enemy this morning, Black Hawk
Backed up by a Bell Boeing V-22 Osprey
In the sunrise of a rebellious dawn.
There is always air combat under the clouds:
Cyclic pitch, rate of ascent, throttle, tail rotor—
These make him happy! He radios back to get ideas, swings,
Rolls out, blades easily on the archway, door and glider, resists
Strong winds. His heart is hidden—reach in and grab that thing!
A feast of beauty and glory and cruelty, oh soul, pride, my dove
Fasten your seatbelt, this hellfire has cost us billions.
One can’t help but exclaim, “My love, it’s dangerous, oh my love!”
No surprise, these choppers have laid waste to millions:
Yellow-black songbirds, apartment blocks, and mosques—
Civilians scattering in infrared visions.
The globe is full of beauty
Glowing in the light of moving frames
Collecting moisture and variously charged particles.
Why not admire it?
Decades have passed since I walked away,
Bled, tingled, dabbled in micro-epiphanies,
Explored and mingled my scent with the earth.
There is no nudity without shoes and socks.
Yes, I abused every substance. Guess what?
There’s a kernel of nothingness deep in each thing.
And tonight, near the lake, sliver of moon a scythe,
Everything written and the rope just right,
I’ll learn that the soul, as it slips through the noose,
Beholds the bright angel’s ah! dark wings.
They come for Christmas
Explained and unexplained,
Wild games
Taking half the space,
Threads from butterflies,
Miniature airplanes that crash
When unwrapped. We will not
Let them rest or let the flag vibrate
Blue-blue like a cathead.
Weeks we have passed
In out of stock stores
(Dollar General, Best Buy, etc.)
Because this trip slices
Everything, red or green,
Too thinly.
Historic ancient land,
Mountain of free will
Surmounted by a tinsel star,
The human heart a little
High-tech fetish.
The robot preens like a cat
In this cheap fun
Virtual world in front of you,
Booboo. Now, sit down
Next to silvery plastic
And imagine a world called water.
You’re ready.
Close your little hand.
America, brightest smile in the whole wide world,
How do you pick the bones of a dream?
It’s simple, really: just pamper your body
And put your head between your knees.
If you love only what’s easy for you to love,
Then love and its benefits won’t benefit you.
Adversity forces you to improve your brand.
Remember what it said in the in-flight magazine:
Contrary to what you might believe,
The white meat can be saved for pets.
Is the trick in this country to know and yet love?
Give it a try and enjoy the benefits mentioned above!
Do you know that I’m weak?
I want to go to heaven and observe the world.
People are people
Except for movie stars.
For instance Matt Damon.
Does he think everyone can be so strong?
Connections and huge bonuses—
why don’t you help me now
that I want to work
with borrowings from what y’all were dreaming?
I hear the voice:
The artist’s eyes are not your eyes.
I turn on the flashlight and shake it.
Sometimes I write
with a technique that bewilders my sight.
The results look like pictures
of a wild pig named Pete.
Growing up white,
bullshit is easily canonized.
All is not well.
Why not tell what happened
and pray for mercy?
Vermeer’s soft light
illuminates bad maps
and long-forgotten women,
yet still we give awesome
attention to figures
in paintings by
he/him/his.
Owen McLeod's second poetry collection, Before After, is forthcoming from Saturnalia Books. Dream Kitchen, his first collection, won the Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry. His poems appear in Copper Nickel, New England Review, Ploughshares, Sixth Finch, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. He teaches philosophy at Lafayette College in Easton, PA.
