January 2015
I received an MFA in Poetry from The University of Montana in 1999, so naturally I now sell insurance. My poems have appeared in some journals and anthologies, most notably The Best American Poetry 2007, and my chapbook Silent Partner won the 2013 Sow’s Ear Chapbook Competition.
Pine Trees
These pines have big plans.
Come next wind gust they will shiver.
When the weather calms
they will luxuriate in sunlit stillness.
They will then grow fidgety
and argue over what to do next.
They will have a breath-holding contest.
Afterwards, they will drop
their cones upon unsuspecting chipmunks.
Some will deck themselves out
in an ensemble of birds.
When winter arrives, the pines
will close their eyes,
respecting the privacy
of their deciduous neighbors' leaflessness.
Little League
I swung and missed again,
though I kept my eye on the ball
as Coach Cochran commanded.
None of my teammates seemed
to understand that the wind
generated from my errant bat
had in fact sparked a tiny universe
peopled by a peaceful breed
who never felt the need
to enforce upon their children
any type of competitive sport.
Not even the perceptive and wily
Coach Cochran could conceive
of how important it was that I
missed the ball so thoroughly, for
the air needed to part just right
for this microscopic phenomenon
to occur. Instead of being hailed
a creator, I was greeted in the dugout
with disappointment in the form
of head shaking and silence.
Now, when the denizens of my little
world crawl into my ears at night
to offer thanks and prayer
I merely sigh, go to sleep, and dream
of hitting one out of the park.
The Voice
The voice leaves its uterus,
departs from the placenta
that fed it with an agenda.
The voice drops into a marsh,
struggles to find its breath
among the murk and reeds.
The voice then learns to feed
upon the wriggling amoebas
of motive, will, ambition, spin.
It grows, gangly and awkward,
into a creature full of want,
hell-bent on being heard.
These pines have big plans.
Come next wind gust they will shiver.
When the weather calms
they will luxuriate in sunlit stillness.
They will then grow fidgety
and argue over what to do next.
They will have a breath-holding contest.
Afterwards, they will drop
their cones upon unsuspecting chipmunks.
Some will deck themselves out
in an ensemble of birds.
When winter arrives, the pines
will close their eyes,
respecting the privacy
of their deciduous neighbors' leaflessness.
Little League
I swung and missed again,
though I kept my eye on the ball
as Coach Cochran commanded.
None of my teammates seemed
to understand that the wind
generated from my errant bat
had in fact sparked a tiny universe
peopled by a peaceful breed
who never felt the need
to enforce upon their children
any type of competitive sport.
Not even the perceptive and wily
Coach Cochran could conceive
of how important it was that I
missed the ball so thoroughly, for
the air needed to part just right
for this microscopic phenomenon
to occur. Instead of being hailed
a creator, I was greeted in the dugout
with disappointment in the form
of head shaking and silence.
Now, when the denizens of my little
world crawl into my ears at night
to offer thanks and prayer
I merely sigh, go to sleep, and dream
of hitting one out of the park.
The Voice
The voice leaves its uterus,
departs from the placenta
that fed it with an agenda.
The voice drops into a marsh,
struggles to find its breath
among the murk and reeds.
The voice then learns to feed
upon the wriggling amoebas
of motive, will, ambition, spin.
It grows, gangly and awkward,
into a creature full of want,
hell-bent on being heard.
©2015 Matthew Byrne