September 2016
Laurie Byro
philbop@warwick.net
philbop@warwick.net
In 1985, while pursuing a business degree, I unhappily landed in a creative writing class and announced to the group that I thought Walt Whitman was a chain of schools throughout the United States. To my astonishment, I had found my pacing, abandoned prose, and started a poetry circle that has been meeting for 16 years. I recently published a full length book, “Luna.” through Aldrich Press and “Gertrude Stein’s Salon and Other Legends” through Blue Horse Press, thanks to Tobi and Jeff Alfier. I am the Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library and despite it all, love New Jersey, and have lived here almost 60 years.
Porch Birds
"or draw a heart and our initials. I promised
when I was older I’d steal away with him to Mexico."
-from Salt, 2005
I knew I would need to remember his voice
for a long time. He kept himself like himself the longest
on the porch, an old man used to work and not rest,
unsure of what he was supposed to do with his hands.
He reigned over the quick bright birds greedy for red sugar
water, studied them like a career, get up early dressing
in the dark, try to catch them asleep in their cocoons
of light. His hands would tremble, helpless to explain
how small they were, these noble bursts of fire. How ready
they are to leave this place and hitchhike to Mexico, he’d say,
make light travel on the back of some dull bird. Dad, I’d say
You don’t believe that? When you get to be my age, he’d answer
You can believe almost anything. He’d look into the shadowy yard,
beyond the reach of his tired eyes. Anything that makes
it easier to not miss company when you know it’s time
for you to go, to hurry out into sunshine to a different place.
Porch Birds
"or draw a heart and our initials. I promised
when I was older I’d steal away with him to Mexico."
-from Salt, 2005
I knew I would need to remember his voice
for a long time. He kept himself like himself the longest
on the porch, an old man used to work and not rest,
unsure of what he was supposed to do with his hands.
He reigned over the quick bright birds greedy for red sugar
water, studied them like a career, get up early dressing
in the dark, try to catch them asleep in their cocoons
of light. His hands would tremble, helpless to explain
how small they were, these noble bursts of fire. How ready
they are to leave this place and hitchhike to Mexico, he’d say,
make light travel on the back of some dull bird. Dad, I’d say
You don’t believe that? When you get to be my age, he’d answer
You can believe almost anything. He’d look into the shadowy yard,
beyond the reach of his tired eyes. Anything that makes
it easier to not miss company when you know it’s time
for you to go, to hurry out into sunshine to a different place.
©2016 Laurie Byro
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