July 2017
Joan Colby
JoanMC@aol.com
JoanMC@aol.com
I have written poetry and short fiction all my life and published a lot of it. My day job is editor of a trade publication Illinois Racing News. I live on a small horse farm in northern Illinois with my husband and various animals. My latest book, "Ribcage," (from Glass Lyre Press) recently won the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. I also am an associate editor of FutureCycle Press and Kentucky Review.
Author's Note: These are poems from a group that I am calling "The Ordinary Saints". So far, I have about 24 of these and aiming toward a chapbook eventually.
SAINT SLAUGHTERER
Blessings on you, bolt shooter, throat slitter,
Hanger of pigs and lambs. Carver of beeves,
The great carcasses dripping
Onto the killing floor. Your heart hardened
Against sympathy. It’s all meat
And hides, tendons and entrails, the heart
A red fist, the lungs an accordian
Of sad songs. You whistle like the dwarves
Driving the stock down the ramps
Armed with a prod. Another man curses
And you nod. This is work
And you know how to do it.
SAINT IRONWORKER
Blessings on you, skywalker of the beams
That gleam a hundred stories in the air.
The girders you stride as if fear
Could not exist, assembling this
Box of offices or living spaces
Overlooking the avenues of rushers and
The busy wharves. Saint of the treasured view
With the belted tools
Icons of your martyrdom to heights
We panic to imagine. Up there
In the ceiling of the cityscape
Like seraphim in the sacred art
Of the cathedral, all the elevated
Architecture of the ages
The arch that holds an edifice
For centuries, your mortal skill
Looking down upon the mortal surge.
SAINT ROUSTABOUT
Blessings on you, setter-up of thrills,
Upending rides, whirling cars, the wheels
That haul us heavenward
Jailed with the bars
You jam shut until all seats
Are filled. Raiser of tent poles,
Erector of booths where we shoot to win
Pink teddy bears, where losers grin
Knowingly, how it’s all rigged.
Rigger of midways, sleeping rough,
Soothed with gin or little pills
Of brief epiphanies. You ache
With every break-up of a site.
Moving on to other towns
Of excited kids lined up to hand
Their tickets. Your bored
Exhausted face. Saint of the every day
Torments. You take them
Into the gaudiest hours
Of unforgettable summers.
SAINT BEAUTICIAN
Blessings on you, scissors and sprays,
Your strong fingers in our scalps
Massaging our worries. Adding
Blonde streaks like captured
Sunlight. Camouflaging gray
Roots. Shampooed and styled, we’re
Ready for the ordinary fray. Saint
Of the curling iron, the French braid,
The permanent wave on the shores of desire
Holding the mirror so we can admire
The white lies of beauty.
SAINT TECH SUPPORT
Blessings on you, voice of compassion
With a Delhi accent. Your name is
David (Devi) chosen to relieve
Anxieties, to carefully chart the way
To solution. You assume control
With permission, always polite,
Attentive as you move the cursor
Across our screens, showing the
How and the why. Saint Troubleshooter
In a midnight room across oceans,
You guide us like Christopher
Over the stormy waters of the
Cyber-seas we are sailing together.
SAINT SLAUGHTERER
Blessings on you, bolt shooter, throat slitter,
Hanger of pigs and lambs. Carver of beeves,
The great carcasses dripping
Onto the killing floor. Your heart hardened
Against sympathy. It’s all meat
And hides, tendons and entrails, the heart
A red fist, the lungs an accordian
Of sad songs. You whistle like the dwarves
Driving the stock down the ramps
Armed with a prod. Another man curses
And you nod. This is work
And you know how to do it.
SAINT IRONWORKER
Blessings on you, skywalker of the beams
That gleam a hundred stories in the air.
The girders you stride as if fear
Could not exist, assembling this
Box of offices or living spaces
Overlooking the avenues of rushers and
The busy wharves. Saint of the treasured view
With the belted tools
Icons of your martyrdom to heights
We panic to imagine. Up there
In the ceiling of the cityscape
Like seraphim in the sacred art
Of the cathedral, all the elevated
Architecture of the ages
The arch that holds an edifice
For centuries, your mortal skill
Looking down upon the mortal surge.
SAINT ROUSTABOUT
Blessings on you, setter-up of thrills,
Upending rides, whirling cars, the wheels
That haul us heavenward
Jailed with the bars
You jam shut until all seats
Are filled. Raiser of tent poles,
Erector of booths where we shoot to win
Pink teddy bears, where losers grin
Knowingly, how it’s all rigged.
Rigger of midways, sleeping rough,
Soothed with gin or little pills
Of brief epiphanies. You ache
With every break-up of a site.
Moving on to other towns
Of excited kids lined up to hand
Their tickets. Your bored
Exhausted face. Saint of the every day
Torments. You take them
Into the gaudiest hours
Of unforgettable summers.
SAINT BEAUTICIAN
Blessings on you, scissors and sprays,
Your strong fingers in our scalps
Massaging our worries. Adding
Blonde streaks like captured
Sunlight. Camouflaging gray
Roots. Shampooed and styled, we’re
Ready for the ordinary fray. Saint
Of the curling iron, the French braid,
The permanent wave on the shores of desire
Holding the mirror so we can admire
The white lies of beauty.
SAINT TECH SUPPORT
Blessings on you, voice of compassion
With a Delhi accent. Your name is
David (Devi) chosen to relieve
Anxieties, to carefully chart the way
To solution. You assume control
With permission, always polite,
Attentive as you move the cursor
Across our screens, showing the
How and the why. Saint Troubleshooter
In a midnight room across oceans,
You guide us like Christopher
Over the stormy waters of the
Cyber-seas we are sailing together.
© 2017 Joan Colby
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