June 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 Baker
Blessings on you, floured hands,
Rolling pin, lard and apron.
Parker rolls and brick ovens. Glazed
Doughuts like stars cast down. Devil’s
Food cakes and scalloped pies
Like seashells thumbed with artifice.
Saint of the loaves: white, wheat or rye.
Good dough punched down and folded
Kneading air into a dream
Of what is possible. The yeasty smell
Of all that could rise
Above the firmament.
Saint Butcher
Blessings on you. Carving knives and
Cleavers. Schematic of a steer:
T-bone, loin, filet, brisket, the standing rib,
The rest muddled into burgers.
Pork chops, bacon, ham,
Elaboration of sausage. Knowing where
To strike the divisions.
Wrapping the perfect cut
In heavy paper. Thumb
On the scale maligns a man
Who honors meat. Carnivore,
Connoisseur of protein. Gristle
And lard. Apron streaked with gore.
Saint of sharpened steel, lover of
The dead. The killed body served
Roasted on a platter.
Saint Dog Walker
Blessings on you, keeper of leashes and treats,
Of collars and plastic sacks for waste.
How you control the pack like a harpist,
Fingers employing the strings, your voice
Of strict commands. The pace
Of Great Danes leveled to Terriers
As you cross the thronged streets.
Each squats and gloved, you gather
The steaming shit into the bag
Clipped to your waist. Saint of followers
Of barkers and jumpers-up. You say
Be good. They sense your kindness,
Lick your hands like supplicants.
You dole out what is delicious,
Little icons of liver and they
Are all tongues and tails.
Saint Miner
Blessings on you, forsaker of sunlight
In the dark passages where the
Underworld begins the haunting tales
Of childhood, the bad dreams of elves
With picks and shovels. Saint of
Sacrificed songbirds. You guide your crew
To safe refuge as toxic gasses
Fill the cavities of your ache.
Graduate of the master classes
Of survival, you know how stealth
Can kill a man as easily as a cave-in.
Citizen of the perilous acres
In which you creep, candled
With a halo. The limits of your sight
Amended when the bulbs fail.
What you do is dig
For gold or coal or silver,
The ores that empower us
Secures in our houses above ground
Seldom considering your labors
Unless catastrophes demand
Our prayers.
Saint Mechanic
Blessings on you, your wrenches, pliers,
Drills, screwdrivers, nuts and bolts.
The implements of fixing, you comprehend
How things work together
Greased or soldered. You address
The broken-down world with know-how.
Saint of our relief, stalled on a roadside
Or stymied by the stuck washer
Full of suds, unable to swallow.
Saint of the toolbox with your
Good truck of solutions.
You kneel before dilemmas
And jerk a jammed part back
Into motion. Turning the living world.
Saint Baker
Blessings on you, floured hands,
Rolling pin, lard and apron.
Parker rolls and brick ovens. Glazed
Doughuts like stars cast down. Devil’s
Food cakes and scalloped pies
Like seashells thumbed with artifice.
Saint of the loaves: white, wheat or rye.
Good dough punched down and folded
Kneading air into a dream
Of what is possible. The yeasty smell
Of all that could rise
Above the firmament.
Saint Butcher
Blessings on you. Carving knives and
Cleavers. Schematic of a steer:
T-bone, loin, filet, brisket, the standing rib,
The rest muddled into burgers.
Pork chops, bacon, ham,
Elaboration of sausage. Knowing where
To strike the divisions.
Wrapping the perfect cut
In heavy paper. Thumb
On the scale maligns a man
Who honors meat. Carnivore,
Connoisseur of protein. Gristle
And lard. Apron streaked with gore.
Saint of sharpened steel, lover of
The dead. The killed body served
Roasted on a platter.
Saint Dog Walker
Blessings on you, keeper of leashes and treats,
Of collars and plastic sacks for waste.
How you control the pack like a harpist,
Fingers employing the strings, your voice
Of strict commands. The pace
Of Great Danes leveled to Terriers
As you cross the thronged streets.
Each squats and gloved, you gather
The steaming shit into the bag
Clipped to your waist. Saint of followers
Of barkers and jumpers-up. You say
Be good. They sense your kindness,
Lick your hands like supplicants.
You dole out what is delicious,
Little icons of liver and they
Are all tongues and tails.
Saint Miner
Blessings on you, forsaker of sunlight
In the dark passages where the
Underworld begins the haunting tales
Of childhood, the bad dreams of elves
With picks and shovels. Saint of
Sacrificed songbirds. You guide your crew
To safe refuge as toxic gasses
Fill the cavities of your ache.
Graduate of the master classes
Of survival, you know how stealth
Can kill a man as easily as a cave-in.
Citizen of the perilous acres
In which you creep, candled
With a halo. The limits of your sight
Amended when the bulbs fail.
What you do is dig
For gold or coal or silver,
The ores that empower us
Secures in our houses above ground
Seldom considering your labors
Unless catastrophes demand
Our prayers.
Saint Mechanic
Blessings on you, your wrenches, pliers,
Drills, screwdrivers, nuts and bolts.
The implements of fixing, you comprehend
How things work together
Greased or soldered. You address
The broken-down world with know-how.
Saint of our relief, stalled on a roadside
Or stymied by the stuck washer
Full of suds, unable to swallow.
Saint of the toolbox with your
Good truck of solutions.
You kneel before dilemmas
And jerk a jammed part back
Into motion. Turning the living world.
© 2017 Joan Colby
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