MY DOG
Soldier bit me.
Soldier picks me up.
Soldier is my dog.
I don’t want to go home.
I want to finish my big hole.
I don’t like Soldier any more.
Soldier is big.
Soldier is boss.
Soldier bit me on my collar.
Soldier always bites my collar.
Soldier made me come home.
Soldier is a bad, bad dog.
I hit Soldier on the head.
Soldier made me come home.
Soldier always makes me come home.
Daddy, please tell Soldier not to
carry me.
Soldier is not
an obedient dog.
He won’t do what I say.
Give Soldier a spanking.
Soldier thinks he is boss.
My Dad laughs.
My Dad says, “Good dog Soldier”.
Poet's Staff
Poet's Staff is a collection of the poetry and art of Fran Sbrocchi
Saturday, April 28, 2001
Wednesday, April 25, 2001
I have danced
in the womb
in the soft
womb of earth
I have entered the circle
I have been renewed
My belly is filled
my hear beats
to the rhythm
I shall green
I shall go forth
over the red land
I shall eat
I shall enter her daughters
My children will be born
to honour
for I have danced
in the womb
in the soft red womb
These are my sisters
the name-givers
the walkers
the sisters have given name
to the birds
to the snake
to all running things
to all things that crawl
and the sisters
threw spears and the food that they ate
was named
was made sacred
Our sisters dug earth
and named the roots
and the roots roots
were made sacred
I walk in the footsteps
of my sisters
I am filled
Tuesday, April 24, 2001
Photograph sitting on a ledge
She smiles over a mug of coffee
A glass
empty and transparent
are there no marks?
She sings a magpie
She is singing
the magpie
Where is the pen
stroking white paper?
Why is he drinking
out of a delicate
china cup?
I am a small
square pane of glass
looking at you
looking
through me
Parents
When I was old enough
to learn about genes
I wanted
to sort them neatly
into two piles
and take only the ones
that were his
Of course
I wasn't successful
and the older I get
the more obvious it
becomes: I
took the wrong
pile
Dry season
I've read and written
all this long afternoon
Drought seems forever
I know flood waters lie
over tops of bushes
in desert places
I try to believe
a city by the sea
can soak rain
into her bones
when winter comes
Last evening
The evening swallows gather and dance
a strange wide-circling sweep against the sunset
I watch and wait
wait for birds to gather close along the window.
Did your winged spirit join as birds were lifted on the wind?
The room is silent save for burbling machines.
I watch, hold your hand, and tell you.
Do you hear me through the pain?
When jacaranda blooms should I go again to the window?
Will I find comfort in the movement of tiny birds
or rest in their resting?
Do windows here keep spirits in or out?
I wait watching myself
waiting.
The Recall
A dark moon shadow falls on white snow
she hears no sound
but knows
that one day darkness will not hide
what she no longer wants
to know
The shadow tells her
tonight
that it is time to go back
through all those far places where her
longest
shadow fell at midday
The scent of pine trees
ringed around her
where she could not cry out
or
tell what it might be
that frightened
her
Dream
I spend my hours
waiting
I do not know what I am waiting for
not as I did when young
and waiting
a phone call for a new job
or train to someplace ?
Waiting is now
for the inevitable
How time
will come
and how?
On soft paws? Will he make prints
on newly painted walks?
Will I know when time has come
or will I be in some strange silent place.
walled in?
Will he spider across the floor
reach me in silence?
I am no working these warm days, my eyes grow weary quickly.
something has been eating the impatiens.
I am neither impatient not hurried.
Everything is slow.
There are no fishes in stagnant pools.
Fish give sustenance but I no longer need to feed.
I rest in aging rock .