Making Widows Wince

Holiday Goat I arrange to make the razor strapped And dream of two-doored Cadillac’s. From the shadow of a broken rock Above the flatness of promised land A harshness shines in waves Of colors bruised and bloody And the wind blows grit across an empty field Where the only smells are salt and rust. Winged and weightless, the flies hover, Sure that in the intensity of sheen A sweetness is upon them, Just as I mistake the agony of effort For a prayer of submission. In spring the newborns played By summer all the doelings caged And only sheep remain at graze To see the winter coming. From the old I take the young And leave the damned to mourn the loss In faith that ritual sacrifice Will ease the doubts I’m given to. With a razor strapped and a marble slab I make a myth of ruthlessness. Mike Brady 2010

Oklahoma, Maybe. In Texas: We don’t use French in poetry -- It’s all affect, no matter the alliteration, The vowels add only unearned arrogance. Some German works: Our thoughts sound best In the language they were born. Italian is just a kind of lust With all the strangeness of rhythmic sonnets... Their love is just a hole to step out of. Latin words mean nothing. Iambic my ass, we’re not Rome -- We plan to still be standing for the fall. Michael S Brady 2010

A cast iron skillet, (I’m doing cornbread variations this year.) An electric water boiler for morning coffee. Curtains for my bedroom, (On days off, I’d like to see the sun later not sooner.) Six-packs of chili – Denison’s, Stagg -- any bean type, (Chili never goes out of style.) Good and solid socks, dark and uniform – and ones that don’t ball up into black linen chunks and clog the dryer. My mind has not the inclination for the asking For World peace, or any less of strife, And though the Sudanese could use a break this Christmas, They are probably not the type that wants the fix. (And it’s best to let the gods play to the finish, Omnipotence is jealous at its best.) Bacon’s good, but not as good as Crisco, Yet Granny’s biscuit’s might require both, I still don’t want a microwave, they’re ugly, But an iron cornbread muffin mold is nice. My father’s praise, but not so much my mother’s Though my mother knows me better than he does, My father knows me like I know my children But a

The Fall You ask for signs and see Blowing across a frozen lake Some scattered leaves Burning, as if the wind could Start a fire, Or the ice could give off heat. It’s time for the fall so The leaves don’t surprise you As they fly from branches, released by death to ride uncertain winds like the kites of careless boys in late November who are too distracted by the cold to hold on tightly -- Leaves bounding in a random dance, Trying to bounce their way across the promised winter. It’s the movement of fire in the timing of your head That makes you wonder if this is a portent Or an answer, Or just some strangeness unreported – Some farmer burning trash, Or a city in flames making its own weather-- (The ashes of civility blowing in from the middle gives you pause,) or a star exploding to show you the face of God -- Whirling flamed chariots of dancing death to make a point to you alone. But this sign is not for you, it’s just wordles