The Poetry Box

Pushcart Poems

Ashokan Farewell by Amy Miller

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“Ashokan Farewell” by Amy Miller, published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems about Music, released November 12, 2016 by The Poetry Box.

Ashokan Farewell

By the third note,
it’s a whine — the slide
up to D like the creak
of the old front door or the oven
I opened with a dishcloth, slow.
All the openings: the back yard
onto the creek, a song
trying to match the wind, hilltops
speaking no human name,
the shed up the rise with birch
piled under the eaves, black scent
of motor oil. Winter
beat us senseless, pushed us
into a warm corner of the bed,
bow and fingers dragged with mute
and slur, then sometimes bright —
yes, that’s right, there are other
ways to remember this:
Yes, some mornings sang
like coffee poured in hungry cups.

Luciano Pavarotti by Connie Post

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“Luciano Pavarotti” by Connie Post, published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems about Music, released November 12, 2016 by The Poetry Box.

Luciano Pavarotti

(1935–2007 ~ San Francisco Chronicle)

In the last moments –
did all the crumbs of lost notes
fall beneath the table

Did every aria run through his veins
until his breath was like
an ovation
extended, longed for

When his eyes were closed
did his music flow like
cream on the underside
of his marrow

Did he stand in front of thousands
again
holding his hands high
the applause flowering
at his feet

or, as the lights faded
like an old lantern
did he remember
that he was the son of a baker
go back to the days
when they sang together
in a modest church

Did he remember
as he departed
that bread was rising
and falling
being broken and
and passed

countless loaves
leavening
steam
all over the windows

Moonwalker by Mark Kerstetter

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“Moonwalker” by Mark Kerstetter published in The Poeming Pigeon:Poems about Music, released November 12, 2016 by The Poetry Box.

Moonwalker

Long before our season of falling icons,
in a sky of purple rain we’d prepped to mourn
the passing of the Thin White Duke and cry, Never!
In fact we’d sidled up to goodbye for years,
some in silence, some with jeers.
Goodbye to the boy forever escaping
the cares of accountants’ careers,
the tabloids gaping and nose jobs botched,
to the dangling baby caught
by a single sequined glove
while German tourists watched in shock
and others for tastier fare than Thriller
sought answers for a boy, alone,
in Neverland.

Painkillers.
Million dollar-spending sprees
were not enough to recover the loss.

Never can say —
from Neverland to Bahrain,
from Megalomania Awards to Soul Train,
to the creature not meant for this world
and the moonwalker down below —
maybe a half century here
is just enough to know
the mirror in the man.

Today they unearthed a flute
more than thirty thousand years buried.
It belonged to a boy
just like you.

What But the Music by Kenneth Salzmann

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“What But the Music” by Kenneth Salzmann published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems about Music, released November 12, 2016 by The Poetry Box.

What But the Music

Maybe graying women and balding men are gathering
right now in every improbable town that hugs
a two-digit highway pointing vaguely toward America.

Maybe it’s turning out we are unremarkable, after all —
unique and universal, just like all the rest.

Maybe it’s nothing but the same comfortable crawl
every generation makes toward first things and well-worn
memories, when they start to notice the obituaries
are piling up higher than anyone ever thought they could.

Or maybe it is the music, after all.

What but the music might have orchestrated
forgotten revolutions and unforgettable kisses?
What but the music underscored every presumed
triumph and defeat, drew us into church basements
and into cheap apartments in bad neighborhoods,
ripped down walls, egged us on, played us out?

But maybe a soundtrack laid down decades ago
can permeate our souls and chart our lives
until one day we begin to see — long after we’ve
stopped looking — that astonishing rhythms
really did change the world.

What but the music might have bound us then?
What but the music might bind us again?

Decoding Sparrows by Mariano Zaro

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“Decoding Sparrows” by Mariano Zaro published in Poeming Pigeons: Poems about Birds, released April, 2015 by The Poetry Box.

Decoding Sparrows

My father and I on the balcony
watch dozens of sparrows walking
on the roofs across from us.
A sparrow doesn’t really know how to make a nest, he says.
They are messy. Now, a stork, that’s different.
A stork makes a perfect nest.

My father looks at the clouds.
Can you tell a male from a female sparrow? He asks.

No, I can’t. I say.

Look, male sparrows have a dark stain on the chest,
like a bib or an apron. Females don’t.

And I look,
and there they are:
chests with aprons, chests without aprons.
Everything in order.
Clean or dirty,
black or white,
male or female.

I cross my arms against my chest.
My father does not look at me.
And then he says,
But we are not sparrows, you know.

The Family Legacy by Jane Simpson

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“The Family Legacy” by Jane Simpson, published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems about Food, released April, 2015 by The Poetry Box.

The Family Legacy

~ for Lois

Emily Dickinson would have baked
this cake when she sent gifts to offer
neighbors the solace of food. Her words
were tied in ribbons in the bedroom.

The recipe comes dog-eared and greasy,
the words of women who made homes and cakes,
only the butter and eggs tempered
to fill mouths, block verbs that choke stories.

This cake serves as a peace offering for rage,
a trough for sweetness. It’s batter to fill
the veins of women drained of bloods
they let for their children and husbands.

The women who make this cake cream butter
and sugar so light it’s the softness they
touch — they use the tip of a little finger
to scoop a meager feeling onto the tongue.

The bakers beat their strain into eggs, pour
ease onto edges of bad days, then fold
in flour with a purpose that never
spills beyond their wilted aprons.

The women have an instinct for timing,
a nose that permeates hot ovens.
They know exactly when the cake is done,
lift up comfort and slice it into grandeur.

The Language of Birds by Linda Strever

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“The Language of Birds” by Linda Strever, published in Poeming Pigeons: Poems about Birds, released April, 2015 by The Poetry Box.

The Language of Birds

~ for Lois

More than once I’ve asked for a sign.

I’ve asked mute air and sky how to find
you after you pass from this life.

Today a mourning dove crashes into
the window, sits stunned on the deck —
her soft body, her whispers of color —
and I get it now, watching her recover,
watching her sweet head, her shining eye.

She lifts to the feeder, coos, and another
dove flies in, struts and bobs on orange feet.
They feed together quietly, dip into
the birdbath undisturbed, as if to offer
ease on this day, the last one before

you’ll begin your leaving. Tomorrow
you plan to stop exactly what the doves do
now — eating and drinking — so you can slip
the rest of the way out. Yes, you’ll come
to me in birds, and I realize I’ve known it

since last summer, just after you were
diagnosed. Startled by a thud, I went outside
to find the blown-glass garden ball lying
on the deck, whole, an opalescent mirror
for the sun. Two ravens circled low over

my head, and I had to smile at the brightness
they’d tried to steal. Yesterday in the woods
I laid my palm against a cedar tree. Two
band-tails burst from its branches, and I
glimpsed the white curve of their rising.

Learning Abandon by Claudia F. Savage

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“Learning Abandon” by Claudia F. Savage, published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems about Food, released November, 2015 by The Poetry Box.

Learning Abandon

Once, orchards smelled like love ought to —
cinnamon and rot and leaves set to flame.
Sweet smoke. A day’s obsession.
More blatant green. More red blush
across the cheeks. Perfect skin break
for our impossible teeth.
Tangy honey to coat the tongue,
to urge us on. To more.
Twelve a piece. More.
Ladder here. Higher.

And when the gold flush of an early sun
fell, I called to you.

No waste or excess.

You and me, reaching.