Brady Writes

My Mother Ate an Elephant My mother perched on the scaffolds and asked me, "How do you eat an elephant?" I imagined garlic sauteed elephant chops and ketchup covered elephant loaf and elephant ears at the carnival "One bite at a time." So much simpler. She turned back and kept painting that old house that was the perfect size. And when she'd finish a section, we'd move the scaffolding and she would paint another bite of the elephant. We planted another elephant in the garden at my great-grandfather's farm. My mother drew the plans, cut the wood, nailed the beams and the shingles. Bite by bite, the new house in the garden grew. Once, when I was home from school, she and I wired the three way switch in the hallway, which for a while, would only turn on if the light in my sister's soon-to-be closet was also on. I was up in the rafters, and she would turn the power off while I twisted and pinched the connectors and I'd call down that I was ready, and...

I'm not sure if this is one poem or two. I'm still thinking about it, and the second stanza is kind of unfinished. But I like them.

I wanted to revisit the line I had used in March. The line "The wind blew in Detroit today" calls to me as good. I still haven't hit the nail right on the head, though.

I dance slowly down the road One foot, and another, and a third the cadence of my footfalls a tiny earthquake Today I dance alone although here and there I see others dancing to their own symphony ignored by the crowd who stand silent and still As I dance slowly and alone I see a silver glint and as I dance the dance becomes me and I become the dance and the road and the earthquake When I stop the dance it hurts sharp pains as if the dance is ripped from my bones or am I ripped from the bones of the dance

One of the few times I've gone to a second draft so far on this adventure.  It didn't fit on the paper I had originally wrote it on, so I copied it over, and revised as I rewrote.  It came out stronger, I think.   I'd consider revising this one again.  I already found something I'd change.

A ribbon, flapping together in the wind soaring birds, ruffled and flowing, each tiny body at once in sync and alone. My mind is your flight and my heart, your dance.

For my cyber-groupies: To weave a word into the tapestry Examine first the warp of the pages and the weft of the letters. Spider-like, you choose the exact point and gently, gently twist. A little nudge here. A small adverb there. And slowly, slowly, the line emerges Wrapping itself around and around. You must leave a flaw A missed mark To show the watchers of the weaving Where you were watching them.

The icy crepuscules of winter's end confine me to a frozen cell, alone, solitary, and alone. I want to call out to the guard, to shake the bars of my cage, but my fingers numb at the edges. You cannot answer my pleas, my cries in the night muffled by the shrouding of the snows. I am covered, the blankets chill to my skin, my veiled form cloaked and heavy on the cot in my cloistered hall.

It's hard to find a good silence these days. I found one, once, in the dunes, by the lake and I stopped, and I heard nothing. The woods that I haunt aren't silent like that. When you stand still, at the edge of your ears A small crack A small chirp The distant rumble of trucks And the silence, though near remains just out of reach. Even now, as I sit, in the quiet, the hums and the whirs fill my head with the cues of my Present day status. I sit and wonder if we've lost something dear. In that bowl in the dunes, where I stopped for a moment, did I touch, did I see, did I taste, did I smell? Or was I Just for the space of that moment?

It has never rained on me. I stand, umbrella in hand, As the rain comes down Watching others get wet But the ground on which I stand Is dry. Dry, and yet I know That just over a bit, Right next door, The rain falls I stand, unworried And hear the weatherman Call for rain tomorrow And the next day And the next month And then the rain falls Little drips at first Drip, drip, dripping Off of my bright blue umbrella My feet are dry As the waters start to rise. Wool socks and rubber boots Made for puddle stomping And laughing in the face of the storm And then I feel that first splatter, The first drop that falls past my defenses. Into my fortress of dryness. I can see the rain How it falls, where it falls, and who it falls upon. I can see the floods Inching towards my boots And look for well-stocked rafts and rainbows.

Ice crackles, short quick breaks Then larger pops, lines lengthen Crunch and shatter Ice trickles, pulled downward Solid and flowing The winter's fickle grip loosens Then tightens again

Putting it away The North African king slipped From his bubble swaddling again Sun-dark skin reluctant to be Boxed in darkness and left Pressed uncomfortably against A shepherd, a mule, and the Baby The star-blue lights Once favored, now broken Laid off to one side A careful examination revealed No obvious flaws An inner crack hidden from view Obscures the promised stars