In the Dark

He lies

in the gloom and wastes

and waits for it.

He is tired.

He dreams

about the time before.

In the dark

the moon clings to clouds and

the dogs sing

to the unburdened air. 

In the dream he lifts his son

to the sky

settles him on a red horse,

offers it a sweet. 

He wakes --

the vision of his baby

laughing,

tangled in the mane

of a wild thing,

blood

spit

tears.

The Night the Music Died in Natchez

On this the 70th anniversary of the infamous Rhythm Club Fire, Chicago Public Radio has a story about the tragedy that brings it to life with music from the band that was playing that night and recollections of people who were there. More than 200 people perished in the fire, which changed state and federal laws pertaining to fire codes that are still in force today.

You can listen to it here: http://www.chicagopublicradio.org/Content.aspx?audioID=41626

Gollum at the Crack of Doom

Before Gollum had tasted

the power of The Ring,

when he still had family with whom

to sing in the Gladden Fields, when

things like friendship, honor, love

and joy would bring

all the happiness of spring,

do you suppose he considered how a

ring – a small, pretty, shining

thing could change a man?

Did he think his first

drink of power would be

a thing so easily imbibed,

how it changed

a man inside

from what he’d been

to something he despised?

Before it split his soul in two,

before his craving really grew

into a wolf howling at

the moon in the darkness

of the Misty Mountains,

did he think he might

one day loathe the light?

Did he consider

wrong from right

or did he only ask for more?

Did he grieve his own lost soul

as his father surely did when

he crawled into his hole

to find that bloody ring?

And when he clawed his way

over friends and good intentions,

and he claimed The Ring his own,

he’d lost what really mattered

and died in flames alone.

Do you think as he lay dying,

precious ring clutched in his hand,

he wished he’d never seen it?

Did he ever understand?

A Bird's Life

Early morning.
Raucous parakeet
Negotiations.
Cleaning house.
Shouting orders.
Making borders.
I am here.
You stay there.
Each man’s perch,
his cage

Feathered jade.
Sapphire desire,
fleeting, desperate, quick
as all get out
Of me. Before
You know it,
You’ve spilled
your seed and
everything’s a mess.

The doves arrive
for brunch and wait
along the wall.
Caged
neon emissaries
peck solemn salutations
In yesterday’s hulls
And wonder.

Why do the
dull-coated birds
fly free?
How far is up?
Is the garden flat?
Or round?
Palm fronds sigh.
Water giggles.

Yellow bird
pushes eggs out
the nest, her right
to choose, the
only choice
left.

~~ Elodie Pritchartt





In California I had an aviary in the backyard filled with parakeets. I wrote this at a time I was feeling a bit trapped. At the time, I was doing a writing exercise called 100 Words where I would write 100 words -- no more; no less -- every day for one month.

I don't have the self-discipline to actually do it every single day for a month, but I did get a few interesting things out of it. And I've since reedited it, so now it has 105 words.

For any of you who are writers (it doesn't have to be poetry. Just 100 words in any form), you can see the 100 words website here:

http://www.100words.com/about.php