Friday, March 30, 2012

Shower Song


The words strum through me
Bereft of thought
Each given to the antithesis

A harpsichord choir
Humming in limbo while the
Drops of water drip upon

My shaking continent
Awake with mourning
Singing on the trees        

Each thought singing and singeing
Dripping into the humble
Multitudes, plasma and

Green. Delicate spines.

We entrench ourselves in
A tone that is mute
A hum that is silent

A Yew tree. An epoch.
Memory’s epoch explodes!
Dripping

Why didn’t you wake me earlier?

Why did you leave me here to sleep alone?
Without stars?
The verdigris continues to ebb at

The memory of what was lost
What will be returned
Musty pages. And the drills of

The day pursue the meaning
Sweet company, come over.
Join angels. Solitude in our continents

Jupiter (Don’t think!)
Take the web and linger

Thursday, March 8, 2012

The Law of Conservation of Energy

In Egypt, the adze cuts open the mouth
For breath. To speak again
For the immortal Ka, a thousand lotus flowers
A tomb holding necessities for a world unknown
Isis did not start this, nor any of the gods
But her tears for Osiris flooded the Nile

In Tibet, the bardo spirit seeks a womb to enter back into this world
As ghosts pace the streets
Eulogies and epitaphs hold a silent mantra
Music and the law of vibration
Energy and the Law of Conservation
Words of power, elemental discussion

Here, the Black Book of the World was not tasked for me to write
I will write the Blue Book of the Waves
And I will drive a flying car to heaven
And I will get him out from under the ice
To cross realms and dimensions
And love the departed in present tense

~ Melody Montgomery

Friday, March 2, 2012

Doves and Sunflowers


I followed my father into the open field, not so interested in learning how to shoot but to spend time together. So many afternoons I had watched him teach my brother how to aim at the still can targets. I would stare at the tall trees surrounding the cinder lakes in northern Arizona somewhat watching but moreso daydreaming about other places while he showed my older brother how to aim. I was six - too small for the kick from the shot gun. I put my fingers in my ears and looked off into the distance.

But today, with a small pellet gun, he would teach me. In the field of wild sunflowers, he began to explain to me.

“This is the safety,” he said. “It is very important to leave it like this when you are not using it.” He demonstrated by sliding it into locked position.

“Yes,” I said, understanding.

“See this at the end of the barrel there? You want to line it up with this triangle.”

It made sense. He handed me the pellet gun. I held it gently and tried to line it up.

Birds feathered overhead. Doves. I thought of the afternoons at the picnic table in the yard of a family friend where we were tasked to prepare them. Gut them. Remove their soft feathers and the black pellets from the breasts. On the wooden, splintered table nothing remained of those white birds except a deep red hand-sized heart shape.

In the field, my father continued on, explaining physics to me, how to account for the birds in the air, the speed of the bullet and the speed of the birds. But we were surrounded by thousands of wild sunflowers. How could I look to the sky with all of those bright yellow flowers distracting me? I saw a thousand targets, so much simpler than the birds. They swayed slightly with the dry breeze but were relatively still.

My father continued talking. The physics of flight made as little sense to me as the fractions he explained while lying on the ground under his truck as he had me hand him a quarter this or a quarter that wrench. While he stood in front of me in the field, pointing at the sky and going on and on, I saw a perfect opportunity. Line the tip with the triangle. I held the gun to the brown center of the flower before me. I can do this! Placing pressure on the trigger, I squeezed it firm. My moment, my victory, was cut short. Suddenly my father was yelling. Did I hit him? Why was he yelling?

“What are you doing?!” he hollered. “You could have hit me, Melody! You do not shoot a gun when someone’s is in front of you!”

This did not make sense. My brilliant moment of hitting my bright target vanished. My father did not see the merit in how much simpler it was to aim at the flowers than the birds.