POEM - Weeding

the sweat that drips off my nose like small globes
waters dusty soil beneath -
this is no drought but my body is the rain cloud.

there is a sweetness that grows within
when the weed roots finally let go
and surrenders itself -

when i get it full, complete,
not just the tops,
i am afraid that they

will just be back next week
to laugh some more at me.
I love to hold those weeds in my hand

like a shrunken head, by the hair,
and gaze at frazzled whitened roots.
It relents to the strength of arms and hands,

The berating sun smiling hard at me
as i toss the trophy into the
wheelbarrow ready for a great composting.

M C Biegner

POEM - Lesson Of The Ages

My icy hands are warmed by yours,
When winter comes to claim them;

“You have no blood,” you say to me,
“Take my hand, it will suffice.”

The split loose-leaf lines of your face,
bunch all over mine as well;

My balloon-like paunch is your
Pillow at night, my skin,

The blanket we fight over
While we are asleep at night;

Your arthritic hands crack
A samba beat for me when

You make lunch, just so I can eat.
These spots on my hands are where

You first kissed me, before we kissed
On the lips and sealed the deal,

Dotted the I’s and crossed the T-s.
These droplets of chocolate

Love, were all the sweet we craved.
Your graying hair - confection -

As we braved the diabetes
Of our relationship.

My burgeoning scalp pushing
Through trampled grass of my hair.

I become the wishing charm
You rub whenever you need a wish.

We are bound tight to each other by
Wilting shadows of young eyes;

Like ivy clinging for dear life;
Your infirmities are mine; mine, yours.

I nightmare, and you awaken,
In a deeply set panic.

Love, in this age, my dear, is not
The labor everyone thinks.

It is a concoction: (one part fool,
One part artistry, one part mule)

That allows us to withstand
Many things, replenishing

With the joy that we both set out
To garner at the outset.

POEM - For The Little Bird Breathing His Last Breaths

The little bird breathing his last breaths
wiggles on the red clay but the janitor,
with his lit cigarette dangling,
pushing his trash, goes right on by.
He doesn't even notice the hatchling desperately
flapping toward little bird white light.

Why is it that flowers do not seem to suffer so,
even as they wither?
Their end seems so graceful and quiet.

Or is this just the trade-off for mobility: that endings are so much more turbulent,
Dramatic, demanding attention?

M C Biegner 7/21/06

POEM - Weed Whacking The Headstones

Death comes dressed to the nines, in a fine tuxedo,
Made from fine purple cloth
With all the pomp and circumstance of a June graduation
Or the new-penny-shininess of a wedding.
It is really a mass spoken in tiny Latin whispers;
Its back completely erect,
Its movement a measured out ingredient
In some recipe that is grief.
Here, in this hangnail of a cemetery,
I watch a groundskeeper
Weed-whacking the headstones
Because things need to be kept up:
Appearances and faith.
Just one more thing on a list
Among a myriad of other things to do.

M C Biegner
7/8/06