Pythian Games

put on your track shoes and write the miles

Archive for June 2007

Windy Day of Woe

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This wind could push a freighter through rough water.
This wind could rock skyscrapers to and fro.

Instead this wind split trees upon my green lawn,
and laughed at me as I cried, “Wind, please go.”

Written by Bo Mackison

June 7, 2007 at 2:12 pm

Posted in A Poem a Day

How Can I?

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Sun rays weave a luminosity on my desk,
flickering, dancing in technicolor.
How can I pay the bills when my finger
is tracing the patterns of light?

Birds breakfasting at the feeder,
chirping their morning psalms.
How can I answer the ringing phone
when I am listening to a symphony?

Winds whirling through the air
Whispering in the trees and ruffling grasses.
How can I hang sheets and underwear on the line
when I am lying in the grass, dreaming?

Sun shining, birds singing,
wind blowing, me dreaming?
Now that is satisfaction.
100% guaranteed!

Written by Bo Mackison

June 6, 2007 at 12:53 pm

Posted in A Poem a Day

She Lives in NYC

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My daughter lives in New York City, twelve hundred miles from me and claims
the sights in the City bedazzle her eyes and the City’s sounds are in perfect pitch while
tastes of Thai and Greek are grand and greasy spoons serve coffee with their dregs and
banana cream pie that delight her tongue.
She says she thrives on the touch of the sculpture, the statues, the fountains
all nestled in corners and courts. A sensorium, a melange, myriad of treasure,
she claims non-existent at home, although she has simply forgot.

The only sense belittled is New York City’s smell when it’s a hundred degrees in August
and there’s a garbage worker’s strike throughout the boroughs
and there’s no place to harbor the trash, except lining each sidewalk and street
and even if you’re walking at night when it’s cooler you can’t take a breath for the stink
and in cold weather when the garbage doesn’t reek, there’s always taxi exhaust and sewer fumes.

In Wisconsin we smell fresh fruit and barbecues and newly mown grass and remind her how sweet home is.
But she only remembers the smell of manure from the nearby farmers’ fields.

She prefers the stinking garbage of New York.

Written by Bo Mackison

June 5, 2007 at 10:59 pm

Posted in A Poem a Day

By Emily and Me

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The known poems of Emily Dickinson number 1,775 — enough to last fifty days shy of five years if one poem is read each day. Her poem for today, #111, struck me as apropos for summer’s beginning.

The Bee is not afraid of me.
I know the Butterfly.
The pretty people in the Woods
Receive me cordially —

The Brooks laugh louder when I come —
The Breezes madder play;
Wherefore mine eye thy silver mists,
Wherefore, Oh Summer’s Day?

Emily Dickinson c. 1859

And then it’s my turn.

A Summer’s Storm
by Bo

Flash silhouettes the row of trees,
Slant rain streams from the sky.
The grumbling of the Giants,
thunder low, crescendo high.

The fairies huddle closely
near boughs of trees spread wide.
The tiny folk from all the Woods,
laugh through the Summer’s Night.

Written by Bo Mackison

June 4, 2007 at 1:27 am

Posted in A Poem a Day