Howie Good

A bird I can’t identify by its red markings visits me, holding a
playing card in its beak. I feel elated to finally be remembered. But
when I grab for the card, the bird darts away.

Come back, I yell, and the bird does. I realize then that its markings
are actually splashes of paint or maybe even blood. The shock wakes me

I once took thirteen years to write a poem, if you count the mass of
scar tissue that throbs in our dreams.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on August 6, 2012, in Howie Good, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Howie Good to the ever growing list of fine poets. There’s more to come from Howie, but if you want to read more of his work before MM gets to it then head to Fowlpox press for his latest chapbook.

  2. Howie, a bird in the hand industry seems to be thriving. Thirteen ways and years to look a a bird!
    I recall a rock n’roll song,bird bird bird, the bird is a word. Your words sing true as well.
    You have a card to play,but like a bird or a dream it’s gone(like the life of a poem) yet
    returns like splashes of paint, a marking to our brief encounters.

  3. The evolution of a poem. Trite but true, the joy is in the journey. And the fickle muse continues to tease.

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