My name is Matthew and we are in this together.
A Sunny Day with Cats
Donna requested a happy poem about a sunny day before hurriedly adding cats to the mix. We don’t get to pick what delights us, but we can have people write about it.
Cynthia is one of the organizers at POP-UP Sunday. She keeps a flock of chickens in her backyard and was quite insistent that they were the most ruthless predators in the food chain.
Birthday Poem for Willow
Willow is a young lady who likes ice cream & playing board games. She is one of four sisters, and is, I can only assume, the fastest member of her swim team. Here is a poem to commemorate her 10th birthday.
FORGIVE ME! I have been on vacation and isolated in one of the ferny, remote corners of New York state and have thus failed to notify you that I will be typing poems at an event this very weekend.
Please consider acting upon this incredibly late notice and coming to see me, along with many fine vendors of vintage and handmade goods, at the July 27th POP-UP Sunday. I will be there from noon to 5:00 PM.
POP-UP Sunday is an outdoor market at Ornamentea in downtown Raleigh. There will be beer and food trucks to compliment your very own commissioned poetry!
The Weather Hen
Here’s a poem commissioned at June’s pop-up market at Sola Coffee Cafe. It’s for a mother whose frequently texted weather updates have earned her the nickname “Weather Hen” among her adult children.
Poem for Jordan
Here is a dream I might have had,
a sequence of dreams I might have had—
We are sitting in orange chairs.
We are sitting in the bottom of a well.
I understand the well to be my car.
In dreams one understands
this sort of thing.
You say class will begin soon.
You say gather your god’s eyes.
You say Arlecchino is pregnant!
We deliver the baby
in the back of a cab.
I say how I sing to my cats too.
You say yes
they seem to understand.
You ask if I like boneless Thursdays,
crack a lime-a-rita, & nod.
I make a ring
with my right finger & thumb.
I poke my left pointer through.
Thursdays are never boneless
In dreams these things are zingers.
In dreams all scenes have punchy buttons.
A handsome bow tie intones like honey
saying something in wonder of citrus.
You mention Diplodocus.
invokes the Konami code.
The squircles glow purple.
Together from trousers
we exorcise penguins.
Together we summon
the ghost of Del Close.
Together we goof on
chess club sex festivals.
Together we let the window unlock.
Momentous, the sitter
comes in from the roof.
In dreams we never
fumble the punch line.
I try to say
how my druthers are your license plate.
I try to say how I feel
like a real princess.
I try to explain
how in each dream
you hand me a cake
how we’ve never met
but this cake has my name on it
how I might wake to find
I’ve plowed my way
through stacks of blackout flapjacks
how these dreams have released me
hootenanny & a half hootenanny again
more powerful than ever.