poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Bird Painter

I will not work cages into the pattern anymore, or birds singing to no one,
in a fit of flight they hold back my heart.
Bird-hearts mend slow; glue and stitches, hollow bones, sinew and tracks,
a fine-spun air, the gentle exhalations made while painting.

In a fit of flight they hold back my heart,
I paint escapes, then cover everything in
a fine-spun air, the gentle exhalations made while painting.
I could cover over canvases with wings and fly.

I paint escapes, then cover everything in
yellowed wallpaper and I set it all on fire.
I could cover over canvases with wings and fly
but this flight is made of such old pulp/ I touch it, it starts to disintegrate,

yellowing the wallpaper and I set it all on fire.
I will not work cages into the pattern anymore, or birds singing to no one,
but this flight is made of such old pulp/ I touch it, it starts to disintegrate,
bird-hearts mend slow; glue and stitches, hollow bones, sinew and tracks.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Diorama

How did the sheep get in
the church? They keep coming
until they pack in/and we are/ wall-to-wall
with sheep. No room for pews.

They are not sheep, just cotton balls
glued to Q-tips, some with faces
and others without. This is not a church
it's just a shoebox/ I painted
plastic wrap with tempera to look like stained glass.

Did it work? Can you hear them singing hymns?

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Mountain Man

Rockscapes layer on/ like clouds here/ close your eyes, see
it feels like a horse--especially here--where the lichens make a sort of mane.

When the branches clasp hands above us/ it's time for the litany of falling leaves.
Mountain man, there is a heaven/ ringing the mountain in floating clouds

like the way you hold me/ arms wrapped around/ rings to measure by
these bell sounds and embraces/ together we become the river/ too quickly deep

your horse follows my hound/ and we both drown.