Stone Angels ~~ anna hood

There is an aura of suicides
in this place, too many dead
too many shattered hearts
shattered heads
scattered
ashes that litter my sky
like a scribble of inky
letters

I've heard of angels
heard their voices
wind chimes
a filigree of crystal notes
a Peruvian flute
that travels a trade wind
a magic carpet of sound

yes I've heard of angels
and their wings of sorrow
raven birds tethered
to a burned out star
a blackened star tucked
under a feathered wing a stone
angel who weeps at your head
I heard her whisper
Are you happy?

This then is for you.

Whale Songs - anna hood

No longer do you decorate
your hair with raven feathers,
or garland your neck with shells -
sandy still - smelling
of Tracadie Bay.
You used to.

You’d come for me at lunchtime,
the bruised van a blight
on the Sister’s eyes. ‘Get in,’
you’d say, ‘I’ve brought a picnic.’
We’d lurch away - you clumsy
with the gears – a black feather
bobbing in your red hair, laughin
all the way to the beach.

We’d spread our ragged chunk
of plaid on the rocky shore, dig
bare heels into the sand, face
the corduroy sea, the salty wind
sand-blasting our cheeks,
our winter-white legs. We’d
sit close, arms touching, scarf
bologna sandwiches slathered
with yellow mustard.

Off shore, whales might breach or sing
and seagulls in kindergarten blue
skies would wheel and scream.
On shore, crabs would scuttle
sideways, crumbs of wonder
bread clenched in pincher claws.

You might tell stories – silly
stuff – how you rode across
Niagara Falls on a motorcycle,
or traveled those same falls
in a barrel or, if the mood
was on you, you’d sing.
Now, you sleep and I wonder
do you fly with ravens in your dreams?

Momma do you still sing whale songs?

Skin Cape ~~anna hood

If you’re discussing earth
consider the bog princess
think how the light dwindled
shrunk the size of her space
to one sculptured moment
remember how they stalked her
with sticks and stones
turned her insides out
turned her upsides down
turned her
burnt umber in her skin cape
her embroidered woolen skirt
steeped her for centuries
under a crust of peat
a boil of insects
her last song
to her lover or sister, or perhaps even
Blue Tooth that Danish King
who clasped his hands
around the thin stem
of her neck and squeezed
until her song stayed frozen in her head
like the needle on an old 45.
Consider her single B flat
resonating since 8000 BC
until someone heard
until someone opened
the earth and dug her out
still wrapped in her skin cape
and set her song free
set it flying to where she waits
her face pressed against
that thin gossamer wall
between the living
and the dead.

If you’re discussing earth
consider the bog
princess.

Him 'n' Her

Wings for Sale ~~ anna hood

The ad read: Wings
slightly used

and my common
or uncommon sense flew
out the window to the cliff
by the sea
where I met him

fluttering down
his white wings rouged
with evening light.
He was singing like Frank
Come fly with me, come
fly, we’ll fly away
and although he didn’t have
Frank’s voice he did
have blue eyes.

I examined the construction
- no fool I -
the feathers were strong.
What sort are these, I asked.
Swan, he replied,
and he showed me how secure
was his wax, his bindings
of silk.

He cautioned me
about the sun
about the damp
then bid me jump
into the darkening fields
of sky and flap
and flap.

The setting sun stroked
me with orange fingers
planted white feathers
on my shoulders
and I bit the wind
with my black beak
and rose into the silvery night
and never looked back.

Skipping Stones ~~ anna hood

I've never been good at it
saying goodbye, but then who is?
It could never last
we all knew it
a God, even a minor God
couldn't last here.

A young woman, white as Antarctica
spoke his name.
He smiled, the lines
on his cheek like a sewn up knife
wound deepening
a familiar grin
young again beautiful
in that metallic pale light
his cigarette sparking tiny ruby
splinters on his glasses
his body trapped
in a place someplace
where I couldn't go
even his male smell diminished.

He told me all his stories
his throat vibrating
like a cello
all the stories that had been swept
under the carpet.
The fibres of his life
woven together, the women
the young men even the dogs
he'd known and cried for
brought out into that bald light.

'You must have,' he’d said,
'The Klee print
The Jack London - 1st edition
The three smooth stones
from The Ganges
Blue - the mongrel dog who sang along
with Pink Floyd' (dead now for years)
'my favourite pen.'

This was when I wept
and leaning over I kissed
him on the mouth
my breath flowing into his lungs
like a stone skipped
on the flat bay.