Day of the Dead Parrot

 Last Thursday morning a Rosella slammed

into my bumper.

Blinded by the fog

It bounced on the road like a beach ball.

I turned back hoping it wouldn't be squashed by a yellow logging  truck. 

Dodging cars, I picked it up and placed it onto my denim hat.

 It lay there looking as though it was resting  

 

Its chest was warm and I was hoping I could I hear its heart
 Its feathers were as soft as my possom skin pillow, where I felt like laying my head.
 I wanted to have it at home with me and to not leave it abandoned and lonely on the road.

 Even though I was sad, I couldn't stop admiring its beauty

 I'm always hoping to entice Lorikeets down from the Cedars with birds seed so I can get a closer look, instead of  just an occasional flash.

And here was one spring gift

"Be careful what you wish for when you ask for the tinderbox to be opened."

                            

Walking and watching the Tui drink and chime 

in the cherry blossoms of  the Japanese garden,

swooping over sticks, with names of loved ones. 

 Tell me you don't believe in miracles 

"But for the grace of God 

there go I"

says Granny in one  ear

   Always have clean underwear

 in your top drawer

 in case you

 go suddenly, says Nana in the other 

 It made me smile even though the occasion was sombre

The Galleries in Hamilton crammed with  bird 

 sculptures and pictures held

no crosses that day as a memorial for my dead parrot  

 I would be making one of my own. 

                       

 

On the way home in the heavy Waikato rain and fog with the

 wipers clicking and the subliminal slimming tape droning on I felt its  peaceful spirit float around me

This small rainbow body on my back seat

 had nothing to fear about having clean underwear

Its feathers were still bright  

Serendipity

This rainbow of hope  is 

buried under the lemon tree  in my Japanese Peace garden. 

The lemons will grow bigger, brighter and more juicy now and its spirit will live on. 

Long live and God bless the Rainbow

Here is my one of my favourite poems
Can you turn a sad event  into a poem? 
Try it. It can be cathartic and a good way to express your emotions. 
                                         

For a Five-year-old – Fleur Adcock

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
Into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
That it would be unkind to leave it there:
It might crawl to the floor; we must take care
That no one squashes it. You understand,
And carry it outside, with a careful hand,
To eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
Your gentleness is moulded still by words
From me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
From me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
Your closest relatives, who purveyed
The harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.


Creative Quote of the Day

And when it rains on your parade, look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow.  
Gilbert K. Chesterton

Decorate and write out your favourite poem in my studio on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday  mornings.




Phone Janet Keen 346-3435 or email jkeen@clear.net.nz for details
Chinese, Japanese  and Korean people welcome.