Rearview Mirror, Poetry

E.P. Ackerman &
Dale Wisely

XXThe Hiss Quarterly || Volume IV, Issue 3

ISSN 1556-245X

Bad Seed

Bulbs bought and forgotten
but stubborn as the rocks they sprouted
from. Hard to kill determined vegetation;
it demands to be, like the shoots that
grew in the car the year I bought
seeds for winter grass and tossed the sack in back.
Mighty Green takes what it can
and sucks the life from smallest purchase.
Concrete cracks for dandelions, and vines
inveigle their way into the eaves.

At Daddy’s funeral, I wondered at
a wicked tendril reaching down
through a crack to grasp the grasspaper
hung on the living-room wall the day they
bought the house. It had come to tickle
our grief, and taunt us for being
temporary things.

We buried him in stainless steel
no evil green can violate;
the seeds that fell there
sprout searching for the sun,
and man--choking on the carbon
in his soul--gasps in desperation.

© E.P. Ackerman

© Sheldon Carpenter
© Sheldon Carpenter
Sound Art

A tiny digital device under his shirt
Microphones tucked inside the cuffs,
He secretly records the Mass.

i

He sat next to an old woman
Who knelt, whispering prayers.
To make the final piece, he played this backwards
Layered over the sound of children
In the neighborhood playground.

ii

He recorded an entire daily Mass at St. Vincent's.
He returned the next day
And played back the previous day's
Mass while the present day's Mass went on.
Disoriented ushers tracked the sound to his pew
And, cursing, threw him out.

iii

He found a computer program into which he could type text
And hear it converted into electronic voices.
His favorite part was when the robot priest said
Protect us from all anxiety and
This is my body, which was given up for you.

© Dale Wisely

 

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