Author Archives: Anne Birkam

In my garden the compost delivers sweetness to tomatoes rich as cherry juice. The dark is a sign of riches that course through the vein of every vegetable, sparkling as liquid slips down the chin, hands all sticky- oh how sublime this eating is. There is beauty all around me from the chill of summerContinue reading “Pass-along plants”

The dying begins at birth. The acorn that spawns the mighty oak is but shadowed in the timeless space of the universe. The oak may extend life to caterpillars, bees, give shade to you and me but it will be felled someday whether the wilt or axe or long life- the method of death whetherContinue reading “Bubble life”

I will rock myself today in lullabies for babes like a newborn in my mother’s arms as she whispers from her grave, with an anthem from the angels you can never be alone – oh my lovely daughter sing on my dear, sing on. The rhythm of my feet despite their leftward beat will moveContinue reading “The lullaby blues”

There once was a dove who flew for centuries in groups with sound cacophonous. This most prolific of birds, numbering perhaps a billion, amazed those who watched them. These watchers recorded in words a chorus that will never be heard again. By 1890 these flocks had vanished. No slate blue males with copper undersides, hintsContinue reading “Beautiful losers”

If you reach for the sun you will find a land of fire where everything is fuel every ego, every lie. Your wings will burn like Icarus- the diving is final. If you reach for the moon you will find a land breathless where nothing holds you down as you drift above the ground. WhenContinue reading “Hubris”

There are two of them and they come with steps stealthy and lean, almost as tall as me the one will nudge the feeder with his beak, bump, bump and perhaps the corn will fly. A leaf winds into the breeze, a masquerade of the sparrow in flight – this is how to please theContinue reading “Homeless”

When you create a painting and let it move with the words of ages and the song of June bugs – the image of a father lost in contemplation with the vagaries of children all of them complacent. Being alive doesn’t need space, only the wisdom ‘do it now’ while you can tomorrow is behindContinue reading “Sunday in the country*”

Step outside yourself and let us chase the moon, do not let the misanthrope break the thread woven through every loom. Waken! Up you go! Hold my hand and run- the moon is up ahead of us, shadowed by the sun which rises in its stead but chase it yes we must! Dispelling all theContinue reading “Chasing the moon”

The autocrat remarks ‘vassal shine my shoes.’ Herr Keuner*, he responds ‘the cotton is full of wool.’ The autocrat holds forth ‘oh peon bake my bread.’ Herr Keuner bestows voice to the mice behind walls. At St. Peter’s Gate the autocrat implores ‘oh vassal own my deeds.’ Herr Keuner with his shovel replies with aContinue reading “Brecht on wheels”