In Quiet Buzzing

In quiet buzzing Of the day I find a voice in compelling loneliness where there is great companionship. This is what i have always known about me; That I am drawn from nascent color; of pinks and greens, reds and blues - Living (I have learned) is an act of contrition that needs love and feeds on pain It is a mortal embrace with joy. M C Biegner

Exploration

Sometimes I am the New World Begging for exploration; Rich with spices Drunk with gold; Hoping to be colonized, Settled and civilized. I have a culture all my own, With my own language And my own customs. I don’t need your flag planted in my soil – Nor do I need to be claimed for another; I want no foreign gods Or Faiths taught to my children In other languages; I do not need pox riddled blankets Or my own wealth exported As the pretext of some sort of allegiance. I do not need to provide you with cheap labor, To make your TV sets or Nikes. I do not need to sell you cheap beef To satisfy your McValues - I am indigenous unto myself You must have the courage To find me and name me. Inside of me is the unknown and the unknowable: These great strengths and my greatest fears. M C Biegner 5/2005

Remembrance

Re-membering; Adding back Those parts of us we lose Growing up. Re-membering; Adding the limbs of trees We climbed as kids; Adding back Who you are, Who I am.

The Jazz of Daffodils

Daffodils know the rhythm They bounce like be-bop, They give it all up For the slow, syncopated, jive notes Of brassy horns – With faces full cheeked, like Gillespie Or pointing downward at the ground, like Miles And you think how they blow, Man! How they blow! Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. You have to feel them slide and glide; You have to know the fronds Are like outstretched palms asking You to slap them five – “Can you dig it?” they whisper to you, With a sawdust voice; The xylem of each stem Transports the smoothest water like smoky Kentucky bourbon. Daffodils hold and bend and stretch Each note, like memory or pain. Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. Then, after all this talk about rebirth is done, Go grab a hyacinth And hold her tight, real tight – And close your eyes and just sway To the Daffodil’s music Because, man, the only song he’s playing Is that change is just another kind of Death. M C Biegner 5/6/2005