From the Wolf.

You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.

C.A. MacConnell

From the Lion

from the point of view of the Lion...hope you like it...<3, C.A.

From the Lion

Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.

C.A. MacConnell

From the Hawk

I did a li'l series of three poems from the POV of animals...I'll be posting all three...hope you like them. Some of my favorites, and a good exercise in point of view. <3, C.A. MacConnell

From the Hawk

Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Elephant.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Hawk, Lunken

 

C.A. MacConnell

Mental Tapes: Be Easy

Howdy. From a while back, but it still applies. Hope you like my essay...still waiting on some feedback on Book Four. Then I will dig in again and make it sing. And release it. Woohoo. And as always, thank you for your support of my work! C.A.

Mental Tapes: Be Easy

Don't we all have mornings where we look in the mirror and think this: I look like absolute shit. Well, I suppose I don't know if you do, but I do, for sure. Had that thought this morning. And yesterday. I suppose we all have some sort of old mental tape that plays over and over in the mind. Maybe the tapes are different, but they creep up on us, aye? Aye, matey. I have no idea why I suddenly turned into a pirate, ha.

Mental tapes. Maybe some girl wakes up terrified of work because when she was little her father told her she would never succeed and every day, she battles this demon. Some kid at the U.S. border wonders if he'll ever see his parents again because his entire life the outside world has stripped him of relatives, one by one, with no fucking warning. Some older woman collects canned goods because when she was little, there was no food in the house. Some man ferociously cleans his car at the self-service wash, even though he already did it once that day, because when he was little, his father lost it all gambling, and the message is clear to him -- the work is never enough. And deep inside me, there are still the remnants of myself as a little girl, depressed and full of self-hatred.

The tapes play on; they creep up on us in the strangest moments. Some people are never aware of these tapes. Others are. Awareness can be a beast...over time, I've worked to fight against these negative mental tapes, and there's been great progress, but I suppose we all carry the deepest ones with us for years...maybe some of us hold on to them our entire lives.

These days, I mainly battle self-esteem issues and fear. What makes me most afraid? It changes, but lately, judgment of my life and body, and the fear of being stuck. Trapped.

But there's something miraculous within all of this -- these pains can bring us together. And with all of these highs and lows, with all of these battles within us, remember to be easy on others and be easy on yourself today.

C.A. MacConnell

 

Photo: Argo's Street

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Bicycles

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Private Plane

 

C.A. MacConnell

Parade Girl.

 

Hope you have a relaxing Memorial Day. Respect to those who protect us. -- C.A. MacConnell

Clam

Take me inside.
These fragile tables,
these empty vases,
these antique chairs
have seen better days,
my friend. Outside,
weathered birds
poke hole after hole
into crooked trees,
furiously feeding,
deeply stabbing
at the edges. Take
me inside. Alone,
I sit and sip, shifting
through lost ones,
and I wonder where
you are dance-running,
searching for Sugarman,
telling each stranger
about your latest
revelation -- the long
version, freestyle,
whether or not the line
stretches down the aisle.
Tomorrow, you’ll fly
to Africa. Tomorrow,
you’ll buy a hand drum.
Tomorrow, you’ll catch
the lucky shot -- the rarest
herd of albino deer.
Tomorrow, you’ll find
the hidden fork --
a lost, forgotten path
within the infamous
trail. Tomorrow,
you'll be the first man
to ever feel each layer
of rainbow, painting
your fingertips with dew,
holding the most elusive
shades and tones,
one for each day
we live. Surround me
in your overcoat.
Take me inside
your ghetto or classy
room. Take me inside
where ceilings hold
stars and planets.
Take me inside,
where I can twist
the black band
from your hair,
letting it down loose,
whether tangled
or smooth. I will wear
your hippie hat.
I can almost taste
your too-sweet tea.
Take me inside.
Let me slide
like a clam
down your throat.

C.A. MacConnell