Three poems by Les Wicks
Chicken Little
I know less now.
Just as birds are Triassic & air
not poultry
some talk society but
others economy.
We are chooks.
To strut corporate grasses
promise of no death through no life.
There was a story our grandroosters took
with a tot of rum for sleep
& regular bowels.
If I published it
there’d be a solid pecking from a righteous mob.
We all crowd the middle, see me there.
Free range? Sure, pleasures are in there
a bassline like heartbeat
the surprise of harp.
Though under laws of pre-eminence
we will still have to queue
at the machinery of predation.
So choice (but circumscribed)
I always poke about,
savour those critters in the compost
but won’t eat garbage.
Why else these beaks
but to sing songs
about occasionally saying no.
I have fought & flown,
secreted hatchlings in the corners of the coop.
There’s the love of flock
& the pain of isolation.
This tiny lifespan is inexplicably complete.
Wand Chalice Book & Blade
The first ceremony was a bass line
raw.
The second was a pen, that only pretended
to be carved from an unbled dagger.
These new/ancient beliefs talk uncommon sense.
Aging women & men have little use for maidens —
it’s about the spells wrapped in will.
Pallid & exhausted, skyclad well’n’good but it’s freezing.
When you come back, pretend
you never left.
There’s witch in my genes.
A faun quivers. This Mother isn’t worried,
women’s business is open for that man
when gender will soon be forgotten altogether.
Because these ropes were weaved by xians
sure we were burnt
but that blaze was also a kind of worship.
air, fire, water, earth & aether
The years do not impart percipience
Pagans at the Pub 2nd Tuesdays
one must learn, listen to the land
reality plus.
Strength has nothing to do with slaughter.
Dirt is order.
There are few rules
almost laughable.
Kate thinks it’s spiritual jamming.
Consensus tires. I have been too sensible
so will return perhaps.
Back — when at 17 outside & absurd
I felt obligated to believe,
there was a hand.
Had caught a bus to the sabbat,
if my parents only knew.
So fringe it fits when nothing fits
we’ll save the planet
then dance a little.
Wipeout
There’s talk about the newest wave…
Politics, the ocean’s flat
barring that worrisome undertow
that can pull anyone south
towards extremity.
There are dolphins about
but more sharks.
That Surf Club is rundown.
Salt eats anything.
Each time I’m out here
there’s talk of the clean ride
a synergy of energy
pace with purpose, clean water.
It’s both a distant memory &
perhaps imminent now.
Never had much time for fashion;
my Hawaiian shirts, like patient surfers between sets
still amidst the churn
back into style, just the right barrel every 9 years,
an ideal break.
I’m