A poem for my mother

My mother doesnít like,
the things I write about,
tells me the world,
is not an ugly place,
you just have to look,
for whatís good,
and that no one
wants to read about,
drunken husbands,
throwing a dog into
a river,
or a mother abandoning,
her son based on him,
having downís syndrome,

I will admit,
that life is full of
small, magic moments,
that slow the world down,
long enough,
to regain your balance,
and make you believe,
in something else besides,
but the world always starts again,
and those are the moments,
I think should be written about.
leave the rest to the priests,
the ministers,
the miracle workers,
the politicians,
ad infinitum.

this is about,
the best that I can do.

Eye Pennies

A little hiccup,
and my grandmother was gone,
cigarette still burning
between her yellowed,
index and middle fingers,

I plucked the cigarette,
out from her hand,
and took a long drag,
as my sister,
cut a lock of her hair,
and placed pennies,
in her eyes.

In the kitchen,
eating chocolates,
we argued,
pointing the finger,
back and forth,
over who would call,
whoever it was,
we were supposed to call.

You should,
No, you should.
Well, Iím not.
Neither am I.
So, I guess sheís
just going to rot then,
I guess so.

We just chewed and chewed,
stared and stared,
as the dark poured
in through the window,
and neither one of us moved.

How to be invisible

Turn off the television,
unplug the radio,
take your phone off the hook,
but remember,
to call and cancel first.
Get off the internet,
quit your job,
take what little or lot,
of money you have,
and put it some place safe,
donít tell anyone,
your whereabouts,
or write any letters,
or say ďI love you,Ē
like itís the last time,
youíll ever say it,
and for Godís sake,
donít say it,
like you mean it.

Shave your head,
burn your clothes,
drive your car,
down an empty dirt road,
and cut open,
the palm of your hand,

(it will heal quick,
donít worry.)

on the seats,
the dash,
the steering wheel,
make it look,
like the scene of a crime,
light a cigarette,
spread your arms,
wide like an eagle,
and when you hear
the horses coming,
donít run,
or scream,
just let them carry you away.

Tyler Bigney is a writer living in Nova Scotia, Canada. His poems appear in such fine magazines such as: Nerve Cowboy, and Poetry New Zealand.

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