Two Poems, Amy Hoskins

 

Disrupted Shamans

Ineluctable Birdsong. Knotted tongues sing and repeat. A Chimney swift found its way into our sunroom. Holding onto the windowsill, wings curved into a V, hid behind the desk. We helped him out the front door and he flew well, away. Something wild escaped safely out.

In the hummingbird family, the swifts chirp and tweet above us in early and late hours of the day, eating bugs aloft. Like little fighter pilots, they twist and play in the air. Now we’ve seen one up close, like a spirit animal visiting in a dream.

Creating, breathing slowly through a muddy wall. Patterns, Eschers. Loops that catch my wings. Stop. Untangle. Breathe, create, fly through glass to reach the sky.

Moulting, shedding. Letting drop, gravity pulling down, things I no longer need. Every day, night, my self sheds old souls long gone, in order to fly.

Doing child’s pose, the floor holds me up. I remember to breathe deeply again. Soul to soul. We shiver. It’s so close. The engine is you, disrupted shamans all.

When Trees Were God

She walks through the park at 6:30 in the morning 

with her backpack on, holding on to the straps for safety. 

It is the ancient time on the planet. 

Dawn. Birds rule with song and flight for a 

few more hours until we humans wake, make 

noises of our own, en masse.

Many forms of prayer, song, gentle loving 

thoughts sent from the soul, heart, mind.

We now know well, the difference between 

fireworks and gunfire. Too well. Prayer comes in 

many forms. Fills my palmate hands with hope, 

faith in the good.

Butterfly voice, you fly with musical notes.

The ambulance just came past. Did they come for 

you again?  Bugs get crushes on flowers this time of 

year, even flirting with humans. Now I see you out on

your bike with a new friend, a new cap on. Earbuds. 

I’m happy for you.

I can’t check. It’s too distressing. Each app has its terrors. We are experiencing multiple wars. Ripple effects of trauma.

We survive.

Gaps between memories in sharp focus. A muddled brain tries to understand. I am made of green tea leaves, steeped in routine.

Walking in the woods at church camp in early summers. The woods were better than God. Were God, secret tree spirits.

Be a changeling. Hew the light inside you into flame, out of thin air, out of nothing, out of grief, despair. Be the crucible for creating your life out of dreams. Back when trees were God, we had to believe.

Amy Hoskins is a poet and visual artist creating with disabilities from her home in South Nashville, TN.  Hoskins has hosted the monthly Gestalt Poetry Open Mic, which is virtual for now, since 2017. She has had more than fifteen poems published in the US and Amsterdam. amyhoskins.com