A Tale from Old Buzzard’s Youth
by Eric Chaet
Buzzard hears of a tribe that worships him,
skims hillside & forest,
& soars high in slow circle
of observation & contemplation.
villagers flying kite in his image,
burning incense, laying out sacrificial meat.
Touched by the meat,
he dips a wing & drops straight down.
But villagers shoot arrows
& yell, No! No! Holy meat for holy buzzard!
Buzzard rises up,
catches & crushes kite-buzzard in talons,
shits on several archers & a priestess,
scoops up meat, & eats with clenched brows
in limbs of huge cactus, deep in Southwest.
Makes him so sick, he pukes 2 days.
Said the old buzzard Old Buzzard used to call Old Buzzard:
The art of forgetting is the radius of circle-soaring,
slow, slow, in blue geometry of sky & bird.
Also posted online @ Poetry Dispatch and other Notes from the Underground (USA), Beyond the Pale (Ireland & France), and Emerald Bolts (Ireland).
metanoia composure series