The Pelican Paints a Self-Portrait

—after “Bird Effort” by Jackson Pollock

See, I got the idea from an elephant named Annabelle.

There she was in her paddock, brush held in her trunk,

slopping primary colors onto some paper pinned

by her keeper to an easel. Just blobs of color, some lines –

nothing you could make out. They sell for millions,

these paintings, I’m pretty sure, and I wanted in

on that racket. How hard could it be?

Hard, lemme tell you. How to get the swag

when you don’t have a keeper. How to hold

a brush when you don’t have a trunk. And I didn’t want

just smeary swirls, “abstract” they call it –

I wanted to paint something real. Then I thought

Hey! I’m a handsome guy. What about me?

You might not believe I’m self-taught

once you see what I finally came up with.

Turns out my beak works (in a pinch) for a brush.

For the rest – whatever the marina dumpster

coughs up. Slabs of cardboard, chunks

of charcoal, cans half full of paint.

My first tries were total garbage – pitched ‘em

right back into the dumpster. But practice makes perfect

and I’m pretty sure this time I nailed it.

It’s all there: my webbed feet. My gorgeous beak.

The setting sun. White sails on a blue sea.

Kelp waving below the water’s surface, an eel

peeking out from a crevice. The catch of the day,

scooped up in my glorious pouch, flung into the air

for the fun of it. My headfirst dive, that leap of faith,

wings thrown back so my bones don’t crack.

Dang if it isn’t a masterpiece!

Before There Were Words

—for Seamus, Age 1

Your body’s a small world with many meanings.

Long before there were words

(the same in each mouth, and like birds at daybreak)

it was the sound, of water and the trees

into the distances of the afternoon.

The kitchen is the best place to sit

and look out of the window at your friend eternity,

the empty room whose door we cannot close.

There is love to begin with, only love –

but you know this already.

The evening slips you into it, has kept a place for you.

The moon has your name memorized.

You are all about tomorrow.

Look what awaits you.

[This poem is a cento, with each line taken from a different poem in the anthology Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times]