A Leap Year Poem

Dave Kraken menacingly waggled
his extra index finger at the
passing elementary school fieldtrip.

Penny Gregorian doodled little cartoon
coins inside her royal blue Trapper Keeper
to represent every lucky day.

Penny became Penny Kraken on
Friday, February 29th, 2008
in St Canterbury’s Anglican Church.

Before carrying her across the threshold,
Dave took his bride’s hand,
and led her towards the unkempt lawn.

Dave Kracken raised his arms aloft
and waggled his extra index
finger at the twittering constellations.

As the joined up stars twittered like
crowded wind chimes, St Canterbury’s
was mentally preparing itself

to splinter from The Anglican Church.

According to Penny Kraken’s notes,
Saturday, March 1st, 2008,
had all the makings of

a decidedly unlucky day.

The Friction Fiction Show #34

Apparently, my poem The Brutal Truth
not only appears in the online magazine Eclectica,

but it is also read by some British bloke
on the Friction Fiction #34 podcast.

Look at the 9:18 minute mark.
Today's lesson, folks?

Google yourself
regularly.

A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man In A Fish Tank

This poem,
and accompanying
cartoon,

appears in The Egregious #3
by the fine, folk

at
Feathertale.

Hooray.

On The Road to Heaven

There are dozens of rumours,
spread by life

that do more love
than good,

like that scroll of cloud up there,
that sun-gold gathering—

behold, as it curls into

itself
like a beckoning

finger.

The Empty Panini

This poem will appear in the upcoming issue of Inscribed.
Check it out, or Dave Eggers will weep single paged stories.

A Bird Family Haiku

Archaeopteryx
is no descendant of mine,
since it predates shame.

The Good Parents

I wanted to call our band The Plugs,
but I was also open to Kids In The Dais.

‘Look, Darryl we voted on this already.
If we want anything Dais-related, it is

gonna be Kids Of The Dais, remember?’
'I want to be a lumberjack!' I shouted.

I was quickly curbed for my outburst.
I voluntarily dropped & gave 20 push ups,

in triplets. ‘The Plugs sure do know
their chords!’ shrieked a muffled blurb.

Before we knew it, our unnamed band
was franticly exploring every crooked

crevasse of Scott’s semi-furnished
garage, all of us eager to identify the

source of our first glowing review.
After much name-calling, which

resulted in a vote over the tour slogan
The Blowhard Explosion, we finally

discovered a malnourished SPIN
reporter, lodged behind Scott’s dusty futon.

We nursed this little tyke back to health,
mainly upon a spoon-fed regimen of

Puritan Beef Gravy & long grain rice.
But before we knew it, our little reporter

could groom himself, eat solid foods,
& even use Arcade Fire as an adjective;

clearly it was time to set our boy free.
The very next rush hour, we walked

down to the nearest bus stop where,
together as a band, we tearfully stuffed

our pride & joy into the Green Bin.
Come see us; we’re The Good Parents.

The Glue Factory

This poem will appear as a broadside in the MILESTONE 10th edition of the wonderfully titled Misunderstandings Magazine. Also, I may use Um, Yeah Press to turn this poem into a chapbook, sometime next year. I shall keep everyone informed.

Liability Song

Dave Eggers & I,
depicted holding hands

for the contractually obligated
length of time.

The Tragedy at Butterfield

We were dumbstruck. It was as if
someone had picked up dumbness
itself, by its lassoed ankles,
and gave us a swift taste.
We were at Battlefield National
Park. It used to be ‘Butterfield
National Reserve’, but that proved
to be decidedly un-sexy, as far
as names go. We were on a fieldtrip.
The trees were to put on a play
for us; ‘Death of a Salesman’,
if I am not mistaken. Our teacher,
Mr. Lowe, unclasped his brown
attaché case. He proceeded to put
away all of the forest. All he left
behind were the round stumps,
and us. Next, he put away his flat
nose, his exotic eyes and left earlobe.
Gasp. It is not Mr. Lowe at all.
It is his evil twin, Mr. Lowe.

A Defeatist Song

Because a natural suction
existed between the old and
obliging doorways,

the bright bay windows
of a makeshift study
burst wide
open.

The poet’s pinkie finger
prospected the blank pixilation
of an MS Word
document.

He was quite resolute.

The poet had stubbornly refused
to dignify any of his creations
with any sort

of after
life.

A Valentine Comic Strip

The yawn of sunrise,
versus the yawn of sunset.

The sunrise of yawn,
versus the impending void.

A Hereafter Haiku

One fateful autumn,

the organic fruit of Good

& Evil ate Scott.

Under One Roof

Go read about my latest chapbook, Under One Roof.

It is published by Trainwreck Press.

This is the press that also brings us ditch.

Hooray.

Pregnant Moon Review

Two of my poems, "A Letter to Bruce Wayne" & "The Day the Scene Got Played Out" will appear in the upcoming issue of Pregnant Moon Review by cockcrow press.

"No Real Pregnations"

No paternal siren go.
Nor integral ape son.

Nor pastoral gene in.
No transpire gal one.

No arrogant lens pie.
No anterior leg span.

Nor paternal ego sign.
No anterior leg snap.

No art personage nil.
Nor tonnage lap sire.

No arrogant sin peel.
No parent slogan ire.

Repression Song

If I were a kindly king,
I'd receive their pomp in stride.

If I were a spindly mouse,
I'd steal their brie & hide.

If I were a moving van,
I'd stow your household wares.

If I were a lesser man,
I'd stroke that

redhead's
hair.

"Twenty Golfers Load The Truck"

Theft owl goes clattery drunk.
Turtleneck tragedy flows hot.

Deft gent try tollhouse wrack.
Cattle gets otherworld funky.

Fog dew sulky nectar throttle.

Thy dolt not fluster wreckage.

Tend the rusty lock afterglow.

Thy redneck sell out frog twat.

Lack wet get yonder lust froth.

Fund electrolyte growth task.

Trustworthy golden fact leek.

Stockholder new gut flattery.

Thunder got sky cattleflower.

Fork owl tends the clutter gay.

The Invisible Monkey

Chuck was an unseeable monkey.
And between the bananas he swung.

Chuck was an unviewable monkey.
And he flung his invisible dung.

About the Author

Ryan Bird regularly posts poems
on a blog called Robot Kissing Booth.

He intermittently accepts submissions
for a photocopied magazine called Twaddle.

Ryan’s poems have appeared
in many publications that blend scholastic merit
with literary notoriety.

They’ve also appeared
in many publications that blend sophomoric spirit
with literal obscurity.

He is most proud of the latter.

A Poem for Everything Green

- for Ally Fleming

My uncle once told me that poets say,
'Look at me! Don't look at me!'

My professor once told me that poets say,
'I loved the person I was when I wrote this next poem.'

My aunt once told me that poets say nothing more than,
'I am just so bloody brilliant.'

Whereas, my nephew once told me that poets say nothing less than,
'The world is just so bloody awesome.'

My green grocer agrees with my nephew's assessment,
except for his earnest inclusion of blood.

My green grocer says that poets say,
'Go on, and touch the lettuce.'