Three Poems by Margaret Duda

 

Flocks of Birds and Fairy Tales

 

They soared, a flock of birds,

dark wings blackening the sky,

squawking “Tora, Tora, Tora,”

unafraid of sleeping giants.

 

Just as black hawks swoop

toward prey from great heights,

torpedoes rained from planes,

bombarding every ship in port.

 

Bits and pieces of vessels,

like shards of broken pottery,

flew through billowing smoke

as alarms sounded too late               

 

and twenty-four hundred sailors

were trapped or blown overboard,

suffocated below deck or

in water coloured with flames.

 

Those of us born that year

rocked in the safety of arms,

but the Oklahoma capsized,

its death saving the Maryland.

 

We listened to the bluebirds sing

as anxious mothers read us fairy tales,

while the Arizona and the Utah

sank in the harbour, taking us to war.

The First and Final Flakes

 

Before a blanket of white covers bare trees.

I wait for the first speck of dust or pollen

catching water molecules, then freezing fast

before falling on my cheek welcoming winter.

 

Sculpted by chance in six-fold symmetry

order out of disorder, yet each flake unique,

crystal hexagons melting my heart with joy,

bringing winter peace for rest and renewal.

 

Months from now, overcast, sombre skies will escort

a final squall to cover the slush, animal spoors,

boot prints, and tire tracks, while a final flake

celebrates the last snow of spring and new growth.

The Thirst for Creativity

 

Every morning I rise and hurry to my desk,

hair pulled back with a ribbon, and barefoot,

thirsting for and craving the right words

to create something truly memorable.

 

Dry as dust, lusting for ingenuity,

unable to replenish my cerebral cortex,

seat of reasoning, fed by my senses,

armed with billions of neurons.

 

It is linguistic originality that I seek,

artistic cleverness and revitalization,

new inspiration for my imagination,

leading to higher level innovation.

 

Hoping for stimulation, I reach for my cup,

tilt it toward my parched and withered lips,

and eagerly gulp down the coffee elixir

to summon new words and awaken a muse.

Margaret Duda - As the daughter of Hungarian immigrants, I grew up bi-lingual and bi-cultural.  I cannot remember a time when I was not fascinated by the beauty of words…both their sounds and their definitions.  I had my first poem published in the National Anthology of High School Poetry at 15, and my first short story at 17, which led to the honor of seeing my name on the list of Distinctive Best American Short Stories years later.  I have a collection of short stories about Hungarian immigrants or their children that I am preparing to submit to publishers and almost have enough poems published to fill a chapbook.  Many of the poems are about growing up as the daughter of Hungarian immigrants who could not speak English until she was five. I have had five books of non-fiction published and I am on the fifth and final draft of a novel set in a steel mill town near Pittsburgh from 1910 to 1920. The protagonists are based on my parents.  I start every day at my computer because I need to write as much as I need to breathe.