Creature Comforts, poem by Betsy Mars (MY IMAGINARY SKILL Poetry and Prose Series)

My most recent poem, published by Silver Birch Press.

Silver Birch Press

MarsbunnyCreature Comforts
by Betsy Mars

If I could talk to the animals
I’d gather creatures all around me;
carrying them catlike in my mouth
softly communicating
through touch, telepathy, or teeth—

Or birdlike, feather my arms with amethyst
and join the formation with wings,
strung out v-shaped.
We’d band together safely,
each in our proper place, flying but not in flight.

I’d blow the top off my head and spout
my presence high into the air, grow gills
and breathe underwater … and slowly …
I’d practice bubble communication
and learn to whistle beyond human earshot.

On soft cat feet, my telltale tail swishing
and back arched, I’d raise my hackles
to warn predators and rivals
to keep their distance.
In a low growl, my throat would rumble my displeasure.

In a dog-eat-dog ass-sniffing world
my every inhale would be endlessly informative,
odors wafting through my synapses
triggering unarticulated volumes

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A Little Elegy

A recent poem that I had the honor to have published on the Peninsula Symphony Facebook page.
https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10153660283825872&id=55802430871

Most of you have heard of Atlanta Symphony bassist Jane Little’s extraordinary career and unfortunately, her recent passing. A friend of Peninsula Symphony, Betsy Mars, has composed a very poignant poem that we wanted to share with everyone.

A Little Elegy – by Betsy Mars

RIP Jane Little
Record-breaking bassist
February 2, 1929 – May 15, 2016

Little by name and small in stature,
Jane was summoned from the stage.
The final curtain called at last,
keeping time to the music, she bowed that bass
and her life’s arc ended.

An exit worthy of Hollywood lore,
an incomparable finale.
Her endurance was record-breaking,
Her holy wood was breath-taking:
a near-perfect orchestration –
harmonious and unexpected.

Upon the stage she left her measured mark, a triad:
her own two legs, and the bass, her phantom limb.
Through seven decades she had borne the weight.
Not the fleet-footed ballerina she once had dreamed,
she was all depth, all resin, now risen.

In concert with the golden age,
as the last bars played in an uplifting swell,
her spirit pirouetted quietly to the rafters.
She took her final bow in synch with the music –
a departing spirit, hoping for reprise.