Squaretable Seminars

A mother robin gathered grass
And stuffed it into the vent
Of the newer bathroom.
She must have found it cozy
So laid her eggs there.
We taped the fan switch to “off”
So none of us could
Accidentally
Flip it on and find ourselves
Covered in bloody baby robin down.
But they couldn’t stay there.

We climbed a ladder
And with a gloved hand
Reached in and pulled out
The squawking babies
One by one
And flung them
To the sidewalk below.
If the mother was there
She made no sign of protest.
Not one of the four died
On impact.

We took a shovel,
Tried to clunk one on the head,
Tried to slit another’s throat,
As they chirped
And flapped weak wings
And wriggled.
So we scraped them up
On the metal arm
And plopped them in the cornfield
To die or be eaten.


© Hannah Walleser

Our place is covered in dust:
. chalky grey,
. peach,
. and mauve.
We stand on land compacted:
. brown and powdery,
. that crumbles and sticks
. like ash to the eyes.
We cannot shake this pale veil
. fallen like a shadow
. over the sun.
And that bright shining globe
. is the Vatican.
You might want to come
. visit before
. we’ve disappeared.


© Hannah Walleser

Today I performed my first improv slam poem. Talk about nerve-racking. My word to work in was prank. Yeah, that's what I thought when I read it. w.t.f. can I do with this?

So I titled my poem something like Forfeit This: a 5th Grade Poem Revised in reference to things in class. There is no way I can paraphrase what came out of my brain/mouth next though. I said my ballroom dance class is a metaphor for my life and went with it. Soooooo difficult to get up and improv a poem with 30 seconds of preparation. Damn.

I cannot stand
you street-corner, main-door,
elevator, quad-center,
sidewalk-junction,
come-hear-my-function
preachers. I applaud
your drive to enliven
a crowd with your messages,
your guts to light fire under
butts and say what’s what.
But your words are falling
on deaf ears because
what you’re touting
sounds like bullshit spouting
from a broken fountain
of better-luck-next-time
prime rib ad-lib
that ain’t going nowhere fast.
I have places to go,
people to meet,
and a whole lot of my own
speeches incomplete
because I decided that
undivided attention
goes nowhere if you don’t
have a plan of action.

Please…
Stop complaining…

I have better things to do
than listen to you whine
about your god and his glory
in some grandiose
adventure story
that’s really about intolerance
and inequality,
and an allegiance
to cover your ass
when you decide to kill
en masse and bloody
the grass of history.
I am not too keen
on the scene of
give-me-some-money-and-
we’ll-pray-for-you-honey
miracles or the shade betrayal
of friends because
they don’t call their god
by your god’s name,
god forbid
your religion
be the one to blame.

Please…
Stop complaining…

I have better things to do
than listen to you whine
about two people
loving and giving
and sharing and living
and supporting each other,
being all wrong and against
the order of life
because they’re homo
and not hetero
in the scheme you deem
the be-all end-all
of humanity.
I’d claim insanity
if I were you
because the vanity
of your vision proves
you’re sitting
too close to the mirror
to see the love
that deigns to shove
against your melting block
of ice age idea.

Please…
Stop complaining…

I have better things to do
than listen to you whine
about a woman deciding
what’s best for her
without stopping to confer
with your delusional thoughts
of grandeur.
I refuse to let you choose
to imprison her
in three-fourths a year
of non-volunteer incubation,
no kind of foundation
to base the creation
of a life-supporting society,
until the day
you curb the perturbance
of sperm-donating oops!-ters
who with agility
shrug the responsibility
of this fertility,
and find a route
for men to bear the doubt
of carrying this thing out.

Please…
Stop complaining...

So you’ve established your
place in the world,
but your world is not
our world and I want to
-knock, knock, knock-
welcome you
to the real world.
Excuse me
for not standing up in ovation
because your statements
don’t hold up in the line-up
of listenable material
worthy of admiration.
I am not sorry
for my lack of interest
in listening to you
try to explain that 2 plus 2
does not equal five,
because it actually does
when you synergize,
so excuse you and your talk
and your self-righteous walk,
but I have things to do.


© Hannah Walleser