Wendy Videlock Poems

It's often those
who talk a streak

on world affairs
and love and peace

who seem to love
and peace the least.
...

Dear Writers, I'm compiling the first in what I hope is a series of publications I'm calling artists among artists. The theme for issue 1 is "Faggot Dinosaur." I hope to hear from you! Thank you and best wishes.

—Ali, editor, Artists among Artists


I think that I shall never fear
a brontosaurus that is queer,

iguanodon as fetisheer,
a mammoth bringing up the rear,
an astrodon with extra gear,

metrosexual squirrel and deer,
a breeder with a dance career,
a fruit with cauliflower ear,

a lesbianic Chanticleer,
a grinning limpish-wristed Lear,
the weird one or the mutineer,

but those who perfectly adhere,
stay clear, stay clear, stay clear, stay clear.
...

Full of strength and laced
with fragility:

the thoroughbred,
the hummingbird,
and all things
cursed
with agility.
...

Change is the new,

improved

word for god,

lovely enough
to raise a song

or implicate

a sea of wrongs,
mighty enough,

like other gods,

to shelter,
bring together,

and estrange us.

Please, god,
we seem to say,

change us.
...

I should be diligent and firm,
I know I should, and frowning, too;
again you've failed to clean your room.
Not only that, the evidence
of midnight theft is in your bed—
cracked peanut shells and m&m's
are crumbled where you rest your head,
and just above, the windowsill
is crowded with a green giraffe
(who's peering through your telescope),
some dominoes, and half a glass
of orange juice. You hungry child,

how could I be uncharmed by this,
your secret world, your happy mess?
...

for my mother
They are fleeting.
They are fragile.
They require

little water.
They'll surprise you.
They'll remind you

that they aren't
and they are you.
...

The forest is the only place
where green is green and blue is blue.
Walking the forest I have seen
most everything. I've seen a you
with yellow eyes and busted wing.
And deep in the forest, no one knew.
...

The word, the stone,
the ringing phone,
the part of me
that wants to be alone,

the vow of silence
in the reeds;
God descends
in ravenese.

The vinegar tasters
dip their fingers,
make their faces:
stoic, bitter,

strangely sweet.
The seeker leaves
for Bangladesh,
the prophets check

for signs of theft,
the singers sing
for what is left.
The children breathe.

Come of age.
Search the faces
for a taste of
what's to come:

the widening road,
the row your boat,
he choked with weeds,
the rabbit hole.

This holding on.

The word, the stone,
the ringing phone.
The part of we
that answers when alone.
...

I don't buy it, says

the scientist.

Replies the frail

and faithful heart,

it's not for sale.
...

If  you're crowish and you know it
give a caw

Caaaw

If  you're weighted and you bear it
send a moo

Moooo

If  you're owl and you dreamed it,
give a hoo

Hoooo

If  you're thirsty and you mean it
breathe an ahhh

Ahhhh

You are putty in my hands

said the wind

to the stone

said the dawn

to the bloom

said the dark

to the moon.
...