SoTac: A Fellowship of Poets

Last Thursday I had the privilege of gathering with 7 other members of the century old Tacoma Writers Club which met at the South Tacoma library. I entered the gathering with a tangle of butterflies in my stomach that was greater even than the ones I get before preaching on Sunday mornings. The reason for such anxiety and excitement lay between my sweaty fingers in a manila folder labeled simply ‘poems.’ For several weeks I had crafted a poem for which I was eagerly awaiting the chance to read for this group and receive their feedback. I can now admit that I was more than a little surprised at how much power this fellowship of writers had over me. And yet, I loved it.

What follows is an updated version of the poem I read for them, and if you too would like to re-experience that tangle of butterflies than please feel free to compose your own poem and join us at our next gathering at 3:00 on Tuesday, December 8th at South Tacoma Library.

“The Pigeons of X-Cel Feed”
There they wait
like a soup line in the depression
drab tattered gray suits
atop a matching tin roof
beneath which piles the staff of life.
There they watch
for a fugitive fleck to fall
eyes darting left and right in unison
as if attached by a string
noticing everything, yet unnoticed.

A steel stead gallops along the road of rails
that runs before the bridge of their beaks
its whistle counters their coos
launching them into the sky like a kite
that rises and rolls, dips and dives
painting the canvas of clouds
with fading shades of gray
a feathered masterpiece halted
only when forced air falcons and birds of thunder roar
before their iridescent breasts
metallic cousins that match their feeble flight
until these audu bonded beauties light on a wire
parallel to a parade of auto motivated members
of another area who lurch before their wrinkled feet
marching out, marching in, marching out, marching in
an endless ebbing of a tired tide
from home to work, from work to home
often through, but rarely to
this place that has forgotten that it is
a place.

Rail, wing and wheel that once ruled this roost
chugged, rolled and flew the coop
leaving behind us pigeons
a flock yet to believe we are a flock
unaware that life awaits discovery
beneath our collective feet.

But, who really cares about pigeons anyway?
Rats with wings
and who really cares about South Tacoma?
Used cars and dive bars
So they say,
those who pass through but rarely to
this place where the pigeons remain.

Ken Sikes (November 17, 2009)