Twilight...

© J. Bridger 2011

It is neither day, nor night.  

It is twilight.

We don’t see the sun, nor can we yet see the stars, 

but still there is light.  

All green fades to black. 

The only colors are pink and blue and yellow.

It is still easy to see, at first, but as stars appear, the familiar become enchanted.  

Trees and flowers and buildings stand as sharp silhouettes against the sky that fades from bright to dark.  

The most drab thing in daylight becomes beautiful, 

and the most beautiful becomes grotesque. 

 It holds the fancy of faeries and elves and dwarves -

the monsters and demons still fear the shadows of sunlight lingering on the horizon. 

 Until at last, twilight fades to dusk, 

and dusk to night.

Butchering day...

Always a fun day, I must admit. Butchering day. This year we had 125 chickens to do, and I think it went pretty well. I shall spare you the bloody details, and instead treat you to a poem I wrote on the subject. Enjoy, if you can! ;) (Warning, this poem is not for the faint of heart.  It is a poem on the butchering of chickens.  This is a necessary activity, for those who eat meat.  If you are a vegetarian, please do not yell at me.  I completely disagree with your views, although you are free to hold them.  Our chickens led happy lives, eating and running around on fresh green grass.  Although many chickens died, none suffered. Thank you.)


Bloody Good Fun

The morning dew still shines on the grass
The roar of water filling steel basins
Still fills the air.
It is a day two months in the making.
Bloody good fun.

Our small pleasures For this day are ready.
Spirited coffee,
Dino, King George, and AJ
Crooning in the background.
Bloody good fun.

Iʼm good at what I do, and I enjoy it,
This once a year event.
Bloody good fun.

But now, as I sleep, it continues.
Ears strain for the sound of the choppers
Come to deny our rest.
Feet sore from the cold cement floor.
Nose still filled with the stench.
 Eyes weary from the endless focus;
One wrong cut and bitter green poison breaks
Or worse -- my own blood mixes with that on the table.
Bloody good fun.

My hands feel the most.
Their memory wakes me
As I drift off to sleep.
The feeling wonʼt leave,
The motion continues.
The scrape
The twist
The pull
The warm, oily, softness.
Iʼm good at what I do, and I enjoy it.
Bloody good fun.

A friend having her own "Bloody Good Fun"