Morning Music ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 28th, 2008

Listen here for my reading of “Morning Music.”


It was a blue bird that sat in the top of a red tree.
His tail bobbled up and down as he squawked,
And the midmorning air was hot.  The sky was white.
Little clicking sounds nicked the air from unseen
Insects hidden in the foliage, and old thoughts,
Desires whose colossal and ancient edifices
We have inhabited for many millennia,
Began to creak dangerously in preparation —
In preparation for what?  A collapse?
A disintegration?  A powdering of steel
And concrete into the microdust of white skies
Where a blue bird sits in the top of a red tree,
Etcetera, and squawks of a new day
Being born right out of the slippery egg
Of the old one?  The air is warm, but a slight breeze
Cools us as we sit in the new world,
Happy amidst the swirl of wings,
And the clicking sounds of millions of hidden angels.

Partial Birth ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written August 9th, 2008

Listen here to my reading of “Partial Birth” 


Someone big took an ax, and chopped the moon
Exactly in half, the surviving truncation
Fleeing across the star-mangled heavens,
And making the whole below-world vivid
With silvery graininess.  After that,
Everything became important, and a
Strange music burst from the pores of leaves.
A desperate contest was raging, the fight
Conducted through surrogates, gigantic
Horses lying at the feet of each of the four
Combatants: One, wounded, and breathing
Heavily; one, in the throes of birth; one,
Laughing, and only cloudily visible;
And one, a female, rising in dangerous
Flight.  What happened from then on was
Both beautiful and deadly, brutal and filled
With magic.  A drum snare, a crash,
The woman returning with arrows.
The cloudy one becoming someone
We once knew.  The horse on the ground,
Disemboweled now, and screaming.
The pregnant one delivering an animal
Full-grown and wet with dew.  We wake up,
Cowled in placental sweat.  Everything
In the house is galactic, and small, and quiet.
Yet something decisively brings us to our feet.
We go outside.  And there, in the grass,
Is the other half of the moon.