Poet Laura: Chicken Dreams

Finally, finally, I planned a trip to my friend Kristen’s farm, to read poetry to her chickens. If there has been one thing I appreciate during my tenure as Poet Laura, it’s been the motivation to break routine and pursue some whimsical topic to write about each month! We put the date on the calendar ahead of time, and I planned the day off from work to avoid driving in summertime weekend (New Jersey) shore traffic. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen Kristen in person, and even longer since I saw her baby girl outside of Instagram––her baby who is now 5 years old.

The drive was much longer than I expected. Instead of directing me down the Garden State Parkway, GPS led me along local roads, winding through neighborhoods and smaller highways with lots of stoplights. The journey felt like one of those disconnected dream sequences that don’t make any sense, but get you from deep night to daybreak anyway. I found out later that due to construction, traffic was heavy even during this midweek day and I had most likely traveled the quickest route despite what it seemed.

I first visited the farm when Kristen and her husband had just purchased the land, and now as I pull into the driveway I can see how much has grown in a quick couple of years. Directly across from me is a huge garden: I can see sunflowers and zinnias, rows and rows of greens, and two bee boxes at the edge of the property. I’m sure we’ll get a closer look during my stay.

As I open the door to the car, a wall of heat and humidity greets me. I’d been in the car a while. Kristen and Arielle waved from the house, and we chatted around the kitchen island for a few minutes to let Arielle get acquainted with me. She ran upstairs and came back with the sweetest black and white kitten, Meg, who is one of their recent fosters. Other cats, the family pets, lounged in their favorite sunspots while Lily and Meadow, the family dogs, wagged their tails at our feet to say hello. We decided to drive across the property to the animals, because, well, it was hot.

First stop was at the goat pen. Kristen had taken in a handful of goats who were all supposed to be “fixed.” But last spring, they ended up with a pregnant mama, and now a few more added to the herd. These pushy, voracious animals started calling for “meeehhhhhhh” and running over to the corner where Kristen was getting the corn for their meal. They followed her back along the fenceline to where Arielle and I waited and climbed over each other and on the fence to reach our outstretched palms for corn. They gobbled it up, sending kernels of corn flying everywhere!

On to the chickens, who found their way to the farm when families no longer wanted the chicks they bought as pets. We accessed the chicken coop through the goat pen, so we had to be strategic. With the lure of more corn, the goats headed one way and we opened the gate to step inside. Once we made our way into the chicken coop, I realized I left my poem, and my phone, back at the house. Oh well. If there had been a semblance of a breeze, even a warm and sweaty one, I may have considered going back to get it. But I didn’t. Instead, we stood, chatting among the chickens as they pecked and pecked away at the dried mealworms treat we scattered. Kristen held her favorite beauty, a honey brown hen; we stroked her floofy feathers before she wanted down, to have a treat before her friends ate them all up.

It was too hot to linger, but not too hot to visit pigs in the next pen over. These five handsome guys were also rescues, all sizes and ages. Immediately, although just a few steps away from the raucous chickens and goats, the energy in the pen was slow and peaceful. Calming, even. The pigs were curious but a little shy, and it took some coaxing, calling, until Simon finally approached for some muddy belly rubs. The other pigs, one by one, gathered around, but still a few feet away.

Arielle, with her pink cheeks glistening, led us back into the house, where we gathered in the kitchen to cool down. Over sparkling lemonade and fresh fruit, we chatted. I showed Arielle a picture of my kitty, Prana, who was one other mommy’s fosters! Then I asked her if I could read her a poem. She nodded her head, and listened. Very seriously. I started Jack Prelutsky’s poem Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens:

Last night I dreamed of chickens
There were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair…

I watched her face as she listened, so intently, until the last two lines:

when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.

I can’t forget her little giggle. “It could happen, right?” I asked her.

“Yup!” she replied quickly. “Especially around here!” She climbed into my lap and we finished our snack, just laughing and relaxing. And cooling off in the air conditioning.

A long overdue visit, spurred into action by poetry.

***

I remember this farm when it was just a dream. In the beginning, the dream didn’t include quite so many animals, but Kristen allowed what was meant to be, the space to show up. It’s good to have friends who dream, and who are excited for yours. Sometimes the pursuit of a dream requires planning and directed action, but often, a dream needs time to spark and air to flame. Sometimes a dream requires the dreamer to sleep. Space in the subconscious to meander and create. I’ve got a little one like that now, and I am waiting for it to reveal itself. In the meantime, I am wandering and watering the thoughts and seeing where it leads.

who would think––
breath, in the mud
a shy approach
a belly rub
a snort and retreat,
in a pigpen, peace?

Photo by Photo by K Kannan on Unsplash. Post by Michelle Ortega. 

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Michelle Rinaldi Ortega

As a quiet child and angst-y teen, Michelle loved to read and write. When poetry found her again about fifteen years ago, the Tweetspeak community brought her multiple resources on journey, from content to courses to in-person meetups. She hosted Tweetspeak’s very first Mischief Cafe! A speech-language pathologist by day, Michelle's avocations include travel across the country and the globe, as well as digital and black and white film photography. Michelle is the author of Don't Ask Why from Seven Kitchens Press. Her microchapbook, Tissue Memory, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press. You can find her work at www.michelleortegawrites.com and on IG @michellebelleslp.

Latest posts by Michelle Rinaldi Ortega (see all)

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• Poet Laura: Chicken Dreams - August 14, 2024