Poetesse_sks

July 11, 2011

2011-07-10T21:19:00.003-04:00

I have been busy writing poems this month, but have not been so good at posting them here.

Please don't give up on me my friends!!

Here is today's poem. I will try to update my posts this week.

This is a poem I originally posted in April, but have re-worked based on comments I received.

Visitation

Every Wednesday at four o'clock
the guards come down to the cold gray lobby
of the Correctional Treatment Facility.
Even the afternoon sun
finds no warmth here.

The guards bring the lists of visitors,
names that change from week to week,
but faces that remain the same.

Silent faces
screaming to tell their story.

Pained faces
hiding shame.

Questioning faces
trying to understand
a language not their own.

Anxious faces
hoping this is not the week
their loved one has been moved.

Masked faces
full of bravado.

All guarded.

We are all outsiders
waiting to meet the guards
watching each other gather
listening for our names.

When all have been stripped
of their pride and their shoes,
when every last belonging has been stowed,
when all have been searched,
down to the tiniest diaper,
the guards take their charges upstairs.

Upstairs, where our men -- sons,
cousins, husbands, brothers --
wait anxiously
one to a table.

All faces brighten in this forty-five minutes
where we can all hold hands, laugh
smell the clean of children's hair.

The faces of our quarters and dimes
roll through the snack machine
We pretend that it's a meal
and give thanks.
Perhaps for even five minutes
we can talk ourselves into being
gathered at home.

But in the end, we leave in darkness
exiting through the same lobby
into the quickening night.

Every one of us leaves a piece
of ourselves behind.
Something, perhaps, as intangible
as the reflection of a face
inside the cold panes of glass
surrounding the lobby door.

July 4, 2011

2011-07-04T10:16:00.002-04:00

In search for themes, I find myself going back to childhood days in Ohio. The wonder of summer and the tallness of corn (even though at the time, I never thought much about it). Living in a city now and going back to my roots, we drive along 2-lane roads where either side is corn taller than the car and as far as you can see. This poem is a memory I have of going to bed in summer, when the night has not quite taken over. The quiet of the evening broken by katydids, crickets, etc. But also the comfort in hearing them through the open windows.

THE GREAT DEBATE

Katie did.

Katie didn’t.

Katy did.

The argument went on and on

night after night.

All summer.

Every evening began

a new round in the debate.

Katie did.

Katie didn’t.

Katy did.

We lay in our beds

light still holding onto the sky

dark silhouette of pines

looming outside the windows.

Katie didn’t.

Sometimes there was a pause

as if new evidence in Katie’s case

had come to light for review

all sides taking it into consideration.

Katie did.

Katie didn’t.

The disagreement continued.

It continued as the sky relaxed

and fell into darkness,

became louder as Big Bear appeared,

took his position on the matter.

Katie did.

as the archer raised his bow

concurring with the crowd.

Katie didn’t

and neither did we.

We tried to stay awake long enough

to hear the outcome of her fate,

eyes weighted by the rocking rhythm

Katie did …. Katie didn’t ….

we surrendered to nocturnal journeys

far from Katie and her advocates.

Our reveries were interrupted only

by the creep of morning and the question

of the doves “who, hoo, who?”

No one answered them,

but we always knew in our hearts

that it was never Katie.

Vision

2011-07-03T16:52:00.002-04:00

A door closes.

A window opens.

People shout,

Jump, jump.

It takes a far-sighted person

to see the encroaching darkness

is not a void, but a pair of wings

with which to fly.

Writing for July

2011-07-03T16:49:00.004-04:00

With help from my friends, I realize that a writer needs to keep at her craft. I have accepted an writing "challenge" (for lack of a better word) to post something every day in July -- a poem, prose, anything that I have written. I accepted as a way to keep myself writing every day, but also to read what my fellow writers have posted and to think about their work and be inspired by it.

Feel free to check back here every few days in July. I will be posting something nearly daily. Happy Reading!!

Vision

A door closes.
A window opens.
People shout
Jump, jump.

It takes a far-sighted person
to see the encroaching darkness
is not a void, but a pair of wings
with which to fly.

2011-04-02T11:31:00.002-04:00

"the trouble with poetry is ... it leads to more poetry."

April is National Poetry Month and I am once again participating in the challenges to write a new poem (rough is better than nothing) every day this month. So far, I have not totally gotten into the mind of it. In past April challenges, I have found myself steeped in poetry all day long...thinking, reading and viewing all the world through the window of poetry. So, on this overcast and somewhat wintery day, I will embark upon my journey to create something new every day. Here is yesterday's poem.

DEFECTIVE PARTS

Our Chrysler New Yorker,
a behemoth car of the seventies,
would barely clear the sides of the garage.
The bumpers rusted off, twice I think
the driver’s bench seat locked in place
so far back from the steering wheel
that Mom had to drive with a pillow
just to reach the gas pedal.
The ignition lock broke and it would start
with no keys dangling from the gear shift.
But the car never surrendered to its faults,
never gave way to the defective parts
that refused to do their job.

Maybe I spoke too quickly,
comparing Katie to that car.
But when Katie complained of being old,
of knees that did not do what she asked.
I began to think of defective parts,
of objects old before their time
and before I knew it
Katie and Chrysler were together in a sentence
like the answer to a practice test:
sore knees are to rusty bumpers
as Katie is to …
(c) a 1970s Chrysler New Yorker.

Perhaps my imagination is too vivid.
but I still remember that yellow car.
We drove it all over town
from the library to the cemetery
where gravestones read like books.

That Chrysler was with us all the way through
the heartbreak of high school romances,
our brother’s wedding,
the death of a best friend,
vacations across the country,
the blizzard of 1979, high school graduations
and arguments with each other.

It should have fallen apart,
its rusty bumpers falling off,
but at the end of the day
it sat in the garage, waiting
for us to start its heart of an engine.

Of course I could be too sentimental,
but the Chrysler could never help
that it was constructed with defective parts.

Even still, it never failed us,
and just like Katie,
it was quirky, steadfast, and loyal to the end.

October 27, 2010

2010-10-27T20:38:00.001-04:00

Crisis of Faith

God was having an existential crisis.
Like the humanity that created Him
in its own image, or vice versa,
He was not sure who He was.
One moment He was overcome by anger
destroying entire towns
with a wag of his finger.
The next, He was sighing like a parent
over the transgression of a favorite child
with forgiveness coming and sometimes ice cream.

The local papers had informed Him
that He hated certain types of people.

He had reached a conundrum:
did He create evil, was He capable of hating?
If He stopped believing in the world,
would He cease
to exist?

October 26, 2010

2010-10-26T19:33:00.000-04:00

All Hallow's Eve

Remember how we loved Halloween
before it, too, was taken from us?
The thrill of walking along
the already-darkened street at supper time.
The leaves reaching down as if to run
their golden fingers through your golden hair.
It’s spooky you would whisper,
your warm breath enlivening me,
as you clasped your hands around my neck,
holding on for dear life.

We wandered with a purpose, you and I
under the arches of the trees
amid the wandering spirits
seeking their rest on this night.
Spirits whose gauzy outlines were reflected
in the night clouds and the webby branches
on either side of us.

This year, I can no longer sustain my anger.
It tires me.
I will wander alone
still seeking something –
your outline in the trees,
the specter of your hand on my neck,
a warm breath as you whisper
and pass by me.

October 24, 2010

2010-10-25T19:37:00.001-04:00

Evening News

The news had become unbearable

especially for God.

He was worn down by it.

Nothing was sacred any more.

The angels said He had no one to blame

but Himself -- He took things too personally.

God removed His glasses,

rubbed His temples reflexively.

Was this how He had imagined the world would be

or had the world surprised Him?

He worried about how others perceived him

then realized perhaps

He should accept Himself instead

(with all His quirks)

and damn those who don’t.

October 23, 2010

2010-10-23T16:00:00.000-04:00

Breakfast as Night Club

Awaken to the sibilant sounds of bacon

dancing lusciously in the pan,

Listen to the coffee beans singing

their smoky chocolate voices grinding over one another.

Catch the fluid whisper of maple syrup kissing

golden-headed pancakes at a corner booth

where they think no one will spy them.

October 19-22, 2010

2010-10-23T07:21:00.002-04:00

Apologies my friends, I have fallen behind this week. I actually wrote this poem on October 19 but have not had the chance to post it until today (Saturday). Life has been a little bit crazy this week!

Mind Games

My mind should never be left unattended.

In solitude, it will behave like a rotten child

going into the parlor, peeling back wallpaper

just to discover what's hidden beneath.

My mind often wanders aimlessly on its own

never informs where or when

returns with the smugness of one

with a secret lover.

I wish we were on better terms

I could use a confidante.

Finding myself at odds with myself

my mind and I could even the score.

October 20, 2010

Today, I was completely having a blank mind. Not in the good zen kind of way either, but in the way that you cannot seem to think of anything or produce anything of any worth. So at lunch time, I shut myself in an empty office and riffing off a line about ennui, I wrote the first things that came into my head. Tried not to think about it too hard. Here is what I wrote, with a few edits here and there.

Encircled in smokey gray October

ennui presses in

with tombstone flatness

weight of freshly sodded grass

compounded by 6 feet of earth

a pressure whose formula

matters not to those who feel it.

In the moment of awakening

a fine dust lingers

impeding resurrection.

October 22, 2010

Gossip

You may close the mouth of an oven,

You may close the mouth of an oven
but how do you close the mouth of a town?
~Indian proverb

He said what she thought
and what everyone had heard.
One voice repeated
only every other word.

Truth looked a little frayed
as mouths chewed holes
like hungry moths
in its delicate fabric,
allowing a space

for vipers to nest.

2010-10-18T19:54:00.002-04:00

Again, taking the feeling of anxiety I get in the fall, compounded by the millions of activities that seem to spring out of the lethargy of August, I am trying to take a feeling and make it bigger. Put it into abstraction. Connect to the larger world.

Falling

October always makes me anxious.

The birds wake up later

their calls less frantic and hurried.

The sun spends less time hanging around

even though its light is sweeter.

The squirrels dig through the yard

at a breakneck pace.

September always comes around

with its new-crayon smell and its brand-new

notebook page promises,

but always ends the same way.

The novelty wears off, as we are carried

across the seasonal borders

finding ourselves in

October

firecracker color explosions

growing darkness

and the rains

we all know

are coming.

October 17, 2010

2010-10-18T19:52:00.003-04:00

A beautiful Sunday following on the heels of a blowing, chilly Saturday. Reading books about the poetic process and how other poets contemplate, construct, pick their language, I decide today to work with a feeling I have about October, but to take this feeling outside of myself and make it bigger. At the same time, making the poem more compact.

Place Settings

October blows into our lives

makes us believe

we have been transported—

she to a Parisian park,

he to the memory of a tree-lined street.

Maybe it’s the angle of the golden-hued light

or the smell of the dusky breeze brushing our faces

or perhaps even the tornadoes whirling

around inside our ribs.

October 16, 2010

2010-10-16T10:57:00.002-04:00

I have spent most of this week feeling out of sync with the world (large and small). I have this feeling of being on the outside of a window looking in at everyone else, or being on the landing of the staircase (somewhat obscured) and hearing the party downstairs. I think that is brought forward in some of the last poems I wrote this week.

When asked what she did before
she had children.

She answered insightfully

I walked the world with closed eyes.

Poem for October 15

2010-10-15T11:20:00.001-04:00

It’s not about apples and oranges
their defining luscious curves,
not a geometric conundrum
with square pegs, triangular openings.
It’s metaphysical, shape shifting
like the way cookies change when baked
but still retain their original form.
In the end, it’s about fitting in
bags what items you want to carry
and deciding which train car
gives the best view.

October 14, 2010

2010-10-14T12:06:00.001-04:00

It is raining, and the sky looks swollen and heavy. Much closer to the ground than usual. The air is dense and dark and feels like moving through jello. It is a great day for contemplation and contemplative subjects, thus ...

The Importance of Words

Buddha once said, Be
in this world,
but not
of it.

Thus, I carry
a preposition
in my pocket
in case I meet
an obstacle—
instead of going around
I can go through.

October 13, 2010

2010-10-13T11:52:00.003-04:00

A little levity for today. I found myself looking around the house for some inspiration. A friend had written earlier in the month about a bowl full of bananas and apples. I had no interesting fruit, no inanimate objects that immediately lent themselves to the poetic process. But then I began to think about the nursery rhyme "and the dish ran away with the spoon." And the word play you could get with the cutlery. What if their disappearance from the drawer (because we do not have a complete set of anything) was not happenstance? What if it was planned? Where would they go, what would they do? And I liked the idea, once I got started, to perhaps charge some of them with a shade of politics.

A little forkplay, some spooning and a knife

There was conniving in the cutlery drawer.
The knives were sharply divided,
some demanding a coup.
The spoons, who had always been to the right of the knives,
could not get behind them.
The forks could see all points,
but were willing to compromise.
The serving utensils were too loyal
and remained aloof from debate.

The decision to escape was nearly unanimous.
They would disappear slowly, in small groups
a few spoons here,
a knife and fork there.

Not having been beyond the backyard,
they agreed to meet at the picnic table
under the full moon at midnight.
Stainless steel glinting,
the first to arrive would hoist
a flag of freedom—an argyle sock
found in repose by the dryer vent.

October 12, 2010

2010-10-12T08:17:00.002-04:00

There is not much to say about today's poem. I think it speaks for itself. However, the process remains a mystery. Just after writing about how hard this month has been, how much work the writing, this poem came to me as I was in the shower. Born fully formed in the moist air and cleansing water. Hmmm......

Poem for Tyler Clementi

(and for all those persecuted for their sexual orientation)

Fear in your eyes

pales alongside

what hides

under the mask

of those who torment.

Fear and hatred being ugly

children of Ignorance.

I ache that you died alone

not cradled in tender arms

of one strong enough

whose love would carry you

through time.

2010-10-11T17:41:00.002-04:00

Writing this month has been very hard so far. It feels like work. Usually I can get into some kind of a groove and get a rhythm going and then my mind starts ticking off ideas like crazy. But this month, I have really had to work with each idea and a few I have folded into my journal can't seem to get anywhere. I don't know if I am fighting with the flow, so it doesn't come as smoothly, or if something, some aspect of my creative side has dampened energy. Hard to tell.

Today's poem came to me while I was watching my cats in the morning. I began to that cats are similar to writing poetry -- there are parallel qualities. So I modeled my poem (ever so slightly) after a poem by Taylor Mali, entitled "Falling in Love is Like Owning a Dog"

Writing Poetry is like Having a Cat

(with apologies to Taylor Mali)

Writing poetry should not be taken lightly,

while poems can be frisky and fun at first, but

writing poetry is a commitment.

Poems are mysterious creatures,

People have written poems for thousands of years,

yet no one really understands them.

Poems are very independent

and want things on their terms.

Poems can be cunning and tricky.

Let’s say you want to take your poem for a walk,

you put on the leash and go outside.

Your poem will let you lead for a few blocks

perhaps tugging at the leash

but when you turn your head,

it will slip its collar and disappear

showing up later with brambles

and scents of unfamiliar places

-- with no explanation.

Poems are fickle characters.

Sure poems will warm you and nestle into you

but just as quickly they will turn on you

and bite your hand.

It’s best to approach them cautiously.

The more attention you lavish on a poem,

the more it will ignore you.

I frequently sit down to work on my poems

and just as quickly they abandon me

to lounge in the sun or chase an idea about the room.

But let me start chopping onions, or drive my car

those same poems are winding about my legs,

waving their metaphors under my nose

– anything to monopolize my attention.

Poems may be written,

but they are rarely owned.

However, once you have one poem,

you will want poems for the rest of your life.

October 10, 2010

2010-10-10T18:13:00.002-04:00

I have long had a fascination with crows, esp. since they are often maligned. They are some of the most intelligent birds and have existed in many cultures and places around the world since ancient times. They appear in cave paintings in one form or another, and some believe that they may have crossed into North America accompanying the human hunters in some way. This is one of a series of poems where I explore the ancient and magical, yet benevolent and wise side of the crow.

Language of crows

Even on the days I don’t want to,

I make myself

take out the shoebox of words

and I think about the crows.

Remember the crows?

Oracles of the morning,

iridescent black voices

vollied “kaws” from tree to tree,

echoing off the canvas of our tents.

We called them our crows,

as if we could own them that summer.

Thought we understood their ancient tongue

percolating down the banks of the South Fork

syllables swallowed in river currents

lolled by its watery mouth

chewed up by boulders, beds of pebbles

and spit into channels of loamy soil

where we thought we discovered our pre-history

and where the crows came to feed.

The crows eyed us as they fed on the river shores

scratched out of the clay pans the ancient tales

that fortified their primitive spirits

their origins as old as our own.

They talked and laughed and sang to each other

our history, the world’s history,

the secrets of our future and what we were

to become.

Fall came, we packed our artifacts in boxes

abandoned the South Fork and promptly forgot.

The crow voices fell from the trees in cascades

red, gold, yellow and brown.

Buried but not forgotten.

Even now, we detect echoes in the distance

heard but not seen

And on those days , I have this shoebox

my secret cache of inky blackness

waiting to tell me something

in an iridescent tongue.

October 9, 2010

2010-10-09T12:00:00.002-04:00

Friday seemed to come and go in a blink of tiny tasks. Small bits of a job that add up to little or nothing. Suddenly the night surrounds you and your hands are still empty. But today is a fresh start, and with the news that the rescuers in Chile have finally broken through the earth and reached the miners trapped below. There is a swell of hope in the cool fall air ...

First Light

(for the 33 miners trapped in Chile)

Imagine the first light

bouncing pebbles down the shaft

staining the walls like tears

on grimy unwashed faces.

The body does not like darkness

ask the 33 swallowed in the mouth

of earth’s hushed tones.

Devoured but not digested.

Imagine the display of cosmic fireworks

embers burning through strata

trickling rivulets into the permanent night

that cradles these men.

Would they delight in this interruption

feel joy to discover a sun

which heretofore had ignored them?

Would there be relief, like the puncture

of a swollen wound

finally allowed to heal?

Would the fresh air carry in its breeze

the joyous voices from the hilltop?

We can only watch the flags flutter,

brilliant colors in sunlight
and hope.

October 7, 2010

2010-10-07T12:51:00.003-04:00

Today's poem I wrote as a rough draft back in April. I asked for comments from my poet friends and we decided that the ending of that draft just did not work, although several lines were worth keeping in. I have been working on the revision to this poem nearly all summer in fits and starts. I would have an inspiration and it would go nowhere or make the rest of the work ackward. So, after much reflection and many crossed out pieces of paper here is the poem in its next incarnation. I decided to change the title and to divide it into sections, which allows it to flow smoothly.

Outside In

. . . in trying to heal the wound that never heals,
lies the strangeness, the inventiveness of a man’s work
(Garcia Lorca)

1. Outside

I know about the strip searches after our visits
as if our presence left you with a piece of humanity
that had to be removed.

I know how you kept to yourself, reading
praying, adrift in darkness,
to avoid answering dangerous questions.

I know you were embarrassed by the number of letters
arriving daily, missives from those who loved and missed you,
while others around you were often ignored.

I know on the nights you could not phone, how you asked
God to send a message that you were safe
so we would sleep quietly, dreamlessly.

I know you saved apples and crackers, stockpiled
them like treasures, to improvise pie and a slice
of home on a Sunday afternoon.

I know how you learned that trust
was a word divided
between tru(e) and us.

2. Inside

On the day you returned, we stood outside in the sleety rain,
nothing but a cartoon umbrella to protect us,
and we waited for the gates to open.

We watched you approach in too-big clothes
carrying the remnants of your life
in a transparent bag.

There were no secrets that day.

And after you had showered,
regained your human scent,
we fed you a king’s banquet
grilled cheese and tomato soup.
We covered nearly every inch of you
our skin on your skin
as if to hold you in that moment forever.

And on that first night, you found the sky unbearable,
all that open space and vulnerability.

And that was how I came to know the prison
you carried home from your cinderblock lodging.

The one you hide behind your smile
the one under your easygoing laugh
the one residing in the dark spot of your eyes.

I know this prison rattles its chains inside you;
my ear pressed to your chest, I think I hear
the metallic sound of keys, the click of a lock.

I am not sure whether it is opening or closing,
but I definitely know that I am on the outside
and I am trying to get in.

October 6, 2010

2010-10-06T19:28:00.002-04:00

I have no inspiration today. I have tried several tactics, but I am distracted by noises, impending college applications for my son, life ...

I have a "poemlet" a found poem in my journal for today's part of the exercise. But I feel as if all my writer friends have been drinking at the fountain of the muses and I am left with only sour milk or flat soda with crumbs at the bottom of the glass. Here is today's work.

Never mind that the blind man sings

tales of heroics in lands he will never see.

My oracle fires have been extinguished

and I see but cannot speak.

October 5, 2010

2010-10-05T20:03:00.002-04:00

So I fell off the writing wagon for a day. Didn't feel well, didn't feel like writing yesterday so I blew it off. Not a good way to start the month. Today I have pledged to get back on and stick with it every day. It's not the quality but the process that counts in these types of exercises.

So, here is today's poem.

Cat in Mourning

Oh brother where art thou

the light streams through the windows unbroken

by your shadow.

Where once I heard your padded footsteps,

the silence frightens me.

I find myself in a freedom I don’t understand

and so I retreat

to where I can feel the darkness inside.

October 3, 2010

2010-10-03T10:17:00.002-04:00

I thought about cheating on the writing today and filching a rough draft of something I had put in my journal this summer. That way I could still fulfill my promise of putting out a poem per day but I wouldn't have to think too hard and I would have time to do other things this morning.

But I discovered, in the process of searching through my journal, while I had the rough draft of a poem, I could not put it down in that form. It's the Virgo in me :) So, I took inspiration from earlier this summer, but kept my pledge and wrote something new.

Frenemy*

In my dream I am scrubbing a bathroom

that stubbornly holds its dirt.

No matter how hard I work

it will not come clean.

I am talking to a friend

(who doubles as an enemy)

and I am trying to remember

a favorite poet’s name.

With the remembrance of the poet

comes the realization of the frenemy –

the counterspy, who betrayed me

smiled at me while turning on me –

and I am scrubbing her sink.

As I work, the sink grows wider and deeper

the stain of her duplicity becomes darker

ingrained dark splotches on white enamel.

I can feel the texture of her betrayal

as I try to remove it.

It’s a dream that does not end

except with an awakening.

I haven’t thought about her in years,

unless you count every day

when I drive by her house,

the one with the stain,

visible only to me.

* A person who is both your friend and enemy, often blurring the lines between the two.

October 2, 2010 -- Writing Day Two

2010-10-02T12:17:00.001-04:00

So, day two of the writing challenge and the words flow somewhat easily from an image I picked up in the early morning -- in that time where you lay in bed, not quite ready to put your feet on the floor, but your minds lazily wanders through your day, planning or visualizing or day dreaming about what lies ahead. In the process of trying to organize life (which by the way is a life-long process I am discovering), are the lines of a small poem ...

Blurring the View

Picking through the piles

uncovering past lives

it reveals strangers

who once lived in

this shelter of flesh.

Who were they, are they

breathing yet, even now

droplets condensing

on the windows

blurring the view outside.

Disconnected

2010-10-01T18:44:00.001-04:00

The phone rings incessantly

no one is able to answer

lines have been erased

in the ether inside the line

the buzz-buzz of the princess continues.

Like the yellow jacket settling on the edge

around my glass, investigating

All I can see is my own disrepair

cracks in the wall, peeling paint

boxes piled up to block the sun.

I watch the wasp stepping

intentionally searching for the last drop

the last sweetness of this season.

His footing slips -- all six --

sliding down into the sticky lemonade residue

I think that's what you get when driven by desire.

His angry buzz bounces against glass walls.

My syrup-coated flier now imprisoned

I turn away to survey the house, the packing

but distracted by the wasp, I turn back

see him on the table

meticulously cleaning himself

his own reward for survival.

On this last day of summer, of childhood homes

I walk toward the house to lock the doors

check the windows one last time

and I hear a faint buzzing

carried in the air from far away.

October 1, 2010

2010-10-01T18:23:00.003-04:00

I promised on my writer's blog to write something everyday -- a poem or a part thereof -- for the month of October. But today is starting out on the wrong foot, as we overslept this morning, I was late for work, and had no time for writing.

So, here goes with my first piece for the month.

Something I dashed off today at lunch.

Maybe this month I can discover an alter ego that will take over my writing assignments for me ...

The End of the Story

2010-04-30T15:30:00.001-04:00

Is this where our story ends?
We won’t know
until we turn
the page.

When you recount
this fable we wrote,
what will you say?

Remember.
Words are fragile.
Unwrap each one with care.
Each has its own story.

Presence

2010-04-29T22:09:00.001-04:00

It’s hard to fit in this room,

he said, what with the elephant here.

Everyone stared at him like

sheep gaze while grazing.

He squeezed his way past

but when conversation turned

to inconsequential subjects

another pachyderm arrived.

As conversation increased both

in volume and vapidity,

another pachyderm packed in

and then another, until

eventually he was pressed into

a corner, hidden by the herd

where his cries went unheard

and everyone wondered where

he had disappeared to.

April 28 -- Prince Charming

2010-04-28T20:07:00.001-04:00

He was a Buddhist,

riding his meditation,

the horses hooves his mantra.

He breathed in rhythm with the trees.

The princess was an illusion.

The kiss a metaphor

for what he did not know.

And he, like others before him,

knew that where the story ends

is actually its beginning.

April 27 – Hansel and Gretel Go to College

2010-04-28T20:01:00.001-04:00

She enrolled at a well-known liberal arts school.

Studied ethnology, folklore, myth

learned to decode symbols like wolf,

stepmother, wicked witch.

He chose culinary school.

Moved to the city.

Opened a bakery

specializing in gingerbread.

April 26 B. B. Wolf

2010-04-28T20:00:00.000-04:00

I know you want me to be black.

I am gray.

A mixture between dark and light.

It’s where I live, like the forest itself,

sunlight and shadow cohabitating.

Sometimes though you have to watch your step.

It can be difficult to live in a world

always hungry for a villain,

instinct versus intelligence.

My money is on instinct all the way.

While I may or may not have threatened some pigs,

chased a basket of goodies along a path,

I never broke any laws.

Consider my actions “food shopping”

like the old ladies at market.

My name is whispered late at night,

come take a walk and hear it,

if you’re not afraid of the dark ….

April 25 What I Don’t Know

2010-04-28T19:59:00.000-04:00

… in trying to heal the wound that never heals,

lies the strangeness, the inventiveness of a man’s work.

-- Garcia Lorca

I know about the strip searches after our visits

as if our presence left you with a piece of humanity

that had to be removed.

I know how you kept to yourself reading,

praying, adrift in a sea of darkness,

to avoid answering difficult questions.

I know you were embarrassed by the number of letters

arriving daily, signs of those you loved, who missed you,

while those around you were often alone.

I know how on the nights you could not phone, you asked God

to send us a message so we would know you were safe

and we could sleep quietly and dreamlessly.

I know how you saved apples and crackers, stockpiled

them like treasure, to improvise pie and a slice

of home on a Sunday.

I know how you learned and unlearned trust every day.

What I don’t know is how you survived the unspeakable,

the fear, the loneliness, the despair and how you returned

to find the night sky, the open space nearly unbearable.

There’s a black spot in you, I don’t know how to reach,

deafening in its silence and every day it wrestles

for one more piece of your soul.

April 24 [untitled]

2010-04-28T19:58:00.000-04:00

The words that cannot be said

bed down with things unspoken,

exchange a knowing wink,

an elbow nudge.

They live on the edge

slip in when we least expect

and then back out again.

The words that cannot be said

hang like ghosts, cobwebs,

the opposite of oases,

they add nothing,

take away all.

April 23 -

2010-04-23T19:00:00.000-04:00

The Wicked Witch Reaches Steps 8 and 9
(wherein she must apologize and make amends to those she has harmed)

Dear All,

I hate to write a group letter; however,

I would hate to miss any transgressions.

I have reached a point in my rehabilitation

where I have acceded to my Higher Power and

I am ready to make amends.

To those whom I have caused physical or

emotional harm, I am sorry.

To the frogs, snakes and other creatures, I realize

what an insult it has been cursing humans

with your life form.

I am sorry.

To all small children, dogs, and small magical beings,

I should never have threatened or terrorized you, with either

my size or power.

I am sorry.

To stepmothers, crows, crones, old women,

people with warts, my actions have given you

a bad reputation.

I am sorry.

As a positive step, I have divested myself of flying monkeys.

I am now a vegetarian and no longer drink

potions. I avoid sweets. I grow my own vegetables.

I hired an image consultant, had my colors done.

I gave up the color black. Turns out, I’m a Spring.

I am taking voice lessons.

I am writing poetry instead of incantations.

I have gone to counseling for my self-esteem.

I can only hope that from this day forward you can forgive me

and we can live happily ever after.

Best regards,

April 22 Goldilocks

2010-04-22T18:55:00.002-04:00

She and Baby Bear remained friends for many years.

They corresponded regularly in the warm months,

she in her nearly perfect script

he in his childish scrawl.

She never married,

never found anyone “just right,”

having grown accustomed to the coarseness

of winter fur tinged with the scent

of gristle and bone.

April 21 – Sleeping Beauty

2010-04-21T19:16:00.001-04:00

Every night the prince calls out to me

to return to bed and his dreams.

Insomnia is my friend now.

I have no use for sleep these days.

For those who criticize, I say

let me wander with Death

atop the walls of the night,

for only in that darkness

do I truly feel awake.

April 20 – Open Space

2010-04-20T21:02:00.000-04:00

It isn’t the stories that trouble me,

it’s what you leave in the silence.

What you hold back is a team of wild

horses on the edge of a cliff

and I pray you are able to jump clear

when the wagon goes over.

Because that space is just too large

like the desert sky at night

and I am but a tiny star falling,

burning in the flash of an eye.

April 19 – How to Be a Poet

2010-04-20T21:01:00.000-04:00

At night keep your nose in books,

by day put pen to paper.

Keep your head in a fog

of descriptive metaphors –

as red as a pimple on a teenager’s face.

Imagine a room full of editors exclaiming

over your works.

Inhale inspiration.

Exhale for good measure.

Walk down the street as if

you were writing with your footsteps --

leave an imprint wherever you go.

April 18 – The Poem I Tried to Write

2010-04-20T21:00:00.000-04:00

I started a poem today

but the dog ate it.

I wrote a beautiful opening

but the cat had a hairball.

I had a lovely rhyme

but I was kidnapped by aliens.

I had an inspired ending

but I insulted the muse and she left me.

So, …

April 17 Deposition of Rumplestiltskin

2010-04-17T15:46:00.000-04:00

1. My name is Rumplestiltskin.
I am an Enchanted Being.
My occupation is spinning straw into gold,
but I also garden, play banjo and raise chickens

2. I deny perpetrating fraud.
It was the girl’s father who boasted
of her skills. I actually do know
how to spin.

3. I am not a kidnapper.
It was never about the baby.
I felt sorry for her, but I needed collateral upfront --
you’re a businessman, you understand that.

4. I gave her every opportunity to guess my name.
Off the record, I had secretly hoped
she would escape. By that I mean
take the baby and run far away.

5. I would have told her to marry for love.
No one can spin that.

April 16 Little Red

2010-04-16T11:36:00.000-04:00

She posted a sign near the edge
of the forest: Estate Sale
Everything must go!
Items include: one used hatchet,
one hooded woolen cape
(frayed near the edges),
one picnic basket, furniture,
assorted household items.

Grandmother was gone.
There was nothing
to tie her to the countryside.
So she sold her belongings,
changed her name; moved.

Walking the gray city sidewalks,
black rain coat, leather briefcase in hand,
her ears pricked
smell heightened by the iron scent
of her own blood.
This time when the wolves came,
she would be ready ...

April 15 -- Snow White's Math Problem

2010-04-16T09:51:00.002-04:00

If seven dwarves each own
seven shirts, seven pairs of socks,
seven pairs of pants, and
seven pairs of boxers,
then how much money does
Snow White have to pay
for laundry, so she
can hang out in the forest
with friends, smoking
and reading cheap magazines?

Rapunzel

2010-04-14T16:33:00.001-04:00

Rapunzel

I’ve cut my hair.
Keep it short now.
I like the solitude.

I’ve also modernized the tower.
Installed a dumbwaiter.
It’s simpler.

The outside is overwhelming,
all that open space.
I prefer my tower,
where the sun enters my narrow
window in trickles and I get
my reality in small pieces.

Admit it.
Everyone likes a good tower,
the security it provides.
Only some prefer to call it
by another name, like career
or marriage.

The prince once told me,
You’ve made your tower
now live in it.

I do.

Cinderella Reflects

2010-04-13T11:29:00.000-04:00

Gazing in the mirror,
Cinderella notices the accent of crow’s feet,
silvery strands among the gold.
Turning the mirror over,
she braids her hair with a sigh.

She was not happy, one could even say lonely.
No one to talk to in the castle.
Servants (except her own maid)
were considered beneath her and
Charming too busy running his kingdom.

Cinderella glanced about the room.
She had never really fit in here
surrounded by luxuries -- jewelry, ball gowns, furs.
Perhaps she had merely substituted
one type of servitude for another.

Then there were the shoes --
colors and fabrics she could hardly imagine,
maybe a few she couldn’t.

She had never admitted to anyone,
even her personal maid,
how much she despised shoes,
how even the glass slippers had pinched
made her feel confined.

She preferred to be barefoot.
Feel the earth, the ground on her skin.
The ground never lies to you.

Just like late at night she preferred to sleep
near the fireplace, in solitude,
where her maid would find her
hands and feet dirty from stirring the ashes.

April 12 - CInderella -- The Older Years

2010-04-12T20:19:00.000-04:00

(with apologies to any fairy tale purists ...)

Prince – now King – Charming worried.

His once youthful princess seemed distracted.

Ella (liked calling her that, to remove

the Cinders from her name),

his Ella had been pining for her childhood

showing indifference, even

forgetfulness, toward the step-

sisters, -mother who had tortured her.

Ella had been discussing the issue of mice

with the servants in the castle,

although life had been rodent-free

for years. She called them “her liverymen.”

He worried that she had never truly

found happiness in this fairy tale world.

One day Ella disappeared.

When she did not join them at supper

Charming went to her room,

bits of fairy dust glittering in the corner,

he found both glass slippers under

her dressing table. Ball gowns hung in rows

awaiting the parties for which they were made.

Not Ella.

After some time, tales came to the castle

of a wandering woodsman, who saw

a handsome woman, silvery blond hair

braided down her back,

walking barefoot in the pumpkin patch,

speaking softly in the vines, now where’s my carriage …

April 11 -- Ode to the Sun

2010-04-11T09:55:00.001-04:00

Millions of mile away

you burn.

A shiny pinpoint on

the velvet darkness of space.

Another number (G2V)

in a numbered galaxy.

But to us, not just some

luminescent ball of gas.

Our one.

Our only.

Sun.

Morningstar, with many names

Sol, Helios, Surya, Ra

you blaze and scorch and shine and kiss

and melt your way into our lives

radiating through even the tiniest chinks.

We adore you.

Nay we worship you.

All the world’s flora crane their necks

to follow your gaze horizon to horizon.

We mourn your absence

even for a night

(our satellite purveying only

cold recycled light).

And when you hide for days on end

behind a curtain of clouds,

we wither disconsolate in disappointment.

One wink from you is the road to pure bliss.

We, the inhabitants of your blue

and green planet, one of your octet,

(unless you count Pluto)

know we are different.

Why else the water, trees, flowers,

grass, bees, bugs, pollen, bacteria,

landscapes teeming with life?

Your constancy is a mask

we see through, like the little ways

you show appreciation. Your tricks charm us

like the one where you bend your white rays

over our sky in an arch or two of color

showing us the full spectrum of your affection,

or when you blaze through the gases of atmosphere

bathing us in your glow before you depart.

You hide your feelings well

and if we could look behind

your splendidly brilliant corona

we know what we would find …

our one

our only

life-giving Sun.

April 10 – Mint

2010-04-11T09:54:00.000-04:00

Trickster!

menta spicata

Passing yourself off as an herb.

I call you menace – spearmint.

There are not enough juleps or teas

to make up for the damage.

Oh, you’re a sly one!

Starting our innocently,

tiny purple flowers

but turn one’s back

and there you are

in bed with the Italian

oregano, warming your runners

until your next conquest.

Lavender pales with your tendrils

under her skirts,

and one can’t even imagine

what happened with the French

tarragon you silently crept up on.

There seems to be no end

to your evil.

Some day I expect you to take over

the entire world.

This afternoon you’ll start

with the neighbor’s yard.

April 9, 2010 April is the Cruelest Month

2010-04-10T12:19:00.002-04:00

Three bright blue eggs in pieces on the grass

the last strand of string sways,

tethered to the holly branch.

The nest, intact and abandoned,

must have blown sideways

attacked by gales of wind

a sudden spring storm.

He places the nest in a safe spot

just under a skirt of low branches.

He hopes the birds will find it

but in his heart he knows

the robins will not return.

He is saddened by the spring rain,

bringing life to so many,

and an end to these few.

April 8, 2010 Prevarication

2010-04-09T07:12:00.002-04:00

He looked me in the eye

then he lied to me

his lips never sneered

eyes never flashed.

But he lied.

Then I could see it –

the lie – just beneath

his skin, moving around,

as if it were some parasite

burrowing, becoming part of him.

And when he smiled

it almost disappeared.

When I said I love you

all I could hear was the lie,

chewing away inside him,

burrowing deeper.

NaPoWriMo April 7, 2010

2010-04-07T15:06:00.001-04:00

Man you are dust, and into dust you shall return ...

This dust is alive.
Protons of pollen
powder thrumming

a catch of breath, tears in our eyes
fingers drum hearts race
in time with primal rhythm.

life vibrating through us
we sing on the same frequency
the particle physics of Spring.

Everything Hangs

2010-04-07T07:03:00.001-04:00

I want to write a poem

but I can’t.

It’s time, Dad says,

to move into a smaller place.

I need less stuff he says.

I want to write a poem

but I can’t

begin to fathom

selling the house where

we all grew up.

He sends me some boxes.

The attic is nearly empty,

he says, let me know …

he says, when they arrive…

I want to open them

but I can’t

Pandora’s box of memories

I may not be able to recover

what I unleash.

Everything hangs in this moment

like sunshine on that porch corner

where our bikes used to sit

gleaming turquoise and white streamers

ready to be ridden.

Exactly like that.

Spring in Washington

2010-04-05T18:02:00.000-04:00

A plague of tourists,

nay a terror of tourists.

In pestilent parades down the Avenue.

Tired toddlers in Easter best,

drag cheap souvenirs (sure to break at home).

Screaming gaggles of teenage hormones

clog walkways.

Metro trains vomit globs of strollers and backpacks.

Monuments groan under the girth of their numbers.

Camera lenses steal our souls

while we dodge mis-directed map readers.

This vernal plague has no cure.

There is no inoculation for the locals,

no tourist-icide spray to prevent

walking six abreast on sidewalks, or

hanging from statues like moss in a swamp.

All we can do is take refuge in our unknown quiet,

private gardens of delight.

April 4 – Too Many Words

2010-04-04T22:03:00.001-04:00

It’s too many word he says

reading over my shoulder.

I’m anxious to finish,

to walk in the sun.

Too many words? What does he know?

He’s a baker, not a poet.

The slap of dough on the counter

matches the scratching of my pen.

His strong hands massage the past

sugar, yeast, flour, water

into sinewy strands of gluten,

gently pushing this way and that

quietly rolling and shaping dough

as I shape word on paper.

His strands knit together

a perfect boule, Xs on top.

I smell yeast as the oven closes.

Easter dinner is a promise right now.

Spring taunts me through the window

no amount of leavening could

lighten my words.

In the end I cede to the baker

silence may be golden

golden as the crust on his steaming bread.

April 3, 2010 -- Easter at the Jewple

2010-04-03T19:11:00.001-04:00

His mother can’t read the sign, whose script letters

-- the only embellishment on the shabby corner –-

appear to spell “JEWPLE”

instead of “TEMPLE”.

This old bodega, made over into a home

for evangelical, baptist, Pentecostal

Christian practitioners, where the testifying

and singing of the congregation and its Sunday converts

weaves its way around the sirens,

thumping music, and voice of the city.

The building rocks with religion

and tonight of all nights he knows

that they will be singing and witnessing

and praising as if they alone were raising the dead.

He is secretly thankful for their presence

although he cannot explain why.

When his mother asks him if they celebrate

Easter at the Jewple,

he can only smile and say,

“I don’t know Ma.

Let’s open the windows and listen.”

April 2, 2010 Inshallah

2010-04-02T17:30:00.000-04:00

Inshallah

(for Ellie)

See you soon I tell her

as I bend to kiss her cheek.

God willing she says at the door.

The ride in the convertible makes her hair stand

at attention so she looks taller.

But, framed in the window, she looks small,

fragile like old china.

She, who joined the army as a teen,

took up guns and ammo and bombs,

who watched walls and buildings disintegrate

and families disperse like seeds on the wind.

She came to us from a world of no tomorrows

with strength, faith, hope,

instincts of a hungry animal.

She no longer smells the sharpness

of gunpowder on her hands, but she sees

trails of tears left by those who disappeared.

Tonight we have come from her 80^th birthday

a party where generations celebrated her,

ate, sang and danced like there was no tomorrow.

As she waves goodbye from the window,

I know that she knows

one day her tomorrow won’t come

-- perhaps unexpectedly like the heart attack

that stole her husband.

I watch for the light to go on

the curtains to close

god willing I whisper to myself.

April 1, 2010

2010-04-01T21:24:00.001-04:00

Some days I feel like a mis-matched sock,

separated from it mate by a laundry mishap,

standing out of place, barely visible

between shoes and pants legs.

Other days I am the lost mitten in the cupboard,

catching pieces of sunlight in the curve

around the hinges as the door opens and shuts

and I am left alone.

Unless it’s the days I am a single shoe

on the road, reclining sideways

leaning into the windy wake of cars

propelled by high velocities.

I sit unmoved by time

while the world turns around me.

Tomorrow I want to be

the shoe on the other foot

and then I’ll spin around myself.

The Painted Lady

2010-01-24T16:04:00.001-05:00

(for the Haitian people)

The wind whispers no warning,

spirits within are unaware but still

they rouse in incomprehensible insomnia,

Ancestors have no sign to give.

The Painted Lady is coming

bringing the taste of dust to our lips.

The aftershocks of all our losses

reverberate, tremble us and

we are brought to our knees

with dust, earth, rubble.

Dust and ancestors and bones and dust and pain and desire

and dust and freedom and dust and slavery and dust.

Suffocating dust of dream-like ghosts

freed from earth when rumbling begins.

Tectonic shifts and plates grinding

like old bones of dead ancestors.

The Painted Lady has come,

walks among us – living and dead and dust.

II.

Dust settles among us, in every crevice

snowing upon the city, quieting

blanketing muffled cries, sobs,

crash of walls, screams of injured,

lost darkness survivors,

boom of exploding electrical boxes,

chasms shifting below.

Silent dust permeating every space

talcum fine baby powder dust

coating the cilia of hairs in nose and lungs

rising in a cloud like the second coming.

See the woman in the distance,

painted like a tribal dancer?

Dust, blood thicken upon her.

The Painted Lady is here.

III.

She stands and absorbs the dust, blood,

rubble, bodies.

Spirits of ancestors, of earth, rock, trees wander

confused by her presence.

Why has she called them forth with no warning

what does she want with her dust and destruction?

Dust thickens upon them in the wake of questions

but soon the tears will flow, leave tracks, bring the

living rain and thicken the dust to mud.

IV.

Dust and mud, not the mud of beauty, of spas.

This mud will not erase worry, age, illness.

Mud born of disaster, like their cousin Katrina,

born of poverty, mud under the nail of the oppressor’s thumb.

Mud of despair, of hopelessness

mud in your pores, in your blood.

Corpses piling in roadways, mud, dust,

families vanished, dust, mud, collapsed buildings,

dust, mud, infected drinking water, mud, dust,

hunger, dust, backalley amputations, mud, blood,

sleeping on streets, dust, mud, tears, anguish, mud, dust

muffled cries of despair mud, dust settle

before the last tremors take down the hopes of the living.

The Painted Lady vanishes into confusion,

her open lips blow dust one last time

leave us with the taste of her kiss,

and leave her words in our mouths

Yéle Haiti.

Musings on the Cold of January

2010-01-14T11:43:00.002-05:00

The old gears no longer turn smoothly
they grind their teeth
every movement an effort.

Blood congeals in the cold
diurnal turning remains exactly the same
it’s only the appearance of slowing.

Even the weakest sunlight warms,
teases out the remnants
of life in the icy core.

Life with Crows

2009-11-16T19:19:00.000-05:00

It was a cold February day

when the war of words began.

In reality, boxing with ghosts.

Looking back, we realized

all the crows were gone.

We had never noticed.

There were so many things we never noticed –

shadows in the room, phantoms,

influence peddlers, spreaders

of misconception, missed perceptions.

Upon reflection, we realized

we had never noticed.

The crows were gone,

migrated to a sacred tree.

Carried across the divide

by a microscopic virus ,

a name reminiscent of Cleopatra.

Black-winged corpses strewn in yards.

It was already too late for the crows

by the time when we noticed.

It was too late for everyone

when the battles raged in earnest.

Life as we knew it was shattered.

Words exploded around us.

Phantom logic taunted us until we were heaving.

Sharp accusations stabbed vitals organs.

they tried to cast us out, exterminate us,

like the crows we noticed.

Pushed to the periphery,

epithets of ugliness attached themselves

with hooked claws.

yet we limped through, bloodied,

bruised, our spirits not fully broken

as we made our way home.

We hoped no one would notice.

One sunny day in April

years after the war began,

We stood sorting through the rubble

and noticed

the crows had returned home (to us).

November 10

2009-11-10T10:54:00.001-05:00

(for Sam on his birthday)

Thirteen years ago I carried you
over the miracle waters.

We feasted on milk and honey and promises.

You whispered your name
in a language too ancient to write.

For a moment, our world was golden.

Later you said we would always be
together like apples in pie--

apples with bitterness tempered
by that sweet golden crust.

Sunday Afternoon at the Movies

2009-11-09T18:22:00.001-05:00

In a moment of middle-aged madness

I decide to run the flight of stairs

two at a time. Heart racing,

I am reminded of how in dreams

I can go faster if I pump my arms.

I might even be able to fly.

Breathless, I triumphantly reach the pinnacle.

But gravity has its say.

My protesting legs buckle and instantly give way,

propelling me forward on my knees.

Pride scatters in shards on the speckled carpet

where I appear to be praying before

a Technicolor poster of Johnny Depp.

No one notices.

Stunned, I collect myself, continuing

to the concession counter to meet my family.

After the movie, on the way out, I swear

Johnny Depp winked as I passed.

This time I ride the escalator.

The Visiting Room

2009-11-05T13:06:00.001-05:00

Steel and glass.
Chairs bolted together.
Nothing leaves this room
of its own free will.

A couple of cold coins
will rent a locker –
small and gun-metal gray.

Pack away the outside.
Roll your emotions tight
into the lining of your coat –
you won’t need them here –
remnants of your body
heat will hold them
as the doors click shut
behind you.

October Morning

2009-10-29T13:04:00.000-04:00

Dissolving poems swirl in eddies
near the edge of dreaming.

Pluvial drumming at dawn
plays cryptic cadence on windows.

Words tumble out,
pour forth from the heavens.

A squall of poetry
runs in rivulets outside,
where

a skeleton of a leaf
clings to the oak branch
for one last dance.

Wake up.
Tilt your head open.
Drink it all in.

New Poem for Week 3

2009-10-22T07:11:00.001-04:00

New Moon

They call the darkness “new” –

the ancient ones – they knew

Time takes its bites.

The sky will grow another,

and the yellow wafer

will dissolve in the morning sky

like words on our tongues.

New Moon

2009-10-22T07:09:00.000-04:00

They call the darkness “new” –

the ancient ones – they knew

Time takes its bites.

The sky will grow another,

and the yellow wafer

will dissolve in the morning sky

like words on our tongues.

The Trouble with Justice

2009-10-13T15:17:00.000-04:00

The Trouble with Justice
(after Billy Collins)

The trouble with justice, I realized
as I watched autumn rain darken the sidewalk –
cool October breezes across my cheek
blanket of grey clouds in the sky –

The trouble with justice is
there is no justice, only smaller injustices,
no system to completely smooth the unfairness of things
which leads to battles with demons like Raktabija, so powerful
his wounds spill blood gushing a torrent of clones.

How will it ever end? How can it ever end?
We are all guilty of something.
Unless the day finally arrives
that quenches our desire for revenge
and exterminates the white ire
of religiously-inspired enthusiasts,

and there is nothing left to do
but to wallow silently
in the sins of our own indiscretion.

Justice is what eludes me
as, voiceless, I watch through the window
unable to keep truth from slinking out of the room.

Mostly, Justice makes me long for forgiveness
and I patiently wait for the Lady herself
to putdown the scales and throw off the blindfold.

And along with that, to do away
with the Old Testament aphorisms
“An eye for an eye”

What a sorry group of creatures we are
demanding equity in all crimes
while awaiting karmic justice to befall
all that have wronged us,
I think as rain washes our daily dust
into storm drains beyond our sight
and it brings to mind the saying–
An eye for an eye makes everyone blind –
(which I stole from a bumper sticker
I once saw on a fall drive through the mountains)

instead of remembering to forgive seventy times seven,
spoken by one whose blood ran over the dark battlefield,
aware of the smallness of human justice,
but awaiting us with open arms.

On Being Blue

2009-10-07T15:18:00.000-04:00

(I)

Fall begins.
The breeze blowing in her soul
becomes a squall.
Empty shells wash ashore.
Larger storms are brewing off her coast.
For now the lighthouse stands.

(II)

Today I watch a Utube video
a dog playing alone
in the family swimming pool.

Running up tailored rocks
sliding down the waterfall
falling into the pool below.

Pure unbridled joy buoyed
by the crystal blue shimmer.

I want to be that dog.
Be able to jump into the azure abyss,
trust that I will paddle to its edges,
climb over the sharp stones,
and fall and rise again and again.

Instead I sink like a stone
into the bottomless indigo depths.

My Mother Used to Say

2009-08-24T18:49:00.000-04:00

Always wear nice underthings, she said,

whenever you leave the house

just in case … of terror attack.

Maybe she said don’t expose

your nice underthings to terrorists

because they will never leave the house.

Perhaps it was always wear

your terror exposed when

you leave your nice underthings at home.

Not lingerie (too fancy)

not panties or bra (too specific)

not underwear (what boys have).

By nice she meant clean, no stains,

no holes, no worn elastic.

By leave the house she meant

go anywhere besides the yard.

By just in case she meant don’t embarrass me

if you get taken by ambulance to the hospital

because you were in some accident

where they have to strip you to get to your wounds

and you are wearing a pair of underpants

held together by safety pins.

Because they will think

“what kind of mother do you have anyway,”

which will distract them from treating you,

then you will die because the nurses and doctors

could only focus on your ratty underpants,

your neglectful mother and the fact that no one ever

told you to wear nice underpants when you leave

the house and so there you are dead because

you didn’t take the time to put on nice underpants.

And what she really meant by that

was don’t live your life in fear.

Dog Play Doggerel

2009-08-24T18:48:00.000-04:00

I’m being dogged

by a dog star – Sirius.

Hot sticky heat

and so dog gone humid

you can dog paddle

down the sidewalk.

But this dog is gonna

have her day!

Even if it is

a dog-eat-dog world.

You know you can’t teach

an old dog new tricks,

so curb your dogma;

let sleeping dogs lie.

Tired of this doggerel?

Then it’s time

to put on the dog!

Get out your dog-eared songbook

cuz we’re going to the dogs tonight.

Meet me at the dog leg.

We’re gonna howl

at that dog gone star.

Oh hot diggety doggety dog!

Palm Sunday

2009-08-24T18:47:00.000-04:00

Welcome to BibleLand!

A few announcements and reminders

before we get started.

Serpents have been spotted in the older sections of the park.

Please do not speak to them.

No apple picking.

Parents keep an eye on your children.

The park is not responsible for loss or damage to your eternal soul.

First aid is available in the new section of the park.

Follow signs to the Lazarus tent.

Sins are absolved daily, on the hour, in the Lazarus tent or by visiting

the wandering Jesus (please don’t touch his robes).

Remember you may not enter Sodom & Gomorrah without protective eyewear.

See Park Staff for details.

The Garden of Eden remains closed indefinitely.

Also, expect flooding in certain areas, especially during the rainy season.

For those interested in visiting the Tower of Babel, headsets are available for a small fee.

Kiosks can be found throughout the park.

Don’t forget to drop into our Loaves & Fishes Café.

It’s all you can eat!!

One last item – the crucifixion has been cancelled today on account of lightning;

however, there will be a stoning later this afternoon. Management is seeking volunteers for this event. Ask your guide for details.

Remember that we have resurrections daily (weather permitting).

Please don’t forget to stop in our gift shop on your way out –

it’s good for the soul.

Ask a salesperson about our frequent visitor rewards program.

Thanks for your patience. We hope you have a divine experience here!

Elegy for Bumpy

2009-08-19T16:30:00.000-04:00

On the most picturesque day
we remain in the house.
Now you have earned your place
in the eternal sun.
As we dot your grave with a marker,
you have already begun to chase birds
stretching your sleek blackness.
Freed from pain and immobility
You dance in our hearts once more.
Songs of your legendary exploits
—now un-sung—
leave the taste of you on our tongues.

Poems from Terrance Hayes Workshop

2009-08-16T13:43:00.002-04:00

# 1

Every evening my mother pulled her knitting

out of the basket behind her chair.

After the dishes were washed, leftovers shelved,

she sat with her metal needles

counting stitches, colored markers, pattern rows

as if ticking off time.

Like the Fates, she measured and spun.

My life could be counted by stripes

of mittens, hats, sweaters, blankets

created in her post-prandial meditations.

When she cut her final thread,

put away her last skein of wool

I felt as if my life too had ended.

Until I lifted her needles

took up the frayed yarn

and saw her hands reflected back

as I looked out the dark window.

There we stood, dressed like Egyptians

or what we thought Egyptians should look like

from so many National Geographic magazine

pictures we used as examples,

wrapped in old curtains, jewels, tulle,

prancing around like we built the pyramids

while life in our Ohio town

rolled by on its way to middle America;

men went to work at the refinery

spewing invisible gas and smoke in the breeze

women ironed shirts and watched television

but we didn’t notice the quiet turning

because we were too busy inventing pictograms

enslaving younger brothers in our game

of carving scarabs and conquering the desert,

ancient worlds so enticing because

the glossy pictures were so clean,

unlike the peeling paint from too much sulfur

the houses abandoned when factories closed

there being no room for Egyptian princes

or slaves or kings in this Republican county

known for its prized cattle, corn and soybeans.

Alex & Buddy

2009-08-13T20:19:00.000-04:00

He sleeps curled like a French “C”

Blond head on the pillow

Body curved to one side

His breathing nearly imperceptible.

There in the bottom of his curve

a gray tabby colors

the empty space

Curved in unison with boy

Purring while he breathes

Together they enter the world of dreams.

November 2008

Weather Report

2009-08-13T20:18:00.000-04:00

My loss, at times, is an ocean.

It’s all I see on the horizon

stretched from East to West,

North to South.

Some days it is a river

coursing through the middle,

perhaps overflowing

its banks but soon receding.

At night it is an underground spring

Unseen, but there, silent, cold

Always underneath all thoughts.

The worst days are when it is a cyclone.

Thundering, pounding, pelting me

with reminders of wet grief.

It turns my world around

Scatters me across the landscape

Then leaves me amid the rubble.

November 2008

The Visitor

2009-08-13T20:16:00.000-04:00

Crow came to me in a dream

my spirit guide, to show me

what I once was

thousands of years ago.

His black feathers were iridescent in moonlight

broad wings and strong beak

gestured as he spoke.

I understood in the language of sleep.

I come from earth, dark, rich

moist with worms.

I come from skies and clouds,

thunder and rain.

I come blown from the winds

borne aloft and soaring skyward.

I come from the mountains

swept along riverbeds with melting snows

trickling the byways of streams

seeping into bedrock.

I come from the volcano

out of hot lava

spilling in rivulets down the sides.

I come from the down

of a new born chick

ugly, vulnerable, helpless.

We are not so different said Crow.

We have come from the same places

We are ancient.

Find your feathers

they will free you

but you must be willing

even to be slandered,

to be case in dark shadows

I awoke

black feathers on my doorstep

Shadow of a wing

Guardian of my soul.

November 2008

Roa’s Laundry (2nd version)

2009-08-13T18:18:00.002-04:00

“Roa, Konrad Lorenz’s raven, raided clotheslines to steal ladies’ underwear.” B. Heinrich, Mind of the Raven.

First, I want to say that it was never my fault.

I should have been in the woods that day.

There had been talk of red-tailed hawks,

so I explored the yard next door.

My therapist, I’ll call her Dr. Z,

says it comes from a deep seated instinct

conditioned by learning from my keeper.

Sexual perversion? none

she calls it classical conditioning theory.

Same as Pavlov’s dog

except the dog salivated with a bell

Maybe a bit inconvenient with all the gadgets these days

But not as embarrassing as salivating at underwear.

Secondly, I need to point out

I was never attracted specifically to ladies’ underthings,

although the shiny materials did catch my eye

waving at me like little flags in the breeze

stray lace undulating in the sun

who could ignore the sheer sensuality

of the panties’ movement

calling to me with their siren song

Roa. Roa. Roa.

It could have easily been socks or string.

Proximity to lingerie aided this process.

I was never particular – Victoria’s Secret,

Hanes, JC Penney – no pretensions on designer fabric

Nor did I differentiate between bikini, brief, cotton,

silk, printed or plain

All made me salivate.

It’s the connection between food and underwear

that I cannot seem to shake.

There are days I don’t know if I can eat

without bringing Dr. Z a small present.

I sit on my perch

exploring my childhood memories,

reviewing the symbolism in my nightly reveries,

wandering into the depths of the Corvid mind,

Dr Z reassures me that we can re-condition my response.

Honestly, I don’t know if I want to change.

I do love the tasty reward --

some meat or eggs for a pair of silken panties,

a lace-edged slip, an occasional satin brassiere.

I love the dance of freedom

lifting lingerie from laundry lines.

Dr. Z tells me not to blame myself.

It could have happened to anyone.

Curiosity may have killed the cat,

but I know men who have been jailed for less

it isn’t necessarily the action

but the thought of action

that imprisons us.

Reflections

2009-08-13T18:16:00.000-04:00

This morning I awoke

with a dream

of a poem

parked in my unconscious.

Trails of it remain

so lightly that when I focus

they dissolve.

Maybe the poem was never there at all.

The dream could have been

that I awoke with a dream

of a poem

in my mind.

Like the mirror

In the mirror

An image that goes to infinity

showing nothing

except what fools we are.

November 2008

Poem in search of a title

2009-08-13T18:14:00.002-04:00

Notes dance through my open mind

and out into the world again.

Where is the line between open and raw,

vulnerable and pitiable?

We all live in a prison

To break free

Is to find another

of greater or equal value.

The music I hear is born of

Millions of years of evolution

finely tuned to express itself.

Messengers sing, they have to.

Thousands of years of enlightenment

and still we seek

to escape the pain.

To understand the necessity of infinity.

To hear, dance

the music in our minds.

November 2008

Road Kill

2009-07-17T21:07:00.000-04:00

I cry for the dead squirrel

Who looks like he has fallen from the sky

Face down in the road.

Is he the one who ate acorns

watching me as I drank my coffee?

Now two days dead

No longer so much squirrel

As a smear on the asphalt,

I see him turn inside out

from those who feast on flesh

each taking his own turn –

flies, beetles, birds.

Car tires flatten what little remains

and by this evening I can barely

tell the squirrel from stains.

I feel guilty, I want

to bury him, save him

From the indignity of cars.

His limp body in my shoe box.

A grave in the garden bed near

the cats’ graves. But I don’t.

Instead I gingerly step over him,

around him. Park the van

a few feet farther up the block.

Afraid of what my husband will say,

what the neighbors will think

of my attachment

to a city rodent, a common pest,

I ignore my son’s young voice

who once insisted we bury every dead bird,

every squirrel, with love and ritual

because we are guardians of all we see.

I side-step that responsibility.

Instead I commemorate this moment.

The grave I should have dug,

The life I could not save.

The grey squirrel, soon forgotten,

already replaced, who I wish

I could ask to forgive me.

November 2008

Life with Crows

2009-07-15T18:31:00.000-04:00

It was a cold February day

when the war of words began.

War of words?

Boxing with ghosts actually.

Looking back, we realized

all the crows were gone.

We had never noticed.

So many things we never noticed –

all the shadows in the room,

Phantoms, influence peddlers,

spreaders of misconception,

missed perceptions.

Upon reflection, we realize

We had never noticed.

The crows were gone,

migrated to a sacred tree

carried across the divide

by a microscopic virus with

an exotic name – West Nile.

No Cleopatra here

Black-winged corpses strewn in yards.

When we noticed, it was too late.

It was too late for all

The war had already begun.

Life as we knew it was shattered.

Words exploded around us.

Phantom remnants of logic

taunted us until we were heaving.

Sharp accusations stabbed our vitals.

Like crows, they tried to cast us out.

Push us to the periphery.

Epithets of ugliness attached themselves

with hookèd claws.

Somehow, we limped through battle.

Bloodied, bruised, our spirits not yet broken

we made our way home.

We hoped no one would notice.

On a sunny day in April

years after the war began,

We stood sorting through the rubble

and noticed

the crows had returned home (to us).

Susan Scheid (May 2008)