Look around you...now look again

Ars Poetica

I will write of the things I know best
And a little of the things I do not know at all
Stand in a field full of wildflowers
And I will show you something ugly and unexpected
You will never look at fields full of wildflowers
The same way again
I can make you rethink the English language
And the origins of life
All in one stanza
It may not make sense
But its poetry, my dear,
It is poetry

The Birds in Winter (Revised)

The birds were kept outside that winter
In unsuitable conditions for tropical birds
But inside we had more vital issues
Than the overwintering of some birds
Grandmother was dying in the back room
It was drawn out, almost dramatic in its slowness
We sat in the stiff, formal den
Listening to the rasping that was Grandmother’s death
While outside the birds’ fluttering breaths
Become shorter and sadly shallow

The day of Grandmother’s funeral
Came bleak and pale
We mourned with the other attendants
Although we had already been grieving for some time
Returning to the house for sandwiches and tea
We headed to the back to check the birds
And there found them motionless
To comfort ourselves we said that it was meant to be
That the birds carried Grandmother’s soul up to heaven
But we know that this was not the circumstance
The birds’ wings remained stiffened to their bodies
Eternally frozen in ivory splendor

Dear Dad

Revised version of "My Tarnished Heart"

Dear Dad,

Missing you here.
How’s the weather?
Did you find Grandpa when he came?
I think of that night so often.
I want to know what you were thinking
Letting that drunk bastard drive.
What were you thinking in those last minutes,
Seconds, milliseconds of your life?
Did you laugh? Did you know?
…Did it hurt?
Its been twelve years now almost.
I don’t want the day to come
When you’ve been gone from my life
For longer than you were in it.
How do I explain to people
That even though the hurt is gone
It never is?
How do I keep a smile on my face
When I walk down the aisle on my wedding day
With my mom on my arm and not you?
You’ve missed a lot but if you came back
I’m sure it could be the same, or almost the same.
You’ve never been replaced, you’ve never been forgotten.
But I sure miss you a hell of a lot.
I sending this up to you on a wing and a prayer…
(Literally-I’m tying this letter to my pet bird’s leg)
Hope it makes it.
I wish I could hear you laugh again.
I won’t say goodbye, because I’ve already done that,
A few thousand times.
So…
I love you.

We shaped the landscape and the landscape shaped us

The apartment we live in is not a home
It is more of a transition point
Three years in the making, and counting
We reside on the ground floor
Where we can see the daily activities of others
Whether we like it or not
The guy that lives above us is strange
And his washer is unbalanced
And makes a terrible racket
It sounds like a buffalo
Is going to crash through the ceiling
But our dog barks loudly sometimes...
A lot of the time
So it's an even trade
Our neighbor to the left
Has a chipmunk living under his patio
I wonder if he knows?
We don't have room for all our stuff
So blue storage tubs double as a table
And the actual table doubles as a TV stand
And the table that doubles as a TV stand
Also doubles, or should I say triples, as a kitty litter box shelf
And the cat spills kitty litter
On our triple threat table
With his little kitty paws
But we laugh here, and enjoy time with friends
And we don't worry about spilling on the carpet
Or removing a door to play beer pong on
This is just one lily pad
In the pond of life

Red

It's a bright beginning-of-summer day
And the young girl is dreaming.
Dreaming of end-of-school,
Of lips stained popsicle purple,
Of splashing in the local pool.
She thinks of sleepovers with friends,
And camping with her family.
She walks home from the bus stop,
Not more than two blocks, on the sidewalk,
Under a bright green shade of tree leaves.
She waves to a man who waters his lawn,
As his dog barks from the backyard.

It's a bright beginning-of-summer day
And she doesn't know that this day
Will be the last of her childhood.
The end of boogie monsters
In the closet, and shadows
Lurking under the bed.
Her shiny chestnut child's hair,
Caught up in a high ponytail,
Brushes against the backpack on her shoulders.
The bright red backpack,
That will be all that is left,
To identify her body.

All he can see is darkness.
The plan is unfolding,
Just as his Other told him it would.
But the Other did not warn him
About the blindness.
Still, he feels safe, he knows, knows,
Knows,
The Other will help him,
Will guide his hands when the time comes,
If they are doubtful as they were last time.
Stupid doubtful hands, never listening
To him and his Other.

All he can see is darkness.
He drives down the empty street,
Wishing he could turn on his lights
To cut through the darkness.
But the Other says no, no we are close.
He pulls a small hunting knife
Out of the glovebox and cuts
Down the inside of his own arm.
Cleansing himself, making himself pure.
The darkness starts to clear
And he catches a glimpse of chestnut and red.
Blood red, and the Other says now.

Chapter One

Inspired by Joy Harjo's poem "Remember"

Remember the little moments in time-they are the most important.
Remember the caress of your mother's breath.
Remember the way the sky loks before a storm, purple and angry and beautiful.
Remember the gentle paws of small creatures.
Remember the feel of clean sheets, sliding smooth against your skin in the dark.
Remember the sound of your lover's laugh, candid and truthful.
Remember the final forlorn pile of snow, brown with spring.
Remember the feel of the first flakes of snow, melting on your nose.
Remember to say I love you, everyday, to everyone you love.
Remember to stop and watch horses run, and children play.
Remember the feel of a strong embrace from one who has been away.
Remember the lessons you have learned here in your place.
Remember the wisdom you have earned.
Remember that life is a succession of stories and this was only Chapter One.
Remember.

Drawing Dreams

Inspired by Brenda Jones' Artwork

Don't get heavy on me, Brenda
Your cake is almost done
A fish flies down from a world above
And becomes just another wrapped up thought
The table creaks under a bounty rich in abundance
A meal of kings, of queens, of a child
A child sleeps and draws dreams
While the pope, trailing white, climbs out of the picture
And leaning down, blesses her with a whisper

The Birds in Winter

We should have brought the birds
In when the winter got cold.
We should have covered the wire
With stale scented straw.
We should have fed the birds, not young Don,
Who found them still,
Frozen in ivory splendor.
We should have remembered
That a bird's life,
So small, each millisecond,
Every fluttering breath,
Is a liability on our souls.

Elements

I am a woman and damn proud of it.

I am
Passionate, pink, prismatic, predictable, prosperous.

I am
Emotional, endearing, eccentric, educated, enchanted, empathetic.

I am
Sensitive, striking, superb, sanguine, serious, silly.

I am
Delicate, deceptive, delicious, deliberate, difficult, devilish.

I am
Wonderful, wild, witchy, wry, wronged, worshipped.

I am a woman and damn proud of it.

I am
Beautiful.

An Expression

It is deliciously, suspiciously
A mystery
Of words
It's a sonnet, a haiku, an ode, a refrain
A verse, a ballad, a rhyme or a cinquain
It's the creature that creeps
Just out of sight
The shadows that cross
Your wall in the night
The thought that can't
Quite be expressed
The ugliness of the world
Prettied up in a dress
It is deliciously, suspiciously
A mystery
Of you

Letters, Words, Sentences, Life

Inspired by Billy Collins' "Books"

I don't even remember where it started.
Probably with the bright picture books
Of childhood.
First I learned to carefully pencil
My big letters and little letters
On the paper with the two bold lines
And a middle dashed line.
From there it was only a matter of time
Before I loved to read.
Anything, I would read.
Charlotte's Web was always a favorite,
And the one about the cricket,
Or maybe it was a toad
That went to the big city.
Soon I was sneaking my mom's romance novels,
To read the naughty parts
And learn how babies are really made.
When nothing was available
It was the backs of soup cans,
The toothpaste tube,
The manual to my car
(While I was driving down the road, no less).
Now I collect books,
Like some old women collect cats.
Someday I will read the books to my children
And grandchildren, and someday
They will read them to me.
And the words will keep marching
Down a line of generations,
Down the road with a traveling cap on,
Ready for the big city.

Brutus

Inspired by Billy Collins' "Dharma"

I had a discussion with my dog yesterday
On the joys of sleeping,
Belly-up, tail relaxed
In the splash of sunlight
Spilling through the sliding glass door.

He does this often, you see,
And could be considered somewhat
Of an expert on such matters.

His usual routine is to nose aside the blinds,
Adding more smears to the glass.
He eases onto his belly,
And from there he can use
The laws of physics
To kick his legs into the air.

I find him frequently
In this supine position,
Oversized paws bent at the wrist,
As a person imitating a bounding rabbit
Might look.
His eyes are unable to close all the way
In such a pose,
So I can just glimpse a hint
Of muddy eyes and pink eyelid
Through the gap.

A foot may occasionally tremble
As he follows his nose into his personal
Field of dreams.
And he intermittently lets out a transparent woof,
Which amounts to nothing more
Than a soft popping of his cheeks.

My dog told me
I should attempt such an activity.
So today I lay down,
Pushing aside the plastic blinds
So that the weak winter sunlight might flow in,
And I felt rather silly
When a friend came calling
And found me,
Lying among the dogs.

The Time That I Lost Three Days of My Life

I lie on a small, sandy hill.
Looking skyward, I raise my hands
To the leaves falling like rain
From the oak tree. I fly
Up into the vast blue
And leave this planet.

I reach a new, strange, orange planet.
It is dotted with wooden hills,
Homes of the beautiful blue
Creatures that reach out their hands
To me. I crouch down, jump and fly
To a new destination, to the rain.

I drift through a meteor rain
Shower. And discover a new planet
Of floating yellow orbs that fly
Amid this realm's great hills.
I make a V with my hands
To navigate a new way into the blue.

This shimmering celestial body of blue
Exists under endless sweet rain.
I touch and swift with my hands
The lightness of the planet.
My footprints leave two small hills,
Not indentations, as I once again fly.

Through the darkness I fly
Searching for that elusive blue.
I imagine that stardust makes small hills
On the horizon. A strong rain
Propels me to the next planet.
It is not the one. I cover my face with my hands.

I stare down at my vivid hands,
Their creases my map. I can fly
Through these storms, find my planet.
I must keep searching for the blue.
I must not get distracted by the whispering rain.
I press my eyes shut and imagine my hill.

I open my eyes to cloud-speckled blue.
But these clouds do not carry rain.
I am just an ant, on my ant hill.

Fortunate Son

I-August 17, 1969

I look around at the other men
Long greasy mops of hair
Unbathed and unslept for days
Ears dead yet drumming from the music
CCR, Jimi, Janis, The Who
Three naked girls run past
Slipping through mud, muck and garbage
I burn a little more off the joint
Pinch it between stained fingers
Love and peace taste better when they glow

II-August 17, 2009

He stands in the chill, smoking a cigarette
His breath makes vapor shapes in the air
They disappear before they are tangible
White hands as pale as nail moons
Rub his graying temples
No job waits for him tomorrow
But a handful of wars wait for him overseas
God Bless the U.S.A

Company

And still this
Creature tightened
And yawned
Into my ear.

The high-heel rests
Spike up
It waits to impale
The body lays three
Feet away in blood
It waits for the moon
The moon, the sun, a rope
A rope nooses lightly around
The swollen wrists, they are
Engorged as a lizard on weeping tarmac
A path is blazed
Through the dusted floor
An eye glares through you
Conveying a message

...He is still in the house

The Farm

Inspired by Gary Soto's "The Street"

My imagination flies over the rooftops
On wheels made of gold
Small walnut people
Make their house at the base of an oak

Grandma bakes pies
Nutty and sweet aromas
Her frail and bent hands
Make quick work of dough

Mother tans on the porch
Her skin leather brown
A blue spray bottle
Mists rainbows in the air

Auntie mucks the barn
Flies buzz in the bucket
She mops sweat from her brow
Soils one bare arm

My Tarnished Heart

Digging through the jewelry
Box
My fingers meet with cold silver
I pull out the small tarnished heart.
Open it, and the memory comes...

...I'm eleven, sitting on the living room floor, I have my model horses in their shoebox trailer, Barbie is driving the G.I. Joe jeep, things are good, lights flash across the wall, someone pulling in the drive, it's the poh-leese he says, that's how he says it, poh-leese, and I'm too young, too young to understand that the world isn't all sunshine and roses and now my mom is home, saying those words, the word DEAD sticking out like a bum thumb, that dumb drunk bastard killed him, he was supposed to be his friend, but he killed him and I wonder who will teach me to drive, who will walk me down the aisle, just a bunch of shitty cliches but hey isn't life just one big cliche and stuff like this happens to Other people, not We people and I stare at those three tiny words next to a tiny picture, three words that I will never hear my dad say again...

I love you.

The Last

I died today.

And in that devastating moment
Of crushing glass,
And shrieking steel,
And groaning bodies

The world was beautiful.

Will this be it? Is this it?

Sun-ripened tea quivers on the porch,
Threatening to fall.
The red radio blurts out screeching tones
Alert alert alert
This is NOT a test, not a test
Of the emergency broadcast system.
Grab the dog, grab the blanket, grab the radio.
Down to the dank, bare basement floor.
Watch the angry dreads of rain lash against our only lookout.
Wait for the grinding, sucking, howling.
How will it sound, how will it feel
When the giant funnel gulps down your house and burps it back up.
Memory: childhood, Sunday school.
Assignment: draw what scares you the most, so
Pencil in hand, I furiously scribbled layered spirals,
Converging into a black dot.
Black dot no longer a dot, no longer safe on white paper,
Black dot two counties away, the radio hollers.
Will this be it? Is this it?
Now the radio informs, tension released,
The threat has dissolved
Like sugar in iced tea.

Choice

I polish on the lavender scented body wash,
In the steam filled shower,
With the bright pink netted loofah.
The holes snare on a small barbell through my navel,
Capped by bright blue and purple plastic balls.
The indentation that formed my lifeline's attachment,
Now pierced with my teenage rebelliousness.

I brush through my wet hair,
The comb glides smoothly.
My bare face and jewel-adorned lobes,
Reflect back at me in the mirror.
Three holes, right lobe, four holes, left,
Acquired over the years.
I may choose fancy or simple.
Once again, my choice.

Spoons

I'll be the big spoon,
You can be the little one.
Comparing this to a fat kid and cake
Is like trying to dig out a mountain,
Scoop by scoop,
With the little spoon.
(That's you)
There's a leopard in our room,
Running on the bed.
There's a zebra in our room,
Gone now.
If I could be smart about this,
I should eat you like a praying mantis,
So you would stop clink, clink, clinking my passions
With your spoon, with you.
Cake is good.