Poetry Sampler
I've posted a handful of my poems, in case anyone out there is interesting in perusing. I'm working on a collection. I hope to have it available in print by the end of the year. More on that later...
Free Space
He was burnt toast with cataracts. She was a coffee stained napkin with arthritis.
They met at Bingo when they both had a false alarm.
The winner was some kid from Ohio or Oklahoma--one of those states that begins with an "O" and ends with a yawn.
She liked the fuzz on his kiwi-skull.
He liked the sound of her polyester pantlegs rubbing together like hands trying to keep warm.
He got so distracted by the friction, he turned off his hearing aids.
She thought he was deaf or disinterested, but he read her lips and caught the fireflies in her smile with his bifocals.
Neither one of them was looking for a mate--they just wanted a glimpse of unloneliness:
a hand-me-down sweater with a tiny hole under one arm and an extra button sewn to the underside of the waistband.
He said his name was Tom, short for Tomorrow, may I call you?
She thought he was lying and it was for Tom-Cat--pawing fishbones.
She wrote her name on the back of a losing Bingo card.
He said her name, Myra, under his breath.
It was as quiet and warm as oatmeal in his mouth on a cold morning and he hadn't eaten in days.
He said it aloud and her cheeks filled with cinnamon.
They met at Bingo when they both had a false alarm.
The winner was some kid from Ohio or Oklahoma--one of those states that begins with an "O" and ends with a yawn.
She liked the fuzz on his kiwi-skull.
He liked the sound of her polyester pantlegs rubbing together like hands trying to keep warm.
He got so distracted by the friction, he turned off his hearing aids.
She thought he was deaf or disinterested, but he read her lips and caught the fireflies in her smile with his bifocals.
Neither one of them was looking for a mate--they just wanted a glimpse of unloneliness:
a hand-me-down sweater with a tiny hole under one arm and an extra button sewn to the underside of the waistband.
He said his name was Tom, short for Tomorrow, may I call you?
She thought he was lying and it was for Tom-Cat--pawing fishbones.
She wrote her name on the back of a losing Bingo card.
He said her name, Myra, under his breath.
It was as quiet and warm as oatmeal in his mouth on a cold morning and he hadn't eaten in days.
He said it aloud and her cheeks filled with cinnamon.
Where Wild Poisonous Mushrooms Grow
The rosewood piano watches me empty mahogany end table drawers
and pack heirlooms in four opened cedar chests, side by side on the living room floor _
each with the name of a different family member.
Everyone knows the spinet is mine
and the crushed velvet cherry chair--where she critiqued my practice.
The walnut music clock (whose hands I moved to prove an hour had passed, all my scales rehearsed and perfected: a transparent lie)
waits patiently as if holding its breath, stopped on 8:36.
The fig tree peeks in my bedroom window, looks at the unblinking wide-eyed dolls
in the cabinet Granddaddy made from left-over oak floorboards.
Its aged limbs scratch the screen to get my attention.
We grew up together. Its roots crowd the foundation,
but I imagine mine have cracked the mortar.
Age and responsibility has ripped me from my childhood home,
while the fig tree bears more fruit each season.
I sit on the edge of the bed,
look at the dolls I had hoped to pass down to a daughter,
my forty-year old hand shields a belly where a shriveled uterus hides its face in shame.
I know the fig tree understands my pain,
leaves fall from its drooping branches.
Yes, this is how it feels to be deciduous-- looking down the barrel of winter's gun,
knowing it's hunting season, wondering if you can out-run
predators and cold, burrow into a cave, hibernate,
or survive at all.
Our family has fallen like a giant redwood
uprooted in a flash flood: an unexpected deluge after a long drought.
We are scattered, broken, empty pecan shells on the vacant lawn.
It took decades before that tree could produce anything fit to eat;
and we've let the squirrels feast while rot rapes the rest.
We mark our own territories,
as my uncle pounds the for-sale sign in the front yard like a stake through the heart of our family.
We are motherless and hollow as the decayed stump where wild poisonous mushrooms grow.
and pack heirlooms in four opened cedar chests, side by side on the living room floor _
each with the name of a different family member.
Everyone knows the spinet is mine
and the crushed velvet cherry chair--where she critiqued my practice.
The walnut music clock (whose hands I moved to prove an hour had passed, all my scales rehearsed and perfected: a transparent lie)
waits patiently as if holding its breath, stopped on 8:36.
The fig tree peeks in my bedroom window, looks at the unblinking wide-eyed dolls
in the cabinet Granddaddy made from left-over oak floorboards.
Its aged limbs scratch the screen to get my attention.
We grew up together. Its roots crowd the foundation,
but I imagine mine have cracked the mortar.
Age and responsibility has ripped me from my childhood home,
while the fig tree bears more fruit each season.
I sit on the edge of the bed,
look at the dolls I had hoped to pass down to a daughter,
my forty-year old hand shields a belly where a shriveled uterus hides its face in shame.
I know the fig tree understands my pain,
leaves fall from its drooping branches.
Yes, this is how it feels to be deciduous-- looking down the barrel of winter's gun,
knowing it's hunting season, wondering if you can out-run
predators and cold, burrow into a cave, hibernate,
or survive at all.
Our family has fallen like a giant redwood
uprooted in a flash flood: an unexpected deluge after a long drought.
We are scattered, broken, empty pecan shells on the vacant lawn.
It took decades before that tree could produce anything fit to eat;
and we've let the squirrels feast while rot rapes the rest.
We mark our own territories,
as my uncle pounds the for-sale sign in the front yard like a stake through the heart of our family.
We are motherless and hollow as the decayed stump where wild poisonous mushrooms grow.
Unrequited
He looked at her with his single-minded light
and saw a mine of gems
She looked at him with her blue flame eyes
and saw a canary
Cherry Blossom Rain
Last night,
my skin was thin, translucent, smooth
and veined--iridescent
dragonfly wings
my fragile shield
There was no fear of
ripping, tearing
chiffone overlay.
He gently lathered with his cashmere-tongue.
Out of my mouth they flew,
snowflakes of powdered lace
dancing with condensation,
heated vows stretched
the length of my body and beyond.
Cherry blossoms fell from his lips.
Pink promises landed in streams flowing from my dark eyes
shining--I knew, I knew.
Textual
Your words roll around my head like a pinball racking up points
before I send them around again
loving the way they make me buzz
They have branded me
I want to speak them into your mouth
hear them echo and dance with your whispers
I want you to taste
how ripe I've become
basking in the sunshine of your words.
A Capella
Had I lost you as a girl,
kitten purrs and blushing giggles,
I would have hidden beneath the front porch,
knelt in the sand,
been your loyal mangy pet,
watching for the sight of your boots on the stairs.
Had I lost you as your bride,
still innocent and dressed in lace,
I would have tossed my veil into the sea
and followed it to a watery grave,
been your sacrifice, your Juliet, your Ophelia.
Had I lost you as the mother of your child,
my milk would have grown sour,
the cradle been still , and our infant's cries
would have drowned in the deluge
of tears pouring from my selfish eyes.
Had I lost you as an old woman,
leaning on you for each step,
relying on your sense of direction
to help me find my way home,
I would have wandered into traffic,
or been swept beneath the bridge, homeless, lost forever.
I lost you in my prime,
when dreams of being a mother had faded,
when my legs had grown strong enough to stand alone,
when I could see myself beyond a vessel or a womb,
when my voice was full and clear, able to carry our song
a cappella
with perfect timing.
kitten purrs and blushing giggles,
I would have hidden beneath the front porch,
knelt in the sand,
been your loyal mangy pet,
watching for the sight of your boots on the stairs.
Had I lost you as your bride,
still innocent and dressed in lace,
I would have tossed my veil into the sea
and followed it to a watery grave,
been your sacrifice, your Juliet, your Ophelia.
Had I lost you as the mother of your child,
my milk would have grown sour,
the cradle been still , and our infant's cries
would have drowned in the deluge
of tears pouring from my selfish eyes.
Had I lost you as an old woman,
leaning on you for each step,
relying on your sense of direction
to help me find my way home,
I would have wandered into traffic,
or been swept beneath the bridge, homeless, lost forever.
I lost you in my prime,
when dreams of being a mother had faded,
when my legs had grown strong enough to stand alone,
when I could see myself beyond a vessel or a womb,
when my voice was full and clear, able to carry our song
a cappella
with perfect timing.