List of Ten Poems

Old Sleeping Bag (Revised)
Harp
Sonogram, After Amada's "Flight"
For You
Creation, After Isabel's "My Skin Absorbing"
Flu
The Watchers
You, Me
Good-Looking Friday
Sister Bowl (Revised)      

Old Sleeping Bag (Revised)

Old Sleeping Bag

Rolled, hidden beneath
My bed, an aged memory
Of my mother's childhood and mine.
This flowered fabric sleeps,
Pink daisies and
Black-eyed-susans. 

Harp

Harp

Red on black,
On white on gold,
Wood grain and harpstrings
Harmonized in my embrace.

Sonogram

Sonogram 

After Amanda Irwin's "Flight"
 

beat - the sound

of your tiny sister heart.

black and white blurs, face and feet,

teaching me how

to love you. 

For You

For You

my hands clothed
in pink glitter and paper-
cuts.

my gift of love,
and mess and sting. 

Creation

Creation
After Isabel's "My Skin Absorbing"

Your baby fingers in a pool
Of blue made wind, crushing
Pungent ooze to paper.

Wrapped in gold, your palms
Released a bird, a molten treasure.

Brown and silver spattered,
And in a corner, your
Fingerprint.  

Flu

Flu 

Three cups of ginger ale – I remain ill.
I want fresh air but feel I would collapse
Before I reached the far-off bedroom door.
Weak arms and legs make hills from my covers.
I cannot read, can only sit, sip, munch
On crackers, toast, and rice, slurp applesauce. 
Oliver Twist is read into my ear –
I’ve had enough of my own suffering. 

Out my window, college life continues
On the grounds of my new independence.
Backpacked figures tromp in whirligig snow,
Chasing down success, their own affliction,

Unconscious this same illness put me here,
Caused me to know confinement, chicken soup. 

The Watchers

The Watchers

I glimpse my face held captive in their eyes,  
Small mirrors, glass or plastic.  They don’t blink,
But sit on shoebox shelves and wonder where
Their child has gone. Who is this in her place?
Without her, legs are still and voices mute.
Fur tipped ears collect dust and backs crease.
Small hugs are unaccepted.  Yet they smile,
Awaiting her return.
                                                 I’ll not be back. 

My arms no longer rush to their embrace,
And childlike love turns into fond mem’ry.     
I’m not the girl they knew, though they’ve not changed,
In their purpose to love and receive life.
So as they watch and smile, I’ll smile too,
Kiss one’s small plastic nose,
                                                   Pretend it sighs. 

You, Me

You, Me 

You parade on the wet sidewalk while I push my hands

into my pockets, the echoing clomp of your boots

unanswered by the hushed step of my old sneakers.

Your gold curls bounce in the night air while I make sure

my hair ribbon is still in place. I step silently

into puddles when you’re not looking.

We walk under a lamp, your cream skin and my caramel

emerging from the darkness.  The lenses

of our glasses glint, yours in beat to the music of your IPod.

You still strut, and the corners of my mouth

turn up as I try not to laugh.  “What?” you ask smiling,

“you know you can’t rock these boots like I can.”

“Maybe not,” I think while my shoes leave wet prints,

a hundred subtle clues to what I’ve done.  They’d teach you

about me, but you don’t notice.  This night confirms

though you’re my friend, you haven’t met me yet. 

Good-Looking Friday

Good-Looking Friday
For Victoria

My sister twirls

Into the kitchen, a flurry of pink:

Hair ribbons hanging loose,
Spring blouse, rose skirt billowing.
Her feet slide across the wood floor
In magenta stockings.

One look from my mother
And she’s marching up the stairs,
Head high and skirt held daintily in one hand.
She returns with a black skirt, a frown,
And the magenta stockings
Still hugging her feet. 

One does not wear pink
Upon the death of the King. 

Sister Bowl (Revised)

Sister Bowl

For Theresa upon her high school graduation 
After Patricia Powles’ “Blue”

Sister you are shaped

By many loving touches: Father
Leading hands, mother caring
Hands, and sister teasing
Tickle-fingers.

Teacher, mentor guiding
Hands, the nail-marked hands
Of Christ.

My Sister Bowl,

An unassuming blue dappled

With silver, sparkling flecks –

Beautiful in my hands.

We have poured our time, advice,

Our selves into your hold,
That you may pour the same
Into others.

Virginia Christmas

Virginia Christmas

It’s midnight Christmas Eve, but we

don’t sleep.  We open cardboard boxes

filled with things – large lights, a golden star and

ornaments, both the round and the peculiar.

The tree leans dangerously to the left, tied

with twine to our grandmother’s bookshelf.  
 

I won’t forget this Virginia Christmas. It's the one
when I dumped silver tinsel on your head.
You sneezed and laughed as strands of Christmas gleam

went up your nose. 

Art Begats Poems

Sister Bowl

For Theresa

After Patricia Powles’ “Blue”

Sister you are shaped

by many loving touches: Father

leading hands, mother caring

hands, and sister teasing

tickle-fingers,

teacher, mentor guiding

hands, the nail-marked hands

of Christ.

My Sister Bowl,

an unassuming blue dappled

with silver, sparkling flecks –

beautiful when seen

up close.

We have poured love and wisdom

into your hold, that you may

pour the same into others.