Thursday, May 2, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
Caused me to know confinement, chicken soup.
The Watchers
The Watchers
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
Upon the death of the King.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Sister Bowl (Revised)
Sister Bowl
For Theresa upon her high
school graduation
After Patricia Powles’ “Blue”
After Patricia Powles’ “Blue”
Sister you are shaped
By many loving
touches: Father
Leading hands, mother caring
Hands, and sister teasing
Tickle-fingers.
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.
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