New Zealand Poem II: Fox Glacier

rocks move in its sinuous
streamlines, huge boulders reappear
on the surface, popping up
from under the ice, surprising as a
jack in the box, only to melt
the ice under them seeking to
rejoin the mysterious below.

New Zealand I: Horizontal Rain

dark and sodden skies,
windows rattling against horizontal rain,
the skies awaken them from that heavy sleep that
accompanies the music of tapping raindrops.
still bleary eyed reaching for raincoats
to walk trails filled with waterfalls.

wellington snapshots

walking inside clouds of
mist and jetlag, droplets
coalescing on sleeves only
to roll down to the ground
in an endless cycle of  wet.

shorts replace pants,rain boots
are removed for ballet flats
before dinner  at the waterfront
in a small restaurant warm
smells delight the tongue.

Off to New Zealand

it's amazing how much can fit into a suitcase:
socks, raincoat, grape nuts, medicine to combat
sea sickness, toothpaste, underwear,

dreams of glaciers, wine over dinner, tramping
in deep forests overlooking the sounds, long naps,
flocks of sheep spread across hillsides

maybe I'll swap it all for summer rains,
afternoon hot tea, a vacation in paradise.

Le Poeme will be off-line until I get back. Happy Holidays to all!

Hot and Cold

hot and cold stream in separately

 only to intermingle briefly, merged

with soap and human flesh

before draining into the sink,

water against water,

soap embracing cells and sorrows

reflecting from unforgiving mirrors.

Dried up and half eaten

Triangle of chocolate bliss

drizzled with chocolate glaze

left me in a daze

of uncertainty, desire and restraint

afraid of yet another complaint

of cake offered, then eaten

half way, left out to dry

so when S would see it, he would cry

that once again his cake was half eaten.

Tortured eyebrows

she could not decide
which was best after she
plucked, dyed, shaped,
removed, extended, thinned,
plucked them thin,
grew them thick,
left them dark, bleached
them light.
she asked her boyfriend
which was best to which he
answered what?

The treatment of stomach aches

red wine soothes stomach aches

as does chocolate cake and crackers

she said while writing poems

about dancers, poets and other

eccentrics who read dictionaries

in their spare time, think fysics

is fun and host Thanksgiving parties

in summertime heat so that

food doesn’t get cold so quickly,

and gravy does not coagulate

on your mashed potatoes. 

The Reading

after all that

she stepped onto the stage, graceful

as any dancer

white cashmere on black,

tasteful heels, silver pendant

slightly cockeyed, no doubt

still askew from her last

pirouette; slightly breathless,

apologetic, she read

as a flurry of snowflakes

blew in the open door and a 

Rabbi wearing a Santa Claus hat rode by

bells ringing, bike lights flashing 

 Merry Christmas to All. 

Charles Simic writes a poem

he writes one thousand times

the same poem, over days, months, years,

one word changed, one word kept,

always keeping the same spirit alive

at times whispering in the dark,

scraping each word against the other,

 lighting a match to

watch it all go up in flames

only to start again from memory,

words partially reemerging from

the ashes.

Empty refrigerator

I'm hungry; I swing the door open
like a starving teenager, my head disappearing
between the shelves, eyes pivoting from side
to side, emerging with a scowl. 

a meager offering:  eggs and some moldy cheese
that could be cooked into a delectable, fluffy
omelet fit for a queen.

Hot Chocolate

he told me to write about hot chocolate.

it’s the good stuff, ground gourmet chocolate,

local, organic, the expensive stuff mixed into

steamed milk, and it’s ok, not great.

it cools in the mug, each small sip leaving

behind a chocolate ring.

A pleasure taken must be worth the calories.

Being sick

the injustice of a runny nose, sore throat
and headache, leaving me sleepless

in my bed littered with dirty Kleenex,
old magazines and Nyquil.

I spilled tea all over the stack of papers
on my desk, otherwise untouched
in spite of “working at home” posted
on the white board at the office.

a neighbor brings over cookies,
I’m too sick to be interested.
I watch a Netflix movie, and
wait for sleep in spite of this
injustice.

High School Physics Class

 The last poem I posted had this within it, but I shortened it to this...

I was the only girl

sliding wooden blocks down incline planes,
timing the period of a pendulum,
confirming Newton's Laws

as if the planets needed reassurances
as they hurtled around the Sun.

Science Lessons on Thanksgiving Day

I was the only girl in high school physics class

sliding wooden blocks down incline planes,
measuring the period of a pendulum, the
only one on the trail today walking
across frozen leaves watching the tall grasses
bend in the wind, only so far as determined by
the spring constant of each stem, the force of
the wind, and the cross sectional area.
There were no equations, no tests, no boys,
just the grasses, the sun, the wind and me.

Thanksgiving Eve

in celebration of family,

of those that are far away,

those that are so near their breath

intermingles with my own,

entangled in a familiar way while

sharing that which sustains us,

a home-cooked meal, a glass of

red, a few even, still

warm apple pie and ice cream,

entirely satisfied some wander off

we settle onto the old sofa to

watch a movie, not mattering

what as long as I have his

hand warm within my own.

A Second

so many clocks in the kitchen,

why don’t they all tick-tock in concert

do they not know what a second is,

so many billions of a cesium atom’s oscillations,

so many beats of a hummingbird’s wings,

a fraction of  a sigh, the time for an arrow’s

trajectory to finally fall towards earth,

the time they say it takes to fall
in love, the millions to stay
in love.

Watching the Night

two cars turn left onto a lonely street
tailgates curve around the bend into darkness.

a bus rolls by with a single passenger seated
way in the back; he is reading Lolita before heading
home to a loveless marriage.

Christmas decorations light the street,
two women stop in full view to deeply kiss.

a taxi stops at the red light, a streetlamp illuminates
a plume of exhaust, before it drives away
to destinations unknown.

Escape Eyes Closed

she sits at the dinette

in silence, eyes closed,

listening to her beating heart,

willing the day to lift from her

shoulders, to release her tight

shoulders with each footstep

across the soft bed of

pine needles along her favorite

trail, smelling her body as ice,

snow and rain rippling along

the creek bed, water lifting into

the sky as white cumulous clouds

building to black thunderclouds,

coming down again as rain over

cities, mountains, lakes and

oceans, her feet keep stepping

across the soft pine needle beds.

she raises her arms up towards

the moon rising in the east,

the north star, finally taking

a breath and opening her eyes,

she sits at the same dinette,

body intact, composed of

the same atoms and molecules

as the stars, the Moon, the

rivers and streams.

Melting Butter

launched from knife’s edge

a petite pat of butter arcs gracefully

through the air, landing firmly on edge

in the bottom of the sauté pan.

seemingly defying gravity, she holds

position, one corner pointing

skyward as if held in position by

an unseen partner on an ice rink,

only releasing in the warm applause

of an appreciative audience. 

Spent, she submits to gravity,

all edges find the bottom of the

pan now as the heat penetrates

from below, burners set to high,

the cook waits patiently for the

butter to melt before stirring in

minced onions, cranberries and

red wine, admiring the beauty

of butter spreading across the

bottom of the pan. 

Picking Milk

standing in front of cooler at Sunflower

I wonder, a gallon or half?  one percent or two?

organic or in “natural” returnable bottles?  Horizon or

Farmers’?  this or that?  that or this?

cream or chocolate milk?  buttermilk or sour

cream for the chocolate cake?  salted butter

or unsalted?  cage free eggs, large or medium, brown

or white?  so I stand there in a stupor deciding

while people are dying in wartime, dying from

malnutrition; I stand here frozen in time,

all brain cells working full time, dumbfounded with

the stupidity of it all.

Sweeping the Stairs

dirt has filled every corner

swept aside by many footsteps

going up and down, up and down,

wilted leaves fallen from unwatered plants,

clods of dried dirt, dust bunnies.

blue fiber cloth in hand she starts

at the top, methodically moving

left to right across the back edge,

sweeping the pile across the front

edge and down onto the next,

across the landing and down the

last eleven steps to the

ground floor where she finally

pauses to look up at the gleaming

stairs, then carefully brushing

the pile into a small dustpan,

almost tenderly depositing a part

of her life into the trash can.   

No more excuses

no more excuses

too dark to soak up the sun

leaves still sodden from snowfall

too dark to follow footsteps and dodge ice patches.

too full to get another bowl of ice cream, another

cup of tea, the dishes are done, the dogs are fed,

the boyfriend is busy, too.

no more excuses

to delay what needs to be done,

the opening of the mind, creaking

notwithstanding, night has

come, light shines on

books and papers,

sit under the light

and begin.

Snow the morning of Veterans Day

and birds perched on the empty feeder

looking at me dolefully, their red breasts

reminding me of those whose lives have

been lost at war this day, Veterans Day,

those in trenches, morphine coursing

through their veins to stand the terrible

pain, the cold, the loneliness, the bullets,

OK, I said,as I put on my slippers,

scrounged for bird seed in the basement

and shuffled through the snow, so little

to ask in response to such sacrifices.

I highly recommend reading Three Day Road about two young Canadian (Indian) men who go to war. The reference to morphine comes from this book.  This book woke me up to the horror of war.  

the impersonator

she sneaks into small dim rooms

with her pen in hand ready to

forge signatures for children who

have skipped school, for small time

felons, and single mothers who

want to divorce deadbeat dads.

her clients wait impatiently but

she takes her time studying each

signature, crossing every “t” and

dotting each “i” so no one will

ever know the difference. 

sun rain snow

in the morning the crackle of leaves

under bike tires, sun shining through

the few remaining leaves, jacket

stashed in the rear basket.

in the afternoon, heavy grey

clouds laden with rain falling

on my helmet, cold wind cutting

through my jacket on me,

no longer in the basket, no sunshine,

later, snow falling gently on

wet sidewalks and streets.

winter has finally arrived.

editing:a prose poem

the longest sentences without any punctuation spill across the page down the page across the page the reader no longer able to follow the stream of consciousness flowing from her fingers typing across the keyboard now no longer even correctin gtypiosthatseem to flowendlessless andmakethe readingevenmoreconfusing and teriblydifficulttoreadafterall and so I stopped reading and put in punctuation marks, brutally ending sentences.  Just like that.

Daylight savings

It’s dark already, before dinner

before a glass of wine the neighbor

brought over, bless her in the darkness.

It’s too early to go to bed,

the dishes are undone, the letter unwritten

next to the fountain pen, ink of darkness.

It’s too early to sleep, the pages

lay open waiting to be read, the

light is turned off, I am in darkness.

Language and Equations

to hold is to forget,

love means nothing.

the product of electric field

and charge is force;

automobiles start with the turn

of a key, trains run on time.

make nothing without words,

let me be the one you never

forget, but remember that

the sky is blue for a reason.

I've been taking a poetry class and have come to appreciate that poetry can have its own rules and patterns not unlike some we have in science.  Several of the lines pulled into this poem are from Kay Ryan's Languages Lessons 1976 where love means nothing in one line, but then make nothing without words in a line later.  Like we would say A = B on one page of a textbook, then B = C later realizing that A = C.  There is a beauty in both worlds. 

Cours: a definition

qu'est-ce que c'est, cours?

she furrowed her brow,

they don’t have them here,

only in Paris, Madrid or Prague

the “cours’ where children play

behind solid stone walls, passersby

only glimpse a small segment of

the parabolic swing of a child

screaming with delight before

she jumps off onto a verdant

soft lawn sprinkled in fall leaves.

She wasn’t sure how to translate

this word “cours” because we

don’t really have them here

but I knew I wanted to spend

time there playing and laughing

where I had never been before.

Watching him wash the dishes

I watch from the dinette

as he puts on the too small yellow

latex gloves and my flowered apron.

He changes the station to KBCO

from NPR, the noise of hard rock

fills the air: I put an ear plug

in my one good ear.

Most of the dishes end up washed

but a few linger on the counter

waiting for me to finish

the job.

Fire Pit: A Clanging poem

Our poetry teacher works with mentally ill people and a common manifestation of schizophrenia is clanging, a type of speech where the person mostly talks nonsense but in rhymes.  This poem was written in poetry workshop last night during free write.

fire pit,
spit in my face
pace! space
me out, man
damn I'm real
peel off me, dude,
my mood,you're
lewd, man damn
spit at me
be see me lee
pee on me
wet debt, I'm set!
get regret, hot
fire, inspire
you're all a liar
admire me

Poetry Workshop

each carries a sheaf

of words in sonnets

rhymes couplets

offerings for a night

gathered around hissing

flickering flames

we bow to each other

capturing words

unspoken undertones

of lives not yet

shared

Scientist

You don't have to like this poem and it's really not my usual writing style, but we are studying the Poet Laureates in the poetry workshop I am taking. The poet for this week is Kay Ryan, who writes poems which simultaneously draw you in, but for reasons you don't understand. Well, some of the poems, anyway.  Some of them are just too out there.  She has rhymes in her poems in weird places and most of the poems are really obscure. 

mind forged

from dawn

spent, hours

at the bench

yawning

night traps

the blind

eye maps

knowledge

drenched in

sweat, she

naps finally

spent.

Photo

capture moment photo

send to other side of earth

white clouds billowing

over rain soaked landscapes

she opens it laughing

Sustenance

fresh bread and butter

red wine food and drink

of the gods planning trips

spending money boats

planes the most comfortable

beds on the other side

of the world so weary

as to drop me into bed

my tummy full of soft

warm bread slathered

with butter, red wine

and happiness

I'm too tired to write a poem

I'm too tired to write a poem
to get up from this chair to read
Kay Ryan how did she become a
poet laureate while falling in love
another woman who made her words
flow so effortlessly from her pen
onto white and crimson pages,
to tired to listen to NPR explain
the mortgage crisis, too tired to listen
to the dishwasher complain or the
broom sweeping up dog hair.

the day

no space between the cracks

to slip out unseen like the wind

that howls in the afternoon while

sleeping with warm feet nestled

against corn bags ears plugged

no longer disturbed by nightmares

unfinished to-do lists reviews

days bursting from uneven seams

no pattern to make a beautiful

fitted skirt, just a rag to thrown

in the laundry and dry in the wind.

to grandmother

seventy years ago you knitted this for me

an old lady color, cornflower blue, cable knit

pearl buttons i should have hated it

but i loved you sitting on the rocking chair

in mom’s room someone finally there

with warm hands who spoke a language

whose words i did not understand but whose

eyes recognized me for the first time.

to that place between sleep and wake

my favorite red patent leather shoes
are floating away from me as I tumble

towards earth the rabbit is

chewing the apple I put out for her

my shoes side by side

at the end of the bed my pink

fleece pajama bottoms warm against

skin as my left leg twitches a

snore shifts me to my side

flying over buildings now far away

from danger men running below me

looking down alleys I

soar higher finding a solution to

the problem I left at work

on Friday hope to remember when

I wake up.

To the fifteen mice

to the fifteen dead mice who

slipped silently through the

small gap behind the Kashi

cereal into the cabinet smelling

fresh peanut butter so innocently

wandering into the warmth

of this house where so many

mice have lived so comfortably

over many generations only

to find the final darkness

note to readers:  I hope as much as you that I have 

terminated (!?) all the mice for awhile.  This is an

annual fall event in this house.

Ice Cream

I stood at the freezer case

studying the ice cream options:

Cherry Garcia, Phish Food, Crème Brulee, Peach, Key Lime Pie, Lemon Sorbet,

Chocolate Chocolate Chip, Coffee Macademia Nut,  Coconut Crunch

I wanted all of them at once in as many different bowls with chocolate

sauce and roasted nuts on top, with whipped cream and sprinkles of

all different colors, especially the ones that are coated with metal

so they zing against your fillings.

I walked out with one tiny pint

to eat in a small white bowl,

with no whipped cream,

chocolate sauce or sprinkles

but I’ll be happy

anyway.

The Good Death

twenty-eight eyes,

fifty four tiny feet,

fourteen mice licked

delicious peanut butter

and found ecstasy

in their last moments;

may we all die so

happily.

The After-Haircut Shampoo

I’m afraid to wash my hair,

the spray-on wax, the gel,

the moisturizing cream, the perfect

curls (slightly smashed from sleeping

on them), the bangs that tickle

my eyelashes but don’t obstruct

my vision, the hairstylist’s magic.

Once I wash my hair, my haircut

won’t work anymore; my bangs will

curl up in a flip, all the curls will

frizz, and I’ll look like a doofus.

My daughter will wrinkle her

nose with distaste, oh why do I

have to wash my hair of stylist

magic.

The Stress Therapist

she calls me promptly at 9:30 every other Monday

to talk about stress, my stress from dealing with

co-workers way too young to be Republicans,

the ones who know everything about nothing,

my inability to keep calm in spite of it all.

she is stressed from talking to people all day,

people who don’t want to talk to her about

the fact they are obese, have high cholesterol

or need to exercise more; me, I like to talk to

her.  I make her laugh hysterically at my stories.

My stress level goes down.

Remember this

the softness of the forest floor

caressing your feet with

each step, the rustle

of leaves falling through the

trees decorating the trail

in yellows, reds and oranges.

remember the sun warming

your face, the wind at your back,

the swaths of grass brushing

against your legs, remember

the boulders, the walls of rock.

remember all this when you

are surrounded by sheetrock

and glass, where there is no

softness or color, nor caresses

for your soul.  

Come to mama, little mousie, mousie

the traps are empty, their jaws

gaping, waiting, their almond

butter offerings untouched.

I wait expectantly, every hour

opening the cabinets hoping for

satisfaction.

Come, little mousie, mousie,

come to your mama who

will take you to your grave.

MIce are Not Nice

I opened the lid, flying down

to the floor, skittering under

the stove to safety;

S. jumped on top of the dinette,

 the dogs wandered in, too little,

too late being incompetent

at such things.

What a way to start the day.

a few hours later, I went to wash a few

dishes and a big fat mouse emerged

from under the single bowl in the sink.

Quicker this time, I captured

it under a yogurt container, slipped

a newspaper underneath and carried

it out to the dumpster on the other

side of the alley, where I am sure it

will tunnel its way down, find

a tiny hole and run back to my

house where it believes it will

again roam the land of milk

and honey until it smells that

little spot of almond butter

on a little black plastic plate

and everything will go

black.

Make my day,

mousie.

Cereal for Dinner

she lives alone

enjoying the freedom

of eating cereal for dinner;

there is no man around

requiring meat, a vegetable

and dessert for dinner.

A bowl and a spoon sit

on the countertop at the

end of her nutritious meal,

not dirty pans, spatulas,

cutting boards and the

odor of cooked meat hanging

in the air.

Life is so much simpler

this way, if only it weren't

so lonely.

Rain

finally I wake to the sound of rain,

a steady drumming on the skylight,

the sky dark and brooding, holding

promises of many hours of rain.

my bicycle sits in the rain and will

sit all day, alone, in the rain; the

windshield wipers will squeak on

every sweep, complaining, when

I leave by bike alone in the rain

and drive the old red heap to work,

she hates to move from her

favorite parking spot where she

can look skyward and watch the

hours of rain stream across her

face.

too much to do

poems to write

that have meaning;

making eyes move the

way they’re supposed to;

watching rockets launch

while washing dishes,

speed reading a few articles

for self improvement

and learning to relax

curled up in bed

next to warm

corn bags.

Nightime

street lights reflecting

into downcast eyes (lashes

shedding raindrops).

A Painting

I always wanted that painting hanging on her wall,

the pastoral oil with fields surrounded by stands of trees

scattered across the rolling hills of the Jura.

I wanted the life I thought was there, with grandmothers

and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, assorted cousins,

where we would all play together surrounded by

the Alps in our own mountain chalet, our breakfasts

of whole fresh cow’s milk and French bread, homemade

jam, all delivered that morning by the neighbors

before I awoke to sun and blue sky, wiggling

my toes from under the feather bed and blue gingham

duvet cover, so fresh from drying in the sun.

Today, I bought a

my own painting of soft Colorado hills covered with

fields surrounded by stands of trees.

It hangs on my wall reminding me

of long hikes in the mountains,

bike rides along county roads

through acres of grazing cattle

with people that eat peach pie

with me, that hold me in their

arms, that love me just

as I love them.

Pink Flannel Pajama Pants: A Life

Today

I bask in the summer sun on the clothes line

after being pulled from the bottom drawer

of her dresser, examined for stains and holes;

passing muster, into the washing machine

and called back into service, soon, to warm

her skin in the night’s darkness and chill.

I know I am her favorite; I have only grown

softer with age, with her years of sadness, now

much more happiness and content, I often

brush against S or he strokes me while they

watch “24”, her secret vice that I hesitate to

reveal....

I love her and she loves me; she wears me

every night until even I agree that it’s time

for a shower and so I go in the washer and

hang forlornly in the basement (as I

will not dry outside anymore, nor will she

go out to hang me in the sun) until

she comes to me again, pulling me onto

her petite legs and takes me off to bed

with her once again.

Summer Thunderstorm and Dog

the hair stands up on his haunches;

he rises up from the floor, his back arching and stiff,

his hind legs stretching behind him, his nose pointing up

as we innocently continue reading our novels,

oblivious, perfectly content in the quiet of

our evening, our comfortable companionship.

The lamp flickers, the living room is flooded

in the electric flash of evening lightning

followed by the crash of thunder;

he jumps up, barking wildly to hush the storm.

his attempts to quiet the storm have succeeded

once again, he settles back onto the rug, we

pick up our books returning to our comfortable

companionship on this summer evening.

Strangers in the Office

she has dogs; I see their pictures posted

over her monitor in her corner cube,

she always wears ribbons in her hair

like they do when she shows them on weekends.

a large diamond sparkles on her ring finger;

she’s been married a long time, diamond

solitaires are no longer in fashion

diamonds are no longer in fashion

she is no longer in fashion in her slightly

baggy jeans, pink Crocs and floral t-shirt.

we smile at each other in the hallway

when there is nowhere else to look

without seeming rude, besides I

like her in her simplicity, she demands

nothing of me, nor I of her.

 

The "f" word we say with pride

to those who
spit
“feminists
burning bras
hating men
unshaved armpits
smelly
dykes”
do you really believe that is feminism,
to those who spit “I’m not a feminist” as if it’s a dirty word
who are you
we who do not burn bras but wear those that are comfortable
we who have married, or not,
have raised children, or not,
who have loved men, stayed with them,
left them or not.
we who rally for equal rights or not,
we who carry our heads high in spite of barriers,
we carry on, yes we are
feminists.

Peach Pie

 

 

raccoons hover around the

electric fence sparks jumping to

whiskers, the smell of ripe peaches

pulling them closer, a growl and

dash under the porch shrieking in

frustration calling the dogs

barking to the back door,

pushing the screen door open

they rush the raccoons

snarling at them, at each other

while the smell of peach pie

fills my kitchen and he happens

to wander in to tell me he loves

me I know his tricks.

Making Gazpacho Soup

the tomatoes are gathered from the garden,
voluptuous orange globes ribbed with sun-baked
tears barely containing the bursting flesh,
tossed into boiling water in summer heat,
she sweats over the stove, retrieving
each tomato, peeling away each blistered
skin before slicing each one into quarters,
pressing each seed from the fleshy folds
of fruit, each lip holding so many chances
for new life in the moist earth of spring.

Highland Avenue

they all knew how to ride a bike;
Tony Fiatta kicked my ball with his
pointy black shoes as he rode by,
the hiss of the escaping air followed
him down the avenue.
the others screamed down the
hill, slamming on their brakes
on the cardboard at the bottom,
sliding across the street only to
crash into the cement curbs which
recently arrived in our neighborhood.
I so wanted to learn to ride a bike
that they finally walked me up
the hill, put me on the seat and
pushed me down the hill, releasing
me after only a few yards
in their hurry to ride their bikes
again, skidding across cardboard
at the bottom of the hill where I
sat alone, wishing I could ride
a bike, too.

The Perfect Haircut

she breezed in to the restaurant,

every man turned his head to watch

her go by with her perfect haircut,

the women fingered their hair, wondering

if it wasn’t time to update

their look after all didn’t he

used to look at her the same

way his eyes now followed

the woman who just breezed

in with her perfect haircut.