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.