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