Tuesday, August 31, 2010
a male person who has the same father and/or mother
yes, they match, all four of them;
one related or closely united by some common
tie or interest, not applicable.
One who resembles another by distinctive
qualities or traits of character,
loyalty, intellect, drive, responsibility,
snobbishness, a bit of each.
To make a brother of: I try and perhaps fail
but life is not yet over;
there is time for healing,
time for true brotherhood.
Monday, August 30, 2010
A quick write during lunch break.....not a single edit....
A lack of seeing
our eyes dart around
from face to face, watching
drama unfold at the movie theatre
in our lives
we usually don't look too
far or too long, too busy
in our hives, buzzing
around, each moment taken
in, soon forgotten, as
the moon transits our sky
every night, the stars wheel
overhead while we sleep,
resting before another frenetic
day from panic to panic,
soon forgotten as the sun rises
and sets, the high summer sun
sinks, preparing for winter
when we will hold our coats
against the cold, shoveling snow
before the darkness sets in,
and we rush inside to watch
the latest episodes, never
noticing the most majestic of
them all, right outside
our very windows.
Friday, August 27, 2010
you told me I handled it badly, very badly,
that December night at 1 a.m., the
following January when all the repercussions
came home to roost and there was so much
uncertainty and fear.
and in the moment I turned to look at you,
I knew in that instant that I didn’t care
what you thought, that I had lost all
respect for you, that your words were
the echo of hypocrisy, the words of someone
who had never lived and had never loved.
I never saw you again.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
with a box of donations for the yard sale;
they had something else to do,
(I so wished I did, too).
They spread out their beautiful tablecloths
from Europe to lure passers-by.
All three tablecloths were quickly snatched up;
they disappeared into my plastic box
(that I had emptied of its contents only
moments ago, vowing to rid my house
of extraneous unnecessary items.)
The yard sale offered me so many treasures:
a slide rule, a vintage vacuum cleaner with a broken gasket,
a chipped green glass vase, wicker baskets, well-read
novels and how-to-improve-your-attitude books.
I carted my plastic box home, full of new treasures
which I stuffed into overstuffed drawers to wait until
next year when I would load my new treasures
into a plastic box and cart them down to the
park to sell on a sunny summer afternoon.
Monday, August 23, 2010
I hear his dissonant voice
the nice life we have built here,
gardens, front porches,
in front of the house,
I hear the wheels of his red wagon
on the street, its colorful contents
he looks neither left nor right,
he seeks no one, he needs
nothing but his own voice
telling its own story.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Leaf, afraid of falling,
clings to the tiny branch
in a fierce wind.
The schoolgirl gathered
up the bright yellow maple
leaf and pressed it into her
Tomato blight signals
there will be no fresh
gazpacho gracing our
Clouds of twirling
leaves scuttle down
the neighborhood streets.
the sky looks lime-green
in spring when you look up
through the trees.
Below the honey locust tree,
dappled sunlight danced across
I watched a whole season pass
on one leaf.
Does the leaf on the ground
signal that I will leave you soon?
I wait to find out.
Friday, August 20, 2010
echoing on Skype, across thousands
of miles to reach you; I ask you to call
me back, I’ve always wanted to be
my own person, not in the shadow of
sisters, brothers, mothers or fathers.
you call back and I only hear my own
voice until I hear yours and it sounds
a bit like mine, that slightly nasal tone;
I know it’s time to hang up and
so do you, you go into the world
speaking in your own voice in
your own words.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
our eyes cast downward
to study the geometry of cracks,
weeds sprouting on the median
and our neighbor’s shoes,
looking up, the broken windows,
the paint peeling away a little
more every day, an empty
street, graffiti on the stop sign.
even on the clearest night
walking alone, the heavens
sparkling with stars, we never
look up seeking beauty;
the sky never forgives us.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
she licked the beaters
after mixing the last bit
of flour into the cake
it tasted so good to her
it tasted so good to her
the chocolate coated
the inside of her mouth
you can see it by how
she smiles as she licks
her lips as she puts
the beaters into the wash
happy, carrying dreams
of chocolate to her small
This poem was prompted by "write a poem imitating the style of William Carlos Williams". The poem I chose was "To a Poor Old Woman".
Monday, August 16, 2010
his loose shoe laces exemplified everything
about him from his lost homework, the
unopened dictionary, the long list of
days missed, tardiness and inattention
in class while he looked out the window
at clouds passing by, spinning poems in
his mind, writing novels on the margins
of his homework assignments.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
as cars sped along sinuous expressways,
headlights cutting into the dusk; eyes fixated
on the license plates no more than 10 feet ahead;
as lovers strolled along the riverbank, hand in hand
not noticing her cheeks are colored by the
reflection of clouds tinged in rose;
as mountain lakes grew still except for the
occasional ripple of a hungry rainbow trout
oranges, reds and pinks wash towards the shore.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
silently hold the goodness
inside yourself, smiling as you
stroll down by the river, like a Cheshire
cat; no one knows what you are thinking,
it’s pure and unsullied, until the moment
when it’s up for observation, critique,
countless stories, none of which
are particularly relevant, or will you
race down the hallway calling
out to everyone who is within
earshot, oblivious to anyone who
is working or thinking or holding
their own happy secrets within themselves
unsullied by the joyful proclamation
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
asters, daisies and wild roses, a place
of shadows where people pass through
unseen, invisible to one another and
to themselves in their rush to their
next appointment, their next secret
to escape the palpating emotions rising
in their chests, the essential burden
of being human, in love and fallible.
but one walked through the meadow in
full light, boldly and with eyes straight
ahead, alone, alive; every flower
unfolded in front of her
daring to disobey the sun as it
dipped below the horizon.
This poem was prompted by http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15708, a poem entitled "Often I am permitted to return to a meadow" by Robert Duncan. Andrea understands and reads poetry which is much more highbrow than anything I can read, or worse, imitate. But, sigh, this part of the pact for our writing at http://thelastmonthatharvard.wordpress.com/ where you can find poetry written to prompts by Karen, Andrea and me, along with short updates on what we are collectively up to Wellington, New Zealand, Las Cruces, New Mexico and Boulder, CO.
Monday, August 9, 2010
and they are in love even if they
don’t sit on the same triangle.
My favorite six welcomes me with
a big hug, and a piece of pie, while
secretly writing a best selling memoir
the bohemian individualist, my favorite
four pours a generous glass of wine
and makes me laugh while teaching
lessons in life; have no fear even
when a knife is glinting in the night
or a grizzly bear lurks nearby.
Fear not, for you are not alone;
We are only two doors away.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I make sure I am awake before
my feet touch the stairs, there is no
room for error as evidenced by
an inopportune nighttime sledding
adventure in a flannel nightgown.
The fish are begging; I feed them
as there are no decisions to be made.
Steel cut oats, thick cut oatmeal,
homemade bread, fruit, coffee, tea,
jam, butter, granola, milk; I wish
the table were set for me with the
tea pot I bought in Paris, warmed
milk inside, the newspaper opened
to my favorite section of the day,
pre-decided. I manage somehow
to make these decisions being safely
in my kitchen with its black and
white tiles, which, if I’m lucky,
do not stick to my feet.
Friday, August 6, 2010
for his mother who has crossed
the street leaving him behind
for just a moment; she is paying too
much attention to his brother,
or is talking too much to her
friend about flowers and gardens,
topics of not much interest to a
little boy, who is crying for his mother,
his tears reminding her that he
is most important in her life,
even if she sometimes forgets.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
keep it long
or cut it short,
curls or straight,
colored or au naturelle.
I check each of the other women in their chairs;
her cut looks a little young for her;
that's an adorable cut, but my hair would
never do that without hours of labor
and lots of product, sigh.
I could have my daughter
do that cut and save money.
my hairdresser has curls kind
of like mine and her cut is cute.
it’s decided; I ask her to cut
it just like hers.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
she reminds visiting raccoons that they are not
welcome by attaching aluminum foil strips
covered with peanut butter to the hot wires.
at night, she sometimes wakes up to hear them
protesting loudly to such treachery, and
skulking off to steal grapes and peaches from
someone else’s yard.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
post-mortem is a long ways away.
let sleeping dogs lie, let secrets
stay hidden in dark spaces; others
think they know us, surprised to learn
later of affairs, illegitimate children,
forged degrees, skeletons rattle
in all closets; let them rattle in
Sunday, August 1, 2010
she loved the yellow stucco house with its
pink and green trim, 50’s style dinette
and three built in book shelves lining
the living room walls.
the day she moved in she noticed the
dirty grey walls, the scratched black
and white linoleum floors and the
landscaping which contained but a single
bedraggled lilac bush in front.
undeterred, she moved in, planted flowers
and painted the walls; she is still
mopping the scratched linoleum
floor which never looks particularly
clean. Maybe one day, the floor will
be replaced, but not likely.