Semicolon

you are free to change your mind at the last moment just as you press the semicolon key;

you can decide if you want to expand or retract

as long as the two independent clauses

relate in some way

like I do with the one who taught me to love the semicolon. 

The Last Conversation

we were parked in front of the house I remember because

I don’t normally sit on heated leather seats and the heat was on high

whirling under my skirt and my legs felt suddenly hot

like my face when she said what she had to say even though i protested

against the onslaught of Evidence that i had failed completely irrevocably

leading to irreversible significant and everlasting damage to him

my most precious one.

she was advising me while i sat in her new car on the hot leather seats

and the fan on high and it was hot and my face felt so hot and

my tongue lashed out at her without a second thought to tell her

i never wanted to see her again and i slammed the door shut

walking boldly my legs cold in the winter my heart beating

but knowing, knowing that it was over i would never see her again.

Unspoken

a life hidden behind pursed lips

that cried out to be heard by someone

that was never there except to

criticize and humiliate, no wonder

he fell silent as so many do, their

stories hidden behind their hands

concealing a smile that no one

bothers to see.

Adapting

suddenly there were five of us,

four feet and twelve paws in all

sighing, scratching, sneezing,

padding, whining, wagging,

when before there was only two,

two feet and four little tiny paws

with a white tail and furry ears,

a little being who crunched on celery

but mostly kept to herself while

I read my books and wrote poems

quietly, if not always happily.

ear plugs, sweepers, dog bowls,

towels stacked at the front and

back door, poopie bags, all came

with the new family who moved in

so we adapted slowly and not

so gracefully or generously to

the four legged ones and the tall

red-head who was really nice after

all and made it all worthwhile

in the end.

The Perils of the Metric System

As 2 cm is clearly 0.787 inches

why would someone say it was ½

when clearly closer to 1 if he

had to round it to something

recognizable to the average American,

who may only dimly remember that

there are twelve inches to a foot

or much less to a poet where a foot

is a series of accents, or to a Frenchman

who only knows the accents egu and grave,

much less a foot which is the same

as 30.48 cm, or shall we round

it up to thirty and one half.

Ageless II

 the hands always tell the truth,

of countless diaper changes

pots and pans scrubbed clean in

water that is too hot, the

cold that comes from having given

your mittens to someone you love.

the hands tell the truth because

no one gets hand-lifts or spends

thousands on laser treatments

or special creams

our hands tell tell our truths, 

our faces do not.  

For L.L.

my right side is overachieving so when the nurse noted that my right lung

didn’t inflate nearly as well as the left, we collectively were insulted

and worried that the left lung might get lazy, rolling over relaxing into

the place called death by asphyxiation, not noticing that me, that is , I

have a vested interest in this whole affair of breathing through the

longest lines of a Walt Whitman poem or some other snobbish thing

the alternative is to be breathless.

A House on Grove Street

behind the house, Mr. Moon rests on a hammock all day,

daffodils wave at passerbys, a chickadee

flies east over a pouncing cat bathed in morning light

for a bite with a finch flying

south gathering twigs to build a nest

in a blue gazebo swaying on a piece of twine.

in spring, a crow will enjoy three fresh eggs.

A Namibian man spins in a Chinook, the Royal

has fallen into the bush, I walk inside

to see three shoes scurrying after their socks,

a teaspoon clatters in her cup.

a single blood colored blackberry stains my palm,

the ice cream will melt on the cake

Mr. Moon wakes up just in time

to chase the Sun away.

Iambic Pentameter

Iambic pentameter, how do I love thee
in your pretty dress and golden shoes,
your name graces the tongues of real poets
your rhythmic sounds dance across the page
in pink tutus and silver tiaras, how did I
live without thee.

Just Do It

just write,

just do it,

music is playing in the background

just do it, put in some ear plugs,

no excuses

for forgotten birthdays, illegible

handwriting, shirts worn inside out,

rudeness, answering

cell phones in public places.

just do it, write it,

run on the treadmill or

swim a lap after it,

write about it, process it,

forgive it, sleep on it.

Dieting is Overrated

I’m not fat, I’m just fluffy

he mumbled as we walked through

deep snow to L’Atelier to gorge ourselves

on cheese, wine and chocolate.

It’s true, he is, with that puffy blue

down jacket, a homemade scarf wrapped

loosely around his neck, head down

to avoid the flurry of snowflakes.

Regardless of health club memberships,

riding track, skiing steep hills, the pounds

endured, his tummy stuck out a little too

far, but all was hidden under blue down.

He’s not chubby, he’s just fluffy and busy

enjoying life with me drinking and

eating the finest life has to offer.

53

happy birthday to Jenny!

Ageless

several loose folds of skin

delicately dangle from beneath her

sharply defined jaw, surely the

face of a sixty something, but

so few wrinkles around the brightest

eyes, the pursed lips so forcefully

enunciating her point of view

as if it were the only one worth

considering, the wisdom

of the old, the insistence of

youth.

Rhythms of Childhood

This is the poem I have to present in the poetry workshop tomorrow.  Stanzas and editing!  A step forward in sophistication, if not very tentatively.  I think I'll have to learn to write funny poems since so much of my childhood memories are so bleak they even depress me.  Probably the case with many artists and poets, too much dark material!  I'll only post the final poems instead of the stuff I work on during the week so I will keep to the daily short stuff that has been the basis of this blog.  Thanks for reading!

We lived north of Gary, Indiana;

city of smokestacks belching dark

plumes by day, by night, the sickly yellow 

luminescence of flickering sodium lights.

Weekends we drove north to visit Dad,

my sister pocketed the gas money from Mom.

Dad had black friends; he didn’t last long in Cicero.

Us kids all slept upstairs in a cold room

on a dirty linoleum floor huddled together

unwillingly, in the early morning light

dressing to go back to Mom’s, we carefully

shielding our eyes from witnessing

our emergence from childhood.

My sister and I so wished to have our own room

with a bunkbed and two flashlights, a door

that locked from the inside, that we would

open only when light filtered through the curtain

that parted as we opened the slightly

dented, steel cabinet looking for cereal

on the shelf above the Southern Comfort.

Poetry Workshop Paragraphs 1 - 3

and the poem continues to add stanzas each day as it must be presented on Monday the next poetry class.  Three more paragraphs in two nights (and I can't goof off on Saturday like I usually do).

We lived north of Gary, Indiana;

forests of smokestacks belched dark

plumes by day, by night, sickly yellow 

bathed in flickering sodium light.

We coughed all the time, our noses

caked with dried snot, our clothes grey with

soot, our cheeks ruddy and scabbed with cold. 

Weekends we drove north to visit Dad;

my sister pocketed the gas money from Mom

and charged us each 25 cents for the trip

Dad had black friends; he didn’t last long in Cicero.

Us kids all slept upstairs in a cold room

on a dirty linoleum floor huddled together

unwillingly

as we bumped into each other getting

dressed in the darkness, being careful

not to see our own emergence from

childhood, or the others

The Shortest Engagement

I learned on Facebook that I was

engaged to my Permanent Partner

who’d rather call me his wife

having become tired of being

asked the name of his partner.

Within ten minutes, the calls began,

the well wishers, all before I even

knew I was engaged to be married

in a ceremony somehow related to

bicycles and wheels instead of rings.

Two hours later, I was unengaged

(which sounded a bit better than

unfriended); we returned to our

quiet life as Permanent Partners

knowing the excitement which lay

in wait when it really happens. 

Poetry Class I: Paragraph II

I suspect the prompt on this paragraph was "change in temperature".  I remember that room in Cicero very well and that my sister charged us for gas.

Weekends we drove north to visit Dad;

my sister pocketed the gas money from Mom

and charged us each 25 cents for the trip

Dad had black friends; he didn’t last long in Cicero.

Us kids all slept upstairs in a cold room

on a dirty linoleum floor huddled together

unwillingly.

Poetry Class I: Paragraph I

This next series of poems is actually parts of a poem which will be due on Monday for the poetry workshop I have just started.   The prompt for the free write yesterday was "We lived north of...." and we all wrote whatever came to mind. The week assignment was to then refine the poem for next week.  Every few moments, the teacher redirected the poem by saying something like "the temperature changed"  and a new stanza would being.  The poem fragment below is the first stanza.  I have done a bit of revision and will be doing some revision for the next week on each stanza since there are seven of them.  I actually did grow up somewhat north of Gary and we did smell the acrid smell of Gary sometimes even where we were (to the north and west).  Beyond that it is poetic license. 

We lived north of Gary, Indiana where

tidy rows of smokestacks belched dark

plumes by day, sickly yellow plumes bathed

in beams of sodium lights by night.

We coughed all the time, our noses

caked with dried snot, our clothes grey with

soot, our cheeks ruddy and scabbed with cold. 

Ice Cold Nights

spiders crawl across the windshield
leaving behind webs of dendritic ice crystals
scattering headlights into dots across the retina

as my vision shrinks to a spot close to the defroster
hunched down I peer out onto the dark highway
stars wheeling overhead, the moon above
I pray that my car will go straight across
that black ice and bring me  home
safely

The night before poetry class

the last day of lazy writing
lounging at the dinette, looking
at dirty dishes lamenting their status,
languorous flakes of snow backlit
by streetlamps, learning about
alliteration so as not to
display my ignorance
late tomorrow
night.

New Zealand Poem III: Swimming up a wall

Defying gravity swimming up a wall
he glides effortlessly on his green air mattress,
spotless dry blue floral trunks, arms
outstretched towards the sea several hundred
kilometers distant he is unperturbed by it
all gazing out through his dark sunglasses
at the crowds which stare incredulously at his
perfect feet, his on-time wristwatch; they wonder
if he is happy.

A Yoga Pose

I am thankful it is dark.
Everyone is looking forward
towards the teacher who is drenching
us with instructions for
the next pose.
I fall over in the back,
emitting a small wince as
I step onto the edges of my
blocks and the buckle of my strap.
My next pose lags well behind
the others until the end when
I catch up quickly for the final
savasana.

The Boss

he emerges from his office like a bear
 from his winter den,
grouchy, hungry and mean,
loose skin once filled with the
fat of summer berries and sunshine.
he pushes past the sow and cubs into spring
rising on hind legs to reach the choicest
bits until his manager saunters along
and he shrinks back in cowardice.

A Boy

he gets away with everything
dishes left unwashed, spilled milk,
strawberries squished on the linoleum leading
to a trail of red splotches across the living room,
annoying dogs, stains on his sweater.
he just smiles, exposing that gap
between his front teeth where a
piece of Dutch licorice would lodge
itself from time to time as he ran
home from kindergarten to greet
his mother.

New Zealand Poem III: Mother's Daughter, Daughter's Mother

in common, they share
freckles, a toothsome grin, a yen for
science, bossy and opinionated, short and
curly hair

where on distant glaciers
in far off lands, one arm flung across
another’s shoulders, they touch
while maintaining the required
distance of that age

New Years Resolutions

she pondered losing weight,

he pondered learning a new language
for travels he would never take,
dreaming about them in that place
between sleep and wake,

she pondered telling him she loved him,
being a better person, and cooking
coq au vin for Valentine's Day,

she decided that touching her toes
(without bending her knees)
was good enough for next year.

no sense in promising the impossible.