My Final 10 Poems:
1. A Gorgeous Drive-Thru (Revised)
2. The Visitor Returns : Again
3. After the Art Show : Revised
4. From the Auditorium: Revised
5. To Mine Caffeinated Love : Revised
6. Sensitive Teeth : Revised
7. In a Plastic Bag : Revised
8. Still to Read : Revised
9. Flowered Rain Boots
10. Hidden Among Velvet
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
A Gorgeous Drive-Thru (Revised)
A Gorgeous Drive-Thru
(Revised)
the thickened thighs,
that curdle like
cheese
and jiggle as if a
mold
of jello never lost
its
shape, but grew with
each
step, each turn
adipose arms,
that continue to wave
even after the hand
has
stopped; they are
exuberant,
joyful to meet a new
face
a new body to perhaps
hold
swollen stomach,
for centuries has
brought
happiness to
children, once
clothed in red felt;
even
now the gentle sway
and plunge of fingers
can tickle
bursting buttons
on jagged jeans,
‘tis a shame to ruin
a new pair; ‘tis
embarrassing
that
it even happened, like
ripping
the seam while
sitting,
one shall never speak
of
it again
the constant cry
from tainted teeth,
oh how the dentist
loves
to fill the black
spots in
the enamel; sure it
costs, of
course it hurts but
it’s worth
the greenbacks to
have another
bite, to taste that
which claims
“have it your way.”
The Visitor Returns : Again
The Visitor Returns : Again
Ice crystals rip through clouds
reshaping into droplets
on their descent. On a hood
they glaze, stack, crawl
toward the face hidden
from their reach.
Clutching the nylon they rattle
as one step, two steps, the body
drops to the ground, hands dig into the cold
slush, loosely forming what should be a ball.
The body rises, a hand pushing
small droplets out of eyes.
The drops hanging onto the hood
back away to watch the toss
of the arm, and the bundle of ice that arcs
through the air, landing against the window
where the lace curtains are captured.
The body steps backwards, fingers tap
the jean material attached to legs.
Larger molecules of moisture take the chance
that the small ones failed at.
They throw their weight over
the brim, landing on the nose in delight.
The hand rises to sweep them away,
but stops, the curtain is spread apart
revealing the face of the body’s match.
A smile, the droplets long to be in between
the lips, curled against teeth that aren’t meant
for them. They begin their descent,
one last toss of their weight
but they rattle as one,
two, three, four steps.
Bonds cling to bonds but it’s not enough.
They tumble to the pavement
as the door opens where the match
stands in the light casting shadows
onto the sidewalk, onto him.
Ice crystals rip through clouds
reshaping into droplets
on their descent. On a hood
they glaze, stack, crawl
toward the face hidden
from their reach.
Clutching the nylon they rattle
as one step, two steps, the body
drops to the ground, hands dig into the cold
slush, loosely forming what should be a ball.
The body rises, a hand pushing
small droplets out of eyes.
The drops hanging onto the hood
back away to watch the toss
of the arm, and the bundle of ice that arcs
through the air, landing against the window
where the lace curtains are captured.
The body steps backwards, fingers tap
the jean material attached to legs.
Larger molecules of moisture take the chance
that the small ones failed at.
They throw their weight over
the brim, landing on the nose in delight.
The hand rises to sweep them away,
but stops, the curtain is spread apart
revealing the face of the body’s match.
A smile, the droplets long to be in between
the lips, curled against teeth that aren’t meant
for them. They begin their descent,
one last toss of their weight
but they rattle as one,
two, three, four steps.
Bonds cling to bonds but it’s not enough.
They tumble to the pavement
as the door opens where the match
stands in the light casting shadows
onto the sidewalk, onto him.
After the Art Show : Revised
After the Art Show : Revised
I pressed my face against
the cold glass. Sleep shadowing
the back of my mind as I squinted
into a darkened room
that hid the painting I longed to see.
Muted blues and greens swirled
to form flowers without petals
and rusting buckets filled
with holes. Each dripping
colored oil onto the hardwood floor.
My fingers tapped on the clear
surface, my gaze drifting
to the locked door behind
which a trickling stream
could be heard. Pastels brushed
on with water flowed from frames
corralling the oil into a tight circle.
The colors swirled, mixed to form
a dark grey. Their movements
settled, shapeless and picture-less.
Merely a blob pooled on the hardwood.
Then a creak came from the floorboards.
They fell away, drinking oil
and water.
As the boards closed,
and the paintings hung blank
I turned from the grey
room, dragging my feet
through the atrium. Each
step echoed against the linoleum.
I pressed my face against
the cold glass. Sleep shadowing
the back of my mind as I squinted
into a darkened room
that hid the painting I longed to see.
Muted blues and greens swirled
to form flowers without petals
and rusting buckets filled
with holes. Each dripping
colored oil onto the hardwood floor.
My fingers tapped on the clear
surface, my gaze drifting
to the locked door behind
which a trickling stream
could be heard. Pastels brushed
on with water flowed from frames
corralling the oil into a tight circle.
The colors swirled, mixed to form
a dark grey. Their movements
settled, shapeless and picture-less.
Merely a blob pooled on the hardwood.
Then a creak came from the floorboards.
They fell away, drinking oil
and water.
As the boards closed,
and the paintings hung blank
I turned from the grey
room, dragging my feet
through the atrium. Each
step echoed against the linoleum.
From the Auditorium : Revised
From the Auditorium : Revised
Peter, shakes his head, glasses
flashing in the fluorescent lights
as Jesus kneels with an empty
bowl near tube socked feet.
“Unless I wash you, you have
no part in me.” Jesus stands,
silently mouthing words
that aren’t in sync
with the sound system.
As the lights dim an automated
orchestra tightens their strings.
“Do it again,” from the sound
booth where blue neon shines
like a space cockpit, the director
lifts his head. “Jesus a bit slower.
Peter take off the socks and glasses.”
The men on stage pull at thrift shop
dresses, shuffle on cushions.
“We’ve got one last shot
to nail this scene before
show time. Ready?”
The director moves amidst
the light, waiting for his
actors to stand still,
listening for the music,
staring at empty seats.
Peter, shakes his head, glasses
flashing in the fluorescent lights
as Jesus kneels with an empty
bowl near tube socked feet.
“Unless I wash you, you have
no part in me.” Jesus stands,
silently mouthing words
that aren’t in sync
with the sound system.
As the lights dim an automated
orchestra tightens their strings.
“Do it again,” from the sound
booth where blue neon shines
like a space cockpit, the director
lifts his head. “Jesus a bit slower.
Peter take off the socks and glasses.”
The men on stage pull at thrift shop
dresses, shuffle on cushions.
“We’ve got one last shot
to nail this scene before
show time. Ready?”
The director moves amidst
the light, waiting for his
actors to stand still,
listening for the music,
staring at empty seats.
To Mine Caffeinated Love : Revised
To Mine Caffeinated Love : Revised
To thee whom I long to taste,
After a night of battling paper dragons
with a sword of ink
I know that you aren’t far off
and yet I can’t seem to produce enough
quarters to pay for your dark nectar.
My dear whose perfume alone transfixes,
I wish to break this wooden barrier
where the scarved beauty
adorned in a jeweled apron
awaits my payment
so we may be united.
Oh bittersweet love of mine,
who urges me to draw near
I fear our affair can not continue,
as valiant as I may be,
it seems your soft brown skin
will never touch my hands, my lips.
I bid thee adieu steaming delicacy,
contain the foaming tears
yet resist the braceleted aproness
when she pawn you to another.
I shall shuffle to my room,
my hands searching my pockets.
To thee whom I long to taste,
After a night of battling paper dragons
with a sword of ink
I know that you aren’t far off
and yet I can’t seem to produce enough
quarters to pay for your dark nectar.
My dear whose perfume alone transfixes,
I wish to break this wooden barrier
where the scarved beauty
adorned in a jeweled apron
awaits my payment
so we may be united.
Oh bittersweet love of mine,
who urges me to draw near
I fear our affair can not continue,
as valiant as I may be,
it seems your soft brown skin
will never touch my hands, my lips.
I bid thee adieu steaming delicacy,
contain the foaming tears
yet resist the braceleted aproness
when she pawn you to another.
I shall shuffle to my room,
my hands searching my pockets.
Sensitive Teeth : Revised
Sensitive Teeth : Revised
The stereo turned to full volume,
a man and a woman plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
Their hats clutched to their heads
as man made wind wraps
their hair about their faces.
Lovers sworn to write letters,
promised with a kiss to never
stumble into the open
arms of another.
Yet they lie.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I shove an overstuffed chocolate
into my mouth letting
the monochromatic couple betray
and woo and fight.
As I reach for another sweet
the nerves in my teeth cry out.
On screen the woman cups
her face in her hands.
The man is walking away.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by chocolate.
The stereo turned to full volume,
a man and a woman plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
Their hats clutched to their heads
as man made wind wraps
their hair about their faces.
Lovers sworn to write letters,
promised with a kiss to never
stumble into the open
arms of another.
Yet they lie.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I shove an overstuffed chocolate
into my mouth letting
the monochromatic couple betray
and woo and fight.
As I reach for another sweet
the nerves in my teeth cry out.
On screen the woman cups
her face in her hands.
The man is walking away.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by chocolate.
In a Plastic Bag : Revised
In a Plastic Bag : Revised
He’s here.
In my aisle.
Wearing Chuck Taylor’s
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands
or perhaps my weight as my legs jello.
Above, soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don’t make sense.
His brown eyes shift.
I lean into bagged jelly beans.
Oh turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn’t be crossed.
I pick up a colored bag.
His hands glide over empty
shelves, brushing dust away.
He stands, hurrying to answer
those that call
from speakers above.
A faint brush of arms.
A second of connection.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Clutching the box to my chest
I step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
To see his smile.
The elbow with the basket
filled with cat food swishes
her skirt as he chuckles in response.
I wait.
He’s smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
My hands on the velvet.
He’s speaking.
I’m nodding.
I’m leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag,
as he’s whistling along,
with the radio.
He’s here.
In my aisle.
Wearing Chuck Taylor’s
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands
or perhaps my weight as my legs jello.
Above, soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don’t make sense.
His brown eyes shift.
I lean into bagged jelly beans.
Oh turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn’t be crossed.
I pick up a colored bag.
His hands glide over empty
shelves, brushing dust away.
He stands, hurrying to answer
those that call
from speakers above.
A faint brush of arms.
A second of connection.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Clutching the box to my chest
I step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
To see his smile.
The elbow with the basket
filled with cat food swishes
her skirt as he chuckles in response.
I wait.
He’s smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
My hands on the velvet.
He’s speaking.
I’m nodding.
I’m leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag,
as he’s whistling along,
with the radio.
Still to Read : Revised
Still to Read : Revised
One hundred pages
still to read
and the snow continues to fall.
Coffee was an option,
that dark sweet elixir
that makes my hands shake
and keeps me awake,
but my wallet moans in starvation.
Instead I sat among vibrating machines
that stirred, tossed, jiggled my clothes
wet and dry.
The book I took with me but
I’d rather speak to other faces
who too were throwing out lint
and counting the seconds on watches.
Now back in a quiet room
seated in front of crystallized glass,
watching the clouds bleed white,
the book lays open.
Still one hundred pages
to read and the snow
continues to fall.
One hundred pages
still to read
and the snow continues to fall.
Coffee was an option,
that dark sweet elixir
that makes my hands shake
and keeps me awake,
but my wallet moans in starvation.
Instead I sat among vibrating machines
that stirred, tossed, jiggled my clothes
wet and dry.
The book I took with me but
I’d rather speak to other faces
who too were throwing out lint
and counting the seconds on watches.
Now back in a quiet room
seated in front of crystallized glass,
watching the clouds bleed white,
the book lays open.
Still one hundred pages
to read and the snow
continues to fall.
Flowered Rain Boots
Flowered Rain Boots
-After Tricia’s Poem
It’ll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry cheeks
over emerald bushes.
Their eyes narrowing to slits.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs,
throwing slush into the air.
It won’t grow,
he knows it’s true.
It’ll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with ripped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
To this they stomped their feet.
Dwarf earmuffs are pulled out of an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
Teeth crunch, feet mimic parents’.
It won’t even hold lights,
he knows this.
It’ll enchant your dreams,
it’ll make every wish come true,
it’ll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
After years of watching
my parents hand over cash
that he swallowed whole,
and making sure that he licked
the coins from their fingers.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
-After Tricia’s Poem
It’ll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry cheeks
over emerald bushes.
Their eyes narrowing to slits.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs,
throwing slush into the air.
It won’t grow,
he knows it’s true.
It’ll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with ripped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
To this they stomped their feet.
Dwarf earmuffs are pulled out of an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
Teeth crunch, feet mimic parents’.
It won’t even hold lights,
he knows this.
It’ll enchant your dreams,
it’ll make every wish come true,
it’ll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
After years of watching
my parents hand over cash
that he swallowed whole,
and making sure that he licked
the coins from their fingers.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
Hidden Among Velvet
Hidden Among Velvet
-After Amanda’s Poem
I used to peer over the edge,
my nostrils picking up the sweet scent from the dresser’s gloss.
I would walk backwards
until I saw my reflection
in the mirror, that hung on the wall
above the caramel paneled drawers.
My reflection glowing
as if gold were freckles.
On my toes, with my hand stretched,
I fingered jewelry boxes and perfumes
that cast pinks and blues
onto the paneling.
I now look down at the chipped gloss,
stained with nail polish and substances
long forgotten, I run my finger
over what still shines.
I lift my eyes to the mirror
that seems to betray my image,
I’m either too wide or unproportioned.
My ears stick out too far from my head
or the lobes hang too low.
The caramel paneling has abandoned me,
adding a yellow hue to my pale complexion,
making me look jaundice.
In the jewelry box
left by my mother,
when it seemed that she’d left us,
hidden among folds of velvet
were the pearls of my youth.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
After the Art Show
I pressed my face against
the glass. Where a darkened room
hid the art I longed to see.
My fingers tapped on the clear
surface, my gaze drifting
to the locked door. Why
had I waited so long?
I turned from the unlit
room, dragging my feet
through the atrium. Each
step echoed against the linoleum.
the glass. Where a darkened room
hid the art I longed to see.
My fingers tapped on the clear
surface, my gaze drifting
to the locked door. Why
had I waited so long?
I turned from the unlit
room, dragging my feet
through the atrium. Each
step echoed against the linoleum.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
From the Auditorium
Thrift shop dresses,
department store sandals,
cordless mics dependent
on old batteries.
For weeks words have been rehearsed,
feet stepped to the right,
now to the left.
Lights dimmed to coordinate
with an automated orchestra.
No soul is allowed to leave.
Each voice, each body
depends on the other.
The missing element
is yet to come,
when those who fill hard chairs
clasp their hands
and raise their eyebrows,
the miracle that is called
theatre will have been
performed.
department store sandals,
cordless mics dependent
on old batteries.
For weeks words have been rehearsed,
feet stepped to the right,
now to the left.
Lights dimmed to coordinate
with an automated orchestra.
No soul is allowed to leave.
Each voice, each body
depends on the other.
The missing element
is yet to come,
when those who fill hard chairs
clasp their hands
and raise their eyebrows,
the miracle that is called
theatre will have been
performed.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
To Mine Caffeinated Love
To thee whom I long to taste,
I know that you aren't far off
and yet I can't seem to uncover enough
quarters to pay for your dark nectar.
My dear whose perfume alone transfixes,
I wish to break through this glass barrier
and remove your aproned guards,
so that we may at last be united.
Oh bittersweet love of mine,
if only our affair could continue
but, it seems today your brown paper gown
will never touch my hands, my lips.
I bid thee adieu steaming beauty,
let your essence fall to another
as I shuffle to my room,
my hands feeling my pockets.
I know that you aren't far off
and yet I can't seem to uncover enough
quarters to pay for your dark nectar.
My dear whose perfume alone transfixes,
I wish to break through this glass barrier
and remove your aproned guards,
so that we may at last be united.
Oh bittersweet love of mine,
if only our affair could continue
but, it seems today your brown paper gown
will never touch my hands, my lips.
I bid thee adieu steaming beauty,
let your essence fall to another
as I shuffle to my room,
my hands feeling my pockets.
A Gorgeous Drive-Thru
the thickened thighs,
adipose arms,
swollen stomach,
bursting buttons
on jagged jeans,
the constant cry
from tainted teeth,
"have it your way."
adipose arms,
swollen stomach,
bursting buttons
on jagged jeans,
the constant cry
from tainted teeth,
"have it your way."
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Prayers for Him
In a dream or a vision you exist,
unshaken by the world's double edged knife.
You're as fearless as those that slay dragons
yet quick as a jester, dancing for bread.
A hardwood floor, an Italian cut suit,
any dainty ringed hand is yours to take.
In ripped Converse, you wait for her to come,
with your head on your chest and tongue on guard.
The world is known to be a monstrous place,
where those like you fall into crevices
spraining more than ankles, bursting livers.
Their fruit juice turns tart exposed to sugar
puckering their lips for eternity.
But in you there is still a greater hope.
You surpass the others that have fallen
behind, cackles beckoning your presence
to swill and swoon any stilettoed skirt.
A chance, a passing query, a mistake
that can lead to brain tumors and grey hairs.
But you know you are stronger than what tempts.
Your words ooze the wisdom that contains light,
for by him you were made, from him you come
to show the fallen that there are princes
boasting not robes nor crowns but on their knees.
And by your children you will lead, head high
shoulders bearing their weight down unseen roads.
To lead to a home where cider is warmed
and butterfly kisses are bedtime rule.
unshaken by the world's double edged knife.
You're as fearless as those that slay dragons
yet quick as a jester, dancing for bread.
A hardwood floor, an Italian cut suit,
any dainty ringed hand is yours to take.
In ripped Converse, you wait for her to come,
with your head on your chest and tongue on guard.
The world is known to be a monstrous place,
where those like you fall into crevices
spraining more than ankles, bursting livers.
Their fruit juice turns tart exposed to sugar
puckering their lips for eternity.
But in you there is still a greater hope.
You surpass the others that have fallen
behind, cackles beckoning your presence
to swill and swoon any stilettoed skirt.
A chance, a passing query, a mistake
that can lead to brain tumors and grey hairs.
But you know you are stronger than what tempts.
Your words ooze the wisdom that contains light,
for by him you were made, from him you come
to show the fallen that there are princes
boasting not robes nor crowns but on their knees.
And by your children you will lead, head high
shoulders bearing their weight down unseen roads.
To lead to a home where cider is warmed
and butterfly kisses are bedtime rule.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
In a Plastic Bag
He's here.
In Chuck Taylor's
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands,
or perhaps my weight before it hits the linoleum.
Soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don't make sense.
His eyes find mine,
I turn away.
Yes turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn't be crossed.
His forearm brushes my elbow,
he hurries to answer those
that call from overhead.
I rest my hand on the shelf,
my eyes tracing each tooth in his smile.
This may be the only chance I get,
it's my moment.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
I wait.
His line disappears,
he's smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
He's speaking.
I'm nodding.
I'm leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag.
In Chuck Taylor's
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands,
or perhaps my weight before it hits the linoleum.
Soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don't make sense.
His eyes find mine,
I turn away.
Yes turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn't be crossed.
His forearm brushes my elbow,
he hurries to answer those
that call from overhead.
I rest my hand on the shelf,
my eyes tracing each tooth in his smile.
This may be the only chance I get,
it's my moment.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
I wait.
His line disappears,
he's smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
He's speaking.
I'm nodding.
I'm leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag.
Sensitive Teeth
The stereo turned to full volume,
men and women plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by the chocolate.
men and women plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by the chocolate.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
After Tricia's Poem
Untitled
Stumpy evergreens
sag, their top branches
listing to one side with
the weight of the rain.
After Tricia's Poem
It'll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry faces
over emeral bushes.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs.
It won't grow,
he knows it's true.
It'll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with rippped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
Dwarf earmuffs are shoved into an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
It won't even hold lights,
he knows this.
It'll enchant your dreams,
it'll make every wish come true,
it'll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
Stumpy evergreens
sag, their top branches
listing to one side with
the weight of the rain.
After Tricia's Poem
It'll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry faces
over emeral bushes.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs.
It won't grow,
he knows it's true.
It'll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with rippped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
Dwarf earmuffs are shoved into an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
It won't even hold lights,
he knows this.
It'll enchant your dreams,
it'll make every wish come true,
it'll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
After Amanda's Poem
To Nurture
My mother keeps
my baby teeth
hidden in her jewelry box,
pearls nestled in soft tongues of velvet.
After Amanda's Poem: To Nurture
I used to peer over the edge,
my nostrils picking up the scent
from the dresser's gloss.
I would walk across the room
until I saw my reflection
in the mirror, that hung on the wall
above the caramel paneled drawers.
On my toes, with my hand stretched,
I fingered jewelry boxes and perfumes.
I look down at the chipped gloss,
run my fingertips over what still shines.
I lift my eyes to the mirror
that seems to betray my image,
I'm either too wide or unproportioned.
My ears stick out too far from my head
or the lobes hang too low.
The caramel paneling has abandoned me,
adding a yellow hue to my pale complexion.
In the jewelry box
left by my mother,
when it seemed that she left us,
hidden among folds of velvet
were the pearls of my youth.
My mother keeps
my baby teeth
hidden in her jewelry box,
pearls nestled in soft tongues of velvet.
After Amanda's Poem: To Nurture
I used to peer over the edge,
my nostrils picking up the scent
from the dresser's gloss.
I would walk across the room
until I saw my reflection
in the mirror, that hung on the wall
above the caramel paneled drawers.
On my toes, with my hand stretched,
I fingered jewelry boxes and perfumes.
I look down at the chipped gloss,
run my fingertips over what still shines.
I lift my eyes to the mirror
that seems to betray my image,
I'm either too wide or unproportioned.
My ears stick out too far from my head
or the lobes hang too low.
The caramel paneling has abandoned me,
adding a yellow hue to my pale complexion.
In the jewelry box
left by my mother,
when it seemed that she left us,
hidden among folds of velvet
were the pearls of my youth.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Brief Images
the iron lamp,
wet and damp,
guards alone
the path
much traveled
------
on two feet
are blue
and orange socks
find their suitors?
I haven't the time.
------
click
goes the phone
click
goes the day
------
spread, intertwined
pink, grey, maroon
vines, stitched
on a comforter
------
the blue pen
gripped
between dry
fingers
------
eyelids half-mast
fingertips twitch
as thread
misses needle
------
faux leather boots
iced with snow
propped against
a propane
fireplace
wet and damp,
guards alone
the path
much traveled
------
on two feet
are blue
and orange socks
find their suitors?
I haven't the time.
------
click
goes the phone
click
goes the day
------
spread, intertwined
pink, grey, maroon
vines, stitched
on a comforter
------
the blue pen
gripped
between dry
fingers
------
eyelids half-mast
fingertips twitch
as thread
misses needle
------
faux leather boots
iced with snow
propped against
a propane
fireplace
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Still to Read
one hundred pages
still to read
and the snow continues to fall.
coffee was an option,
that dark sweet elixir
that makes my hands shake
and keeps me awake.
instead I sat among vibrating machines
that stirred, tossed, jiggled my clothes
wet and dry.
the book I took with me but
there were those to talk with
and water to drink, now
back in a quiet room
seated in front of glass
the book lays open.
still one hundred pages
to read and the snow
continues to fall.
still to read
and the snow continues to fall.
coffee was an option,
that dark sweet elixir
that makes my hands shake
and keeps me awake.
instead I sat among vibrating machines
that stirred, tossed, jiggled my clothes
wet and dry.
the book I took with me but
there were those to talk with
and water to drink, now
back in a quiet room
seated in front of glass
the book lays open.
still one hundred pages
to read and the snow
continues to fall.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The Visitor Returns
His hood is raised to hide from the frozen rain.
One step, two steps, he focuses on the yellow
glow behind lace curtains.
Stooping to the ground he digs his hands into the cold
slush, loosely forming what should be a ball.
With a toss of his arm, the ice flies
through the air, landing against the window
where the lace curtains are captured.
He stands back, waiting for her
to spread the curtain with a hand,
then beckon him to the side door
where she will stand in the light, casting shadows
onto the sidewalk, onto him.
One step, two steps, he focuses on the yellow
glow behind lace curtains.
Stooping to the ground he digs his hands into the cold
slush, loosely forming what should be a ball.
With a toss of his arm, the ice flies
through the air, landing against the window
where the lace curtains are captured.
He stands back, waiting for her
to spread the curtain with a hand,
then beckon him to the side door
where she will stand in the light, casting shadows
onto the sidewalk, onto him.
Monday, January 28, 2013
An Evening Visitor
A wet rain in January creates slush and puddles that soak left
over salt into boots and jeans with each step. The day now coming to an end and
the sidewalks lit by lamplight, a boy tall and thin walks up to the dormitory
where the girls sleep and study and live. He has his dark hoodie pulled up over
his head to keep the rain off his face. He stops outside a window, where he
crouches near low bushes; at their base is a pile of melting snow. His bare
hands are quick as they scoop a pile of the white ice and mould it into what
would be a ball. He stands up and with a toss the heavy ball hits the low window.
A low thud makes those around him aware of his presence. He takes a step back,
wiping his hands on his jeans as he waits. From inside the room a hand pulls
apart the white curtains with the frilled edge that frame the cold glass. He
raises his hand in a small wave; the girl responds with the same. The common, “hi”s
and “what’s up”s are said through the glass though neither can hear the other
too well. Before they can continue on with their silent dialogue, she points to
the door that’s just feet away from her window. He nods and takes a few steps
closer to the door as her visage disappears. Moments later she opens the door,
sock-footed and dressed in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. With the light
of the door pouring into the night she leans against the frame, their voices
soft as they speak to one another.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Looking Over the Task at Hand
So let's see if I can sum up what I accomplished in my poems. Well to me the stories really didn't make that much sense so I began to look up little words that I was confused about; like Hessian and Farm Labor Transport. Really just trying to get a grasp on what the story might actually mean. Like why a witch would have gold or why migrant workers used tickets instead of money. Well, research helped mostly with the Peggy Clevenger story and how she might or might not be a witch during a witch hunt. Then it was more of cutting out unnecessary words and trying to arrange the lines that remained in a cohesive pattern; into a story that made sense. I really don't think that I accomplished my task to be honest. With the migrant workers, I got a bit of help in figuring out what the main idea was from Professor Zoller. With his suggestions in mind I set to work cutting down the poem and keeping the lines short and to the point. I do think that I did a better job with this one.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
In Blueberry Fields
1) We had come
to a clearing
where thousands
of blueberry bushes grew.
There was the packing house--
a small building
with open and screenless
windows.
"Farm Labor Transport"
marked the bus
out front.
The driver stood
beside his bus.
He was tall and amiable,
with bare feet.
He wore green
trousers and a T-shirt.
The work day had come
to an end.
Swarming an old pump
were old women,
middle-aged men and a young girl.
Inside the packing house,
berries were rolling.
up a conveyor belt
into pint boxes.
Packing boxes
was Charlie's sister.
His daughter-in-law
was placing cellophane on them.
And Jim, Charlie's son,
was supervising.
Charlie picked up a pint box
where berries were mounded
and told me,
supermarket chains
knocked off mounds
of extra berries
and put them in new boxes,
getting three or four
extra pints per twelve-box tray.
At a window,
pickers turned in tickets
of various colors, where
they were given cash.
One picker,
in his sixties, tapped Charlie
on the arm
and showed him a thick
packet of tickets
held together by a rubber band.
"I found these,
they must've fallen
out of your son's pocket."
He gave the packet
to Charlie, who
thanked him
and counted the tickets.
"These are worth
seventy-five dollars,"
Charlie said.
2) in a clearing
where
blueberries grew
was a packing house
with a bus out front
the driver
was tall and amiable
with bare feet
the work day had come
to an end
inside
berries rolled
up a conveyor
into boxes
a window,
pickers turning
in tickets
for cash
a picker
tapped Charlie
on the arm
"I found these."
Charlie thanked him
and counted the tickets
they are worth
seventy-five dollars
to a clearing
where thousands
of blueberry bushes grew.
There was the packing house--
a small building
with open and screenless
windows.
"Farm Labor Transport"
marked the bus
out front.
The driver stood
beside his bus.
He was tall and amiable,
with bare feet.
He wore green
trousers and a T-shirt.
The work day had come
to an end.
Swarming an old pump
were old women,
middle-aged men and a young girl.
Inside the packing house,
berries were rolling.
up a conveyor belt
into pint boxes.
Packing boxes
was Charlie's sister.
His daughter-in-law
was placing cellophane on them.
And Jim, Charlie's son,
was supervising.
Charlie picked up a pint box
where berries were mounded
and told me,
supermarket chains
knocked off mounds
of extra berries
and put them in new boxes,
getting three or four
extra pints per twelve-box tray.
At a window,
pickers turned in tickets
of various colors, where
they were given cash.
One picker,
in his sixties, tapped Charlie
on the arm
and showed him a thick
packet of tickets
held together by a rubber band.
"I found these,
they must've fallen
out of your son's pocket."
He gave the packet
to Charlie, who
thanked him
and counted the tickets.
"These are worth
seventy-five dollars,"
Charlie said.
2) in a clearing
where
blueberries grew
was a packing house
with a bus out front
the driver
was tall and amiable
with bare feet
the work day had come
to an end
inside
berries rolled
up a conveyor
into boxes
a window,
pickers turning
in tickets
for cash
a picker
tapped Charlie
on the arm
"I found these."
Charlie thanked him
and counted the tickets
they are worth
seventy-five dollars
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Witch of the Pines
1) The Pine Barrens
once had their own,
particular witch.
Pineys put salt
over their doors
to discourage visits from,
Peggy Clevenger.
She could turn into a rabbit,
there was once a dog seen
chasing a rabbit, through a window
the rabbit jumped--
in the same instant--
stood Peggy Clevenger.
Another occasion,
a man tried to kill
a lizard by crushing
it with a rock.
The rock hit the lizard,
the lizrd disappeared,
and on the spot materialized
Peggy Clevenger,
who smacked the man
in the face.
A Hessian name
Clevenger is.
In Pasadena,
a vanished town,
five miles east of Mt. Misery,
Peggy lived.
It's said
she has a stocking
full of gold.
One morning,
in the smoking ruins of her cabin,
her remains were found
but no trace of gold.
2) The Pine Barrens
had their witch.
Pineys put salt
over doors
to discourage,
Peggy Clevenger.
A dog chased a rabbit,
through a window
the rabbit jumped, there--
in the same instant--
stood Peggy Clevenger.
Pasadena, a vanished town,
Peggy lived.
A Hessian name
is Clevenger.
A man tried to crush
a lizard with a rock.
The rock hit the lizard,
and there materialized
Peggy Clevenger,
who smacked the man
in the face.
It's said she has
a stocking of gold.
One morning,
in smoking ruins,
her remains were found
but no gold.
once had their own,
particular witch.
Pineys put salt
over their doors
to discourage visits from,
Peggy Clevenger.
She could turn into a rabbit,
there was once a dog seen
chasing a rabbit, through a window
the rabbit jumped--
in the same instant--
stood Peggy Clevenger.
Another occasion,
a man tried to kill
a lizard by crushing
it with a rock.
The rock hit the lizard,
the lizrd disappeared,
and on the spot materialized
Peggy Clevenger,
who smacked the man
in the face.
A Hessian name
Clevenger is.
In Pasadena,
a vanished town,
five miles east of Mt. Misery,
Peggy lived.
It's said
she has a stocking
full of gold.
One morning,
in the smoking ruins of her cabin,
her remains were found
but no trace of gold.
2) The Pine Barrens
had their witch.
Pineys put salt
over doors
to discourage,
Peggy Clevenger.
A dog chased a rabbit,
through a window
the rabbit jumped, there--
in the same instant--
stood Peggy Clevenger.
Pasadena, a vanished town,
Peggy lived.
A Hessian name
is Clevenger.
A man tried to crush
a lizard with a rock.
The rock hit the lizard,
and there materialized
Peggy Clevenger,
who smacked the man
in the face.
It's said she has
a stocking of gold.
One morning,
in smoking ruins,
her remains were found
but no gold.
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