Colbalt tears seemed to seep
from the crows of my eyes
like water running
on the parched earthen furrows
that were too hardened
to allow the healing moisture in
and days had to pass
before a seed of hope
could rise to greet the sun.
I wish my emotions
could be boxed
or counted
neatly organized
by letter or number
but they chose
to slither
viscous and elusive
flowing into crooks
and crannies
until there is no more
place for the tears
to go but out
dressed to the nines
disguising themselves
as poems.
There is a spot on my neck
that tickles when you kiss it
and I have to giggle
and turn away from you.
Stop that.
I need you to find the place
that calms when you kiss it
and I have to moan
and turn here into you.
Start that.
I will admit
to overdosing them
with sweet beguiling
slippery softener
‘till dead at my feet
they can rise
no more.
Yet they cling to me
as they can
with a ghastly
screaming need
for me to pull
them up.
Yes, once
I had a pair of normal socks.
Once thought weak,
limp and yielding,
then rudely shoved
to a forgotten place
in the back,
an innocent,
victimized,
festering anger
retaliates
by growing strong,
that pungent odor
your just desserts
when Jello
goes bad.
The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
Winter comes
with bitter warnings.
“Don’t eat that
yellow snow.”
Mother’s predictions of death
froze me in my tracks.
October doors
are closing,
friendly apps
turned off.
November is beguiling.
My fingers curling
eager to be
keyboard warm.
NaNoWriMo looms
its challenge
fighting against
my PA plan.
Dangling
my internal
power cord,
a hypnotic STOP
watch shouts:
Time for me!
Warm drips melt
on my shoulders
falling down my arms
like dappled leaves
gently spilling sunshine.
Warmth can’t be cupped
cold and hard
like snowballs
forming a sheltering fort
to challenge you from.
Summer, you vixen,
my long distance love,
you have teased me again.
I ache for your taste,
your heat on my tongue.
Some called her weird
because she lived
a purple life,
dressing in various
shades of lavender,
wrapping herself
in velvet scarves
of color.
Wild Wisteria
Orchid Mist
Purple Rhapsody
Misty Violet
Passion’s Breeze
all sent her smiling
till irradiate wafts
of various purples
were painted on her walls,
interwoven into her fabrics,
filled her color plate
and plastered on her soul.
Yet, I couldn’t help
smiling when I saw her
wishing I held another chip
to toss onto her table
just for luck,
a gamble many would not take,
but – oh, the joy in playing.
EXPRESSIVE DOMAIN:
A CLOSE LOOK AT LIFE.
As a kaleidoscope artist, I welcome you to join with me while I reflect on life through poetry.
Patricia A. Hawkenson
phawkenson@ecasd.k12.wi.us
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