Archive | May 2009

5/31/09 Patrica A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

At the Eleva Broiler Festival

This small town festival
is a celebration of chicken
baked beans and vets
that fills this otherwise
empty town with life
where children are encouraged
to sit in the gutter
and take candy from strangers.

The parade goes by
filling the air with exhaust
as Shriner men drive
in crazy pursuit
of the mini car ahead
because it is fun to see
how close they come to crashing.

Coolers were packed
and blankets thrown out
as the grassy front yards
are filling with swearing
men drinking and laughing
and whistling at women.

Pretty girls ride floats
in fancy ball gowns
sashed and proudly labeled
Miss Eleva and Her Court
as they synchronize their waves
to let little girls know
what they can aspire to.

Old women take tickets
for overpriced chicken
while handing you a napkin
and directing you to
enjoy it before you get in
another line to wait
for the nearest port-a-potty.

Late into the night
as the carney lights go dark
the beer tent is empty,
and back at the camper
another baby is conceived
answering the question:
Which came first,
the chicken or the egg?

It was the chicken,
damn good broiler chicken.

5/30/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Objects In Mirror
Are Closer Than They Appear

In the back seat
of our family car,
we are rolling up the windows
and complaining to dad
about the odor
coming from the cornfield
we are passing.

The farmer,
riding on his dusty John Deer,
is taking in the deepest
of breaths
sucking it all in
until he is tasting
the scent
of money
growing deep into
his fading pockets.

He can afford to smile
and wave at us
as we pinch our noses
and drive away.

Flatlined

There is a lifelong
debilitating disease
that artists suffer
causing them to abruptly wake
from a sound sleep
as if from an electric shock
with their shifting eyes thinking
resting on nothing in the blackness
until they frantically
reach for the notepad
and pre-sharpened pencil
on the nightstand.

The ability to write
without seeing the line,
a compelling genetic defect,
is causing them to break
from the rest of night
to rise with their thoughts
before the dawn’s activity
can flood them away.

Their lovers have come
to follow in their wake
turning off curling irons
and moving pots off the stove
where interruptions
have carried them away
drowned in thought.

Burnt Sienna

When she was small
and picked up her crayons
the 64 box
held all the colors
she needed.

And my Crayola girl
colored in magenta
vibrant and lively
bubbling with the laughter
that painted her mood.

And gray was bypassed then
for sepia and raw umber
when forceful scribbling
was needed.

So there is no surprise now
when her nights
are marked in black and white
with no way to erase
the mistakes of the day.

If she had been playing
with an Etch-a-sketch,
she might have learned
to turn her troubles over
and shake them away.

5/30/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

The Time Between

Sometimes it’s hard
not to succumb to the bottle
of white wine atop the refrigerator
when my child is sleeping
and I alone am walking
back and forth
unsure then sure
back and forth
waiting.

Shadows of my pacing
are rippling through the blinds
to the street outside
where the night
is quiet and deep
and empty as my arms
elbow holding elbow
uncrossed then crossed
elbow holding elbow
waiting.

It takes a strong inhale
pulled by some hidden thread
out of my stomach
and up through my lungs
to utter a sigh
back and forth
not breathing then breathing
back and forth
waiting.

My skeptical eyes to the blinds
to the bottle
to the streets
so black
waiting.

5/28/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Between the Light and the Storm

I was twelve
a street away from a teen
when I stood in the rain
soaked to my skin.

It was one of those moments
you never forget
when you realize that the event
shouldn’t happen, but did.

I was looking across the street
and realized that my neighbor,
dry as a cactus,
was still in the sun.

It was a cloud over me,
but not him, and our street
was the dividing line
God drew in the sky.

I was sure angels were
forewarned not to cross
to the other side,
but I did.

It was that moment
I started on the road
to adulthood, brave enough
to challenge authority.

I was daring God
to bite me.

5/27/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections


Veiled Desire

The curtain
soft and gauzy
was so thin
you could see
her fingers
retracing
sensuous
curves
against the glass
as she brushed
them aside
to wait.

He was coming home.

She opened
the window
allowing the air
to lift her
anticipation
and dance
the curl
across her
forehead
but she had to
tame it.

He was coming home.

He was coming home.
He was coming home.
He was coming home.

The curtain
hangs
its length
now long
and heavy
pooling
at the bottom
with the loneliness
she left there.

And she was going out.


Revamping an Old Dress

My mother has a tape measure
that she keeps in a cellophane zip lock bag
tangled among bobbins and sewing machine attachments
with spools of fading thread unwinding
unwinding
down in the bottom of grandma’s old buffet.

She takes it out to measure me
for she says I keep growing
growing
and she can’t tell by looking at me just where.

So I have to stand up straight no slouching
slouching
and she shouldn’t have to remind me how to stand still
because I should be able to tell that she can’t talk
with a hundred pins in her mouth.

My disapproving lip curls
matching the rick-rack trim
that my mother is using to cover the lowered hem
but I can’t hide
hide
that I wanted a new store bought dress.

And I try not to cry
cry
when a pin meant for the dress
finds the slip of my thigh
and my mother’s tight lip frown
shouts that I haven’t measured up after all.

5/25/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Postcard Row

Vanessa Cosmopolite,
was a newly emerged lady
who rebelled the cocoon of home
unable to settle
in one place for long,
and flit through life
too fast.

She was a wanderer
disguised like the faces
of other beautiful woman,
who were small like her
delicate and quiet
who especially like living
near flowery meadows
and mountain tops
gathering aster, cosmos,
thistle, and buttonbush
but flew
to the action
of San Francisco.

The night lights of the city
attracted her
as she stood by
the Painted Ladies.
They were tinted
in three or more colors
embellishing
their architectural details
and nested on the congested hill
in a row of Victorian and Edwardian
houses at 712-720 Steiner St.
bordering Alamo Square Park.

With the brightly orange sleeves
of her cropped sweater
she lifted both arms
simultaneously over her head
as she pulled her hair up in bands
creating knobbed-like antennae
the Asian look
the men now wanted
upon her head.

Her dress was short
silky and wispy black
billowing its symmetrical
pattern and shape
with an orange patterned slip
peeking out as the breeze
flipped it
like the underside
of a delicate wing.

At the end of her
taste sensored legs
long, bronzed and lean
tiny spiked heels help her land
and stay on the pavement,
her perch.

She had a nervous feeling
almost defenseless
flying that night
in the pit of her stomach,
the night she became
a Painted Lady.
She was identified by her prey,
those night lizards,
by the black and white purse
that she carried.

And the Painted Lady
was a pretty nymph
with tiny scales of makeup
coloring her eyelids
tinted in three or more colors
embellishing her natural details
but only a touch
so as not to diminish
the beauty
of her blue pupils
keeping you from seeing
the black markings
on her upper side,
in case you looked
too close.

She quickly gained a reputation
for being a renowned
world traveler
a pristine specimen
spotted and photographed
before taking off to her next
unknown destination.

Her species resided
only in warmer areas
migrated in spring
and sometimes again in autumn
from North Africa
and the Mediterranean
to Britain
in May and June
any offspring
produced there
but not eaten
by their mother
would die in the fall.

Naturally diurnal
she slowly
became nocturnal
active during the day
and sleeping
without rest
during the night.

And in the heat
she was butterfly cooked
camouflaged as meat
split between her legs
separated it into halves
that somehow remained
joined in the middle.

During that time,
her goal was to reproduce
money
and lay eggs of desire
so the cycle
can begin again
before her wings
could be ripped off
by another hunting man
with a net.

This hairy, black and yellow
caterpillar, her pimp,
used his strong jaws
to munch through money
like paper
eating constantly
and growing quickly
while she barely ate,
and her skin grew tighter
as she fed on thistles
while the adults around her
gorged what was meant for her.

Flying low
on energy
and dignity
she desperately looked
for a safe place to rest
and find time for
a needed metamorphosis.
She knew she needed
to shed her tight covering,
emerging
with new skin underneath.

They say she fought back
four times
before the silken threads
of a discolored tie
came out from just below
his swearing mouth
shouting obscenities
as he hung her in his lair.

He split her skin open,
from head to abdomen,
revealing a shiny red liquid
that pooled on the floor
and dried too dark
for white prayers
to reform her
as she hung from the light
of a cheap hotel room
where the butterflies
painted on
the hideous wallpaper
screamed.

But in another world she emerges
from her chrysalis,
her wings soft and crumpled.
So tired she rests,
and then
slowly
unfolds
her wings to dry.

Soon she will be ready
to float into the light
because butterflies need
the sun to fly.

To fly.

Time’s Hostage

I saw it first
out of the corner
of my right eye
as it flew
effortlessly gliding
in an arch
surrounding my head
and landing on
my left wrist.

It was only about
an inch and a half long
rectangular in shape
made of some kind
of metal
slippery and dark
like polished hematite.

It clamped
against my skin
with a powerful suction
and it took great force
on my part
to pull it off
and throw it,
but I did.

As it flew
in a strenuous arch
it made a noise,
soft at first
then loud and shrill,
like the fire alarm
at school.

Instantly my wrist
began to swell
and two impressions
remained
one, an indented square
the other, three little pin pricks
where blood
was now forming.

Aliens.
I knew it.
They had tried to probe me
like all the rest.
But I was too quick for them.
I had seen it coming.

I knew I should
get some ice
or suck on it myself
in case of poison,
but all I did was run.

My feet were flying
so rapidly that both feet
felt momentarily
off the ground
with each step
as I ran through hallways
blocking up with people
standing in line
for breakfast.

They wouldn’t let me through
while they talked
of muffins and cereal
and toast.

What?
Are they kidding?
Who cares about pancakes,
waffles and eggs?
Could they see
the danger
we were all in?
Shouting in my frustration,
I woke up.

But even though, as the teacher,
I remind my students all the time
that they can’t end their stories
with it all just a dream,
it was.

It just feels a little odd
strapping a watch on
to my left wrist
as I grab a quick breakfast
and run to school.

5/24/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Kneading Thoughts

I was thinking about bread
how you mix the dough
form it into shapes
maybe even flavor it
with raisins or cinnamon
and raise it
and bake it
till it’s done.

There seems a finality
to the loaf
and you have to eat it
rip off chunks
or slice it
just like it is
and as you eat
you really taste
its goodness
slowly
with butter
and a glass of wine.

But then I was thinking
that there are other things
that you could slather on it
like peanut butter, apple butter
or jam
and you could make a sandwich
and fill it with an endless
variety of things
like leftover chicken
or roast beef
or ham.

That should be enough
to satisfy
until I realize
that the last of the loaf
could still become
a filler for quiche
or bread pudding
and stuffing
if left to dry enough.

And if by chance
it is forgotten
for a further undisclosed
amount of time
it is shown off at school
in science.

Today I’m toast.
Damn.


Bug Off!

I am sluggish
annoyed by the sun
too lazy to move
from my chair
when a buzzing fly
far too energetic
in this summer heat
finds the time it takes
for me to slam my
rolled up newspaper
on the table laden
with the tribute
of the farmer’s market
is far too short
as he comes to realize
I am a vengeful god.

5/23/09 Patrica A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Autumn Farmer

The energetic sunrise
opens the eyes of the livestock
and their quiet baying
is collectively translated
as the call to morning chores.

And wanting the hay mow filled
as much as the animals,
the farmer urgently begins
racing the competitive sun
to the end of the furrows.

Grasshoppers are gymnasts
jumping curling ribbons of dust
while every pass of the harvester
is leaving prickly stubble
to boast the day’s work.

Later veiled by a five o’clock shadow
the exhausted sunset
closes the eyes of the farmer
and his confused dreams
question the femininity of Mother Nature.

Wringing Warm

your hands
press the towel
radiating heat
from the dryer
against your face
the warmth drenching
your spongy cheeks
tipping your head back
dripping sighs
of saturating comfort
allowing you
to absorb it all

Your Number’s Up

It is just a hoax,
a stupid prank,
a practical joke
played on foolish
teenagers
intended to amuse
the adults as they sit
in the smoky obscurity
of the teacher’s lounge
laughing at the
absurd notion
that any of the students
will ever
figure it out.

The instructors gloat
in their ingenious use of words,
a mischievous trick,
a silly stunt,
told in an ostentatious manner
during fifth hour
intended to deceive
with irrational
incongruous numbers.

But, no.
You will never
ever find a logical
true life application
for an algebra equation.
It is all a cruel joke
done with smoke
and mirrors.

Sorry to blow your cover,
Mr. Nelson.


Fakin’ It

Because kids don’t often like
to take a summative geography quiz
on a Monday morning,
my momma knew
if I was willing to allow her
to home doctor
my queasy stomach
with an aspirin suppository
slathered with petroleum jelly
and inserted anally
allowing it to slowly melt
from my raging body heat
leaving a large embarrassing
wet spot upon the sheets,
I was REALLY sick.


And the Pillow Beckoned

The darkness crept down softly
while the cutting shadow
of nightfall
slipped on the floor.
I should have laughed
but with my eyes half open
I didn’t see the illusion
of smoke or mirrors
and I was unable to grasp
the magician’s trick
of the disappearance
of the day.

My eyelids crept down softly
with a skeptical view
of chaos
as I felt all but torn in half.
Everyone had pulled me
in different directions
but I was mysteriously rejoined
by my conjured solutions
to the problems of today
if no one had noticed
my split personality
in the fray.

My body crept down softly
and ached for the magic
of slumber
as I pulled my thoughts together.
I should not have fooled myself
by today’s contorted delusions
but still my pillow beckoned
as I slipped into bed
and finally caught
some healing rest
while today’s troubles
faded away.

5/22/09 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Theory of Relativity

Einstein and I
must have been
brother and sister
in some past life.

But in his grave
he should not
be jealous of
what I know
but no one else
in my house
can figure out.

Some things I know
are beyond the scope
of the average man’s
son’s or daughter’s
intelligence.

I can’t hold that
against them
as they can only
do so much
with what they have.

It is the curse
that they must live with.
I can sympathize.
It must be difficult
to attempt so complex
a task.

So I will try my best
not to get a big head
as I put on a new roll
of toilet paper.

It’s a gift.

This entry was posted on May 22, 2009, in Uncategorized and tagged . 4 Comments