Archive | June 2009

6/30/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Within An Inch of Your Life

Any six-year-old can tell you
that time is an elusive creature
who slips and slides around you,
a mercury edged chameleon.

Morning comes with parental directives
that pulls you from bed
with reminders of the bus
and time is measured in the smoke of toast.

At school the teacher’s explanations
clutter your thinking
and mistakes happen
and time is measured in eraser crumbs.

And recess allows the freedom of spirit
and you run and scream
while friends play kickball
and time is measured in innings.

Boredom comes in the afternoon
and you pick off fur fluffs
from your favorite stuffed animal
and time is measured in the bald spot.

It takes an eternity to for seven birthdays to come
and tomorrow holds the promise of presents,
but the chameleon is shape shifting once again
and time is measured in dreams.

Money Back Guarantee

The water is crystal clear
so you can see the desires
of a hundred people
thrown in the wishing fountain.

Two dimes kiss with the promise of love
and huddle together for comfort
while reflecting quarters flash like cameras
and boast the cost of fame.

But my little penny slowly drifting down
settling small upon the bottom
is distorting my dreams in the waves
and I wish I hadn’t thrown it.

There Were 37

There was a small spider that I easily squished,
but then another large bulb shaped one
came crawling out of a hole in the wall.

I called for my daughter to squish it
but she just lightly poked it with a pencil
only making it angry enough to bare its teeth at us.

The odd thought for me is not really the spider
and what it might represent in my dream,
but I seem to know that we are in our home.

A place where I know to look for my broom,
and surprised to NOT find it where I know it should be
in this home where I have never lived.

How can my mind create images and memories so clear
that I can tell the color and feel of the cloth on the table
and count the coarse hairs on the back of a spider?

6/29/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Net Worth

Bonfires on the beach
send their sparks flying
exciting the nighttime stars.

And their jealousy
reflecting on the sparkling water
is bringing the town to life.

The smelt are running
and if you own a net
you’re already in the water.

Your waders offer little protection
against cold possessive Superior
who is fighting to keep her fish.

Yet washtubs are filling
with tiny flopping silver
that you knife open upon the spot.

And their jealousy
brings the empty net fishermen
to your smoking charcoal grill.

Where the splashing of beer
catching fish and fishermen
is bringing the town to life.

No Matter

The memory of beer batter frying
woke my tongue before the sun
and lured me to the kitchen
where Mom was slicing apples,
but my quick slice of toast was lacking.

No matter. I was going fishing.

I grabbed my gear and headed out
while the sun insisted louder than my mother
that a hat is necessary if I want to see
the fish swimming just under morning’s glare
while I dangle my toes off the end of the dock.

No matter. I was fishing.

The bait welcomed the chance to help me
as they danced their wiggly choose me dance,
and it was up to me to pick just the right one
that Big Bob wanted to nibble on today
but even after ten sure to tempt lures,
Big Bob wasn’t biting.

No matter. I was fishing.

The morning, without so much as a thank you,
slowly ate up my worms leaving me
with a defeated empty string line,
so I was heading home.

No matter. Mom was baking pies.

3 Mile Island

Some things are great in threes,
like 3 Stooges, 3 blind mice,
or 3 wise men.

You can run a 3 legged race,
ride a 3 wheeler,
or watch the 3 Ring Circus.

You can make a 3 point landing
or get 3 cheers before
3 strikes and you’re out.

But everyone knows
that 3’s a crowd.
so when teenage girls,
best friends forever
with the 3 faces of Eve,
pretend to be the 3 mustketeers,
you know that their world
is about to explode.

Unique Just Like the Rest

Grandma told her
more times than she could count
that she was special,
so special,
and soon everyone would see that.

So she expected nothing less
when she tried to get those foolish girls
to see her idea,
her special idea.

But all through the class
her friends wouldn’t listen
and kept changing the discussion
to some ridiculous thing,
or another.

Later she tells Grandma
what idiots, those ordinary girls are
who haven’t a clue
about what could be cool,
so trendy and cool.
Couldn’t they see?

Later her pillow absorbs no comfort
for she is too stubborn
to give up her tears,
her special tears.

Getting an Education

Our bedroom had old hardwood floors
that hid a treasure right out in the open,
a painted rusty metal grate,
and through its slats you could overhear
everything a child wanted to know.

So when your parents were down below
playing cribbage with your cousin’s parents,
it took great skill to cover your mouth quickly.

Your shocked inhalations shouldn’t be heard
sending Dad’s cards flying down onto the table
and his feet to the stairs.

So we listened with the kind of intensity
that our teacher was hoping
could have been applied to science.

If only she knew
what we knew
from listening at the grate.

6/28/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Mr. G

Mr. G waited patiently
on the shelf next to his twins
and he saw them lifted away
one by one until finally
he was the last
to go.

Then the little girl
from her stroller reached
her arms as far
as they could stretch
and yet she needed her mother
to lift him down
to her.

The two became inseparable
as they grew to be great friends
who played and loved and slept
through all the adventures
that a child needed
to know.

But one day Mr. G sat
forgotten on concrete wall
when the little girl needed
two hands to hold her cone
and then she began
to go.

Later, she cried inconsolably
and would find no replacement,
for who can take the place
of the dearest friend
to her.

Years have grown her to a woman
with her childhood pictures
close at hand
showing a little girl
holding tight to Mr. G
as if she had a psychic gift
to know:

Mr. G would go.

Hand Tools

I brace myself
when the first one comes
with knowledge
of more to come.

For they build in threes
my auntie says,
trouble and sorrow,
and death.

And family comes
to help construct a wall
holding me sturdy
through the blurring
of the days.

But then alone
when they thought
me strong,
my façade is broken,
softened by the touch
of my cat’s paw.

6/27/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Immigrants

The family had to move so they gathered their possessions
loaded into labeled boxes and overstuffed laundry baskets
and they stuffed their cars to the tops of the windows.

When the house was empty the yard was cleared
of toys and hoses and the family took one last look
and drove away leaving only their memories.

But limp in the backyard were their forgotten hostas
huddled together in a tight cluster
growing green and striped in beauty.

The cleaner came to wash out the old and paint in the new
and as he was packing his supplies the new owners arrived
taking one look at the yard they complained.

“Get those weeds out of here, too.” Then they went inside.
So the cleaner took his shovel and sliced between the bulbs
gently placing them into plastic bags in the back of his truck.

He brought them home to his wife who exclaimed, “Hostas!”
Soon transplanted and watered in their new beds,
the hostas sighed and drank it in. They were finally home.

6/26/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Tribute to the Gods

Egyptian cat god Bastet,
daughter of the sun god Re,
always wore her regal earrings
as she quietly guarded the Nile.

Her spirit has reincarnated
and she entices my worshipping cat
who is staring out once again
with her yellow eyes slanting
through our patio door.

With her hypnotic offering
of glowing golden rays
my cat is lured to watch
Bastet dancing in the shadows
where light and darkness twirl.

Has the Lady of the East
also enticed the spirit of Monet
to come to our back yard?
For a masterpiece is painted there
with dappled colored light,
and only Gods are worthy of the art
that my cat and I admire.

6/25/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Think Cool Thoughts

When it is 95 and so oppressive
that your hair drips at your neckline
and stickiness is the order of the day,
think cool thoughts.

Think of frost on the windowpane
where your fingers press designs
like puffy thumbprint flowers
with your nails dragging crystals
into the lines of your boyfriend’s name
until numbness forces you to stop.

Remember the effort of shoveling snow
with the sidewalk longer
than it is in summer
and your fingers must be pulled
from their individual coats
into the space of your glove’s palm
until numbness forces you to stop.

Think of cracking ice cubes
from the old-fashioned trays
where ice shards cling to the plastic
and your fingernails have to dig them out
until you have enough to for a blender
full of orange juice and brandy slush
and you drink your fill
until numbness forces you to stop.

But I’m not there yet,
so pour me another
and drink cool thoughts.

Can You Hear Me Now?

When I walked into the wheat field
my shoes stirred up the dusty ground
and brown spitting grasshoppers
jumped up and clung to my pants.

I jumped myself and danced
around and around with my arms
flailing against the sky
and I screamed a few words
that would have sent my mother
to the bathroom for a bar of Ivory.

But she had gone to town
and left me to run like the wild chickens
under Grandma’s watchful eyes
which still work good,
unlike her ears.

But I could hear Grandma laughing
as she stepped in the furrows
to call me in to lunch with the scent
of freshly baked molasses cookies,
and even Grandma could hear me drool.

Eat at Joe’s

Small cafés are not large enough
to fit the thousand words
that a picture is worth,
so their patrons discuss
every facet of life with an upward nod
of their heads and four simple words:

Hot enough for ‘ya.

They could be describing
the coffee, the weather,
the new waitress, etc., etc., etc.

It is not a question.
Not really even an observation.
Just expected routine conversation
that can be filled in with
any assortment
of interchangeable descriptors
as varied as the menu:

Cold enough for ‘ya.
Windy enough for ‘ya.
Boring enough for ‘ya.
Etc., etc. etc.

And when the plates are cleared
and the bills paid,
they go home and ask everything
that no one wanted to know
with four simple words:

How was your day?

6/24/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Honey Dew

Under the garage eaves
a mother’s wing ruffles
and allows the sun
to awaken her brood.

In their hunger for morning
they beckon you to greet them
if only you’ll sprinkle
a half bag of seed.

Then the flowers call
arguing which weed
must be yanked from the ground
so only their beauty can grow.

And it feels like everyone
has a job for you to do
that must be written down
before you forget
so you open the patio umbrella
and sit down to write.

But standing up quickly,
the stain on your backside
records last night’s rain
so laundry is moved
to the top of the list.

6/22/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

With the Breath of Morning

The true quietness of morning
can only be appreciated
by an artistic soul,
the kind of person
who wakes early
with thoughts and poems
and paintings
created in their dreams.

The true light of morning
feels softer as it comes
but sleep-a-beds
won’t know it
or feel its gentle breath.
They only hallucinate
their greatness,
in wishes and in dreams.
They never met Passion
who pulls me from my bed.

In my true dream of morning
I am an artist
showing my portfolio
of paintings done so long ago
that I had forgotten their line
their color, their form,
but in the showing of my work
I feel again the spirit
that lifts me up
on this early morning
rummaging for the right color
to paint the quiet light today.

I breathe the solitude of morning.

Before the Loon Awakes

The water
at the edge of the lake
is dark and dank
and its pushes
its nighttime hoard
of floating debris
toward the shore.

Your hand
when slowly pressing in
slices the earliest ripples
of sunlight that has
found the weeds,
wet and stringy
that cling
with a slime
that doesn’t come off.

But still you step deeper
the cutting coldness
now pushing your breath
that balls your fists
and raises your forearms
to protect your chest.

And you need a moment
for your breath
to return
so the blood in your skin
can absorb the electricity
of the chill
now coming down
from the crest
of the shock wave.

The mud is oozing
between your steadying toes
and you feel Posedeon pulling,
but it is too early in the day
for death.

So you lunge
your whole body forward
with renewed energy
past the wave and its weapons
that guard the shore
and out into the daydream
that floats in while you swim.

Veering Off Course

Momma is again reminding me
to clean up my act
so I am filling my dustpan
with bits of broken things
and words I have dropped
or cracked and can not replace.

So if girls were allowed
to scream, I would,
long and loud
and shake the debris
off the edge of the cliff
over looking Chequamegon Bay.

My trash could be picked up
and my screams
resquawked by seagulls
on to passing ore ships
where scrambling deck hands
would stop their swabbing
and consult with their captain
because a change of course
is in order.

They could turn about
and throw me a life line,
if Momma would let them.

But that, of course,
wouldn’t teach me
to rescue myself
with the knowledge
that tomorrow is a new day
with no mistakes in it.

If only Momma realized
that girls trapped in her harbor today,
aren’t allowed to sail there.

One Degree Away From the Loony Bin

The thermometer cracked 104
with the kind of heat that takes you
with laborious steps
to the freezer door
where you take out
a single ice cube
and rub it against your neck
until the drips
converging in your cleavage
darken the front of your shirt
giving you the drooled on look
of the smoldering infant
whining at your feet.

Twisted and wrung
beneath running water
the only clean rag in the house
is given to the child
to suck what moisture he can
and keep his mouth from emitting
that eardrum piercing cry
and your heat puffed hands
now removed from your ears
languidly collect the drips
of condensation
forming on the metal faucet
spreading them slowly
like salon facial cream
over your cheeks
now too weak
to puff a smile.

Gazing through limp curtains
you see the free-flowing image
of dust from the driveway
swirling higher, higher,
forming and hourglass
gone wild, gone wild
swirling up instead of down
slamming down
the window – trapped!

Insanely you reach up
and grab your hair
tearing it away
from where it clung to your neck
angrily pulling and twirling it
up into a knot
securing it with pins
anchoring it firmly in reality
and if it should ever feel like
letting go
it can’t.

You can’t.
There is no escaping
the madness of the heat.

6/21/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Latte Grande

She begins quite simply
sipping her latte
turning back the cover
of the two dollar tabloid
revealing sadness unfolding
in the celebrity world.

It begins quite simply
the story it tells her
of love that was star studded true,
but it somehow goes wrong,
the fame blinding their eyes
to the reality life is to us all.

She simply states that her
dark eyes and recreated bust
are coldly divorcing
the handsome movie star stud
whom the rest of the country
is just wishing were coming
for comfort and cuddling arms.

Each page simply tells a reminder
that no matter your glamour,
your cosmopolitan flare,
or your houses, your boats,
no matter your Pepsodent smile,
things come to an end
as the pages are turned
as all delicious stories do.

Then quiet simply
the empty paper cup,
along with the couple,
is casually tossed in the trash.

Pre-teen Prophecy

Paper folds into triangle
upon triangle
that opens the flaps to tell
whether she likes someone
or that someone likes her
or if her favorite color is blue.

And after the ceremony
a slice of cake is kept
in a tiny cardboard box
under her pillow
in hopes of luring
a husband of her own.

While holding a string dangling
a sewing needle
is stuck in the end
of the pencil’s eraser
over her wrist
to circle or tell the angle
that indicates the birth
of a future boy or a girl.

When battling the cosmos
with the weapons on hand,
a girl’s got to do
what a girl’s got to do.

Row 3 Seat G

Row 3 Seat G
occupies a sleeper
exhausted or bored
with his travels.

His right black tennis shoe
is in the aisle
the other bent up
while his knee wedges
into the seat in front.

People passing by
on their way to the restroom
brush ticklish
the hairs on his leg.

With his eyes still shut
he reaches one hand down
to scratch while the other
hugs a pillow
he brought from home.

Another passenger
has bumped his leg
and annoyed,
he shifts to a new position.

The arm of his chair
digs into his side
and he rolls again
into his original pose.

Row 3 Seat G
occupies a sleeper.

Shhh….

Dating

Dilemma

disingenuous
daisies

dangerous
dark
debonair
dude

deliberately
deceived

dainty
demure
dateless
dame

desperation
denial

dab
damp
drop
discard

damn
debris

dense
depression
deduce
decanter

diary
diarrhea

Ex-Ray Eyes

If superman could set his eyes
on the baggage aboard this plane
he would start with the tapestry bag
of a woman reading the celebrity page.

While she reads of glamour
and fast lane lives,
her belonging reveal her story:

Lipstick and mascara,
a white lace slip and jewelry,
shoes and perfumed sachet,
all fitting someone who likes
glamour and glitz.

But then dig deeper
and read from a different page:

A styrofoam container
with bread and some butter
the frugal remains
of today’s meal
with tiny soap and shampoo
saved for her daughter.

It is the appropriate bag
of the two sided woman
with her head in the clouds
and her feet on the ground.


First Flight

Exit opens, rotate handle
mechanical robots
point the way
to yellow raft slides
and one foot safe
on the ground.
I pray.

Sitting beside
the terminal
seasoned traveler
contentedly sipping juice
while lost in the space
of a good book.
I pray.

I in my tenseness
travel alone
watching the stewardess
for signs of nervousness
and rereading pamphlets
of airplane schematics.
I pray.


Mid-air Antics

The aircraft continues
its endless headache hum
crowding out the chatter
of seated strangers
forced to fill four hours
of the cramped quartered quest
to the other side of the country.

And I bypass the juice
when offered to me
as I know the limitations
of the airplane lavatory
closet like claustrophobia
awaits with Barbie doll fixtures
and warning sign decorations.

The baby starts fussing
and mother shushing
the passengers turn their heads
to headphones or windows
and angry stares
when the solitude of lavatory
is now inviting,

but I’ve had no juice.

Sizing It Up

I’m five feet two
and smaller than most
yet my arms touch
the rests side to side,
but my foot sticks out
and must be pulled in
when the passengers pass
in the one foot aisle.

Breakfast arrives on a tray
no more than eight by ten
enclosing in plastic wrap
with fried potato cubes,
greasy sausage links,
a round biscuit formation,
and meat flavored
with a hint of ham
that spilled with an ooze
I’m trusting to be cheese.

Saving the sweet roll
to redeem the rest,
my stomach is fooled
and breakfast is measured
at ten thousand feet.

Preflight Checklist

San Francisco Flight 37 left at 7:30 a.m.
with a miss-sortment of passengers
and disinterest in the stewardess’s eyes.

She flashed her professional smile
when the cue light went on
and welcomed all aboard.

Even you –
young inexperienced mother
with your screaming child.

Even you –
three fifty-something ladies
complaining already of leg room.

Even you –
with your crosswords and books
to absently fill your time on board.

Even you –
pillow takers from home
not content with a pocket sized one.

Even you –
with your nervous first flight eyes
scanning exits and floatation devices.

Even you –
chatty Kathy who must know
everyone’s name on board.

Even you –
giggly eight year old traveling alone
with your Barbies and markers staining.

Even you –
snoring already even though
we have not left the ground.

Please buckle your seatbelts.
We expect another uneventful flight.

The miss-sortment of passengers
didn’t even bother to look in her eyes
and Flight 37 took off to the skies.

Burning Love

When they were little
mean boys burnt ants
with a magnifying glass
while horrified girls screamed
and tattled to their moms.

Later the boys grew up
to challenge their manhood
with only a dollar
while swinging a hammer
and ringing a bell.

The years have tarnished
their cotton stuffed prizes
and ex-girlfriends
with spring-cleaning fever
can’t burn them fast enough.

Dr. Livingston, I Presume?

Dense and overgrown
inaccessible
entangled and formidable
a thicket of an amalgamation
that must be brandished
with sharpness,
the jungle of your mind is impenetrable.

What does it take to get through to you?


History Repeats

When Nathaniel loved Katherine
their initials were carved
with a pocket knife
into a tree
to last forever.

Now Nate loved Kate
with their eternal love
posted on Facebook
until a keystroke
erased it in a second.

Suck It Up

She was crying softly
hiding her face
behind her bangs.

So her mother tied a red curly ribbon
holding a mylar balloon
onto her wrist.

In the metallic reflection
she saw the distorted image
of herself.

And even at seven
she knew enough
to let it go.

But not before
she inhaled the helium
and laughed like a demented squirrel.

When the Stove is Cold

There are one hundred and nine
crumbling edged
faded pages
each with a recipe
she wrote in cursive
all tied with a maroon ribbon.

The recipes intrigued me with
long ago provocative titles:
shrimp wiggle,
snowball pudding,
floating island,
and sea foam.

Fried frog legs
or salmon croquettes
were served with oyster fritters
and desert might boast
a lemon sunshine cake.

With forgotten knowledge
of how to measure temperature
with the correct size
of wood to burn,
her stove created history.

I could imagine it took forever
for her to write down
the ingredients and directions
for how to recreate
her Norwegian home.

But at the flea market
I only paid five dollars
for this woman’s life.

6/02/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

The Truth of Patricia Anne

Edith Ann sat in her oversized rocker
with a room full of toys
that she never played with
and thought great thoughts
about what was true.
And that’s the truth.

She was young but had wisdom
that she gained from seeing the world
alone from her high chair
while other children watched her
and played with their toys.
And that’s the truth.

I have spent a lot of time
impressing my friends
by what I know
and they say they look up to me,
because I have figured out
a few things out on my own.
And that’s the truth.

I can honestly say
that I never asked them
to put me up on a pedestal
so they can admire me
but they did.
And that’s the truth.

But they should know
that it is lonely,
so lonely
here at the top
where I work to learn
and watch you play.
And that’s the truth.

Edith Ann and I have discovered
the same universal knowledge.
All work and no play
isn’t as fun as people might think.
We may be wise and witty
but it’s no laughing matter.
And that’s the truth.