Mom puts the plate
in front of me
but I am too hungry
for biscuits
to see her
as anything
but the bringer of food
the washer
the dryer
the back of the house
whether she smiles
as she pours
the coffee or gravy
or turns to cry
I never see her
wipe her hands
hang the towels
exhale with a sigh
too much on her plate
till lunch
Sparkles sound
on morning rings,
but only the cygnets
hear.
Danger lurks
between the reeds,
but only the mother
knows.
Stay safe,
stay warm,
under my wing,
gliding till day is
full.
But sparkles die
when nightfall comes,
and only the cygnets
cry.
Almost every child
boy and girl
had cap guns
that snapped
paper rolls
puffing sulfur smoke
but it was commercials
with dirty highways
that made the Indian cry
“Keep America Beautiful”
till another Indian
on tv test patterns buzzed
as we tossed
the blown out
paper strips
too late
but we were too busy
shouting
“You’re dead!”
to care.
It was the lifting
of his shoulder,
only the flipping of his hair,
the sigh.
He turned away.
The weight of it
pressed her stomach
till she felt scarred
and blackened
like the imprint
of a Hiroshima victim.
Only the dust of her
left to cry.
I held my father’s hand
walking through
barren land
searching for
elusive blueberries
when my father let go
of the expectation
that he should at least
have said good-bye.
But memories fade,
his and mine.
Perhaps my hand
was only reaching in
my half empty bucket
digging for a tiny taste
of sweetness.
Yes,
it was a special day.
We were all there,
some by force
of the buffet,
some by force
of mothers.
And suddenly,
my dog
feeling the force
of Mother Nature,
left a piece
at the feet
of my Aunt Kate.
My dog,
now obviously
the reincarnation
of my Uncle Ted,
may he rest in peace,
caused Aunt Kate
loudly to dismay,
“My God!”
(Humor only, not meant to offend. LUV to my Buddhist friends!)
There seems to be no end
of words I spill.
I spit.
I cry.
I write them down
of necessity, my need
to witness,
to speak.
If only someone comes
of gentle heart,
to read,
to breathe.
There will be no end
then of my soul.
Lift it.
Let us soar.
(Many of you know that I have not been in the best of health for over a month. I am now on a medical leave, hoping for less stress, and more healing. Thank you for your patience. I appreciate those of you who I see still coming back.)
Spring brings the deluge,
the pouring of sky’s soul.
Here I drip
many days’ deluge
finally feeling
ready to fall.
Eyes blurred,
I planted iris bulbs
crooked.
First shoots,
curved leaves leaned,
proved my pain.
Yet today’s stem
of tomorrow’s flower –
straight up.
Straight down,
a pint of past beauty,
for a bud of hope.
Only her eyes moved,
darting back and forth,
my god, oh, my god.
His eyes open,
starring into the sky;
she knew him, dead.
They took him
in hushed tones;
she alone on the hill.
Her screams bent
allowing no words,
just agony.
Her body curled
sobbing with her softly,
then gut wrenching.
He took her life.
Even her pockets
were empty.
I have reached for the tissues
more than five times
and the pile of my agony
still grows.
Tomorrow I will pick them up
and toss them in the trash,
but today the floor
is where my heart
will lay.
Somewhere around
tissue eight or nine,
anger will come out of the box
and I will cry
no more.
I have never been a fan of singers
whose voices lift
the spirits of thousands.
And, Wind,
I am no fan of yours.
You roll my child’s ball
making her run
far away from me.
You curl my shoulders,teasingly tossing my hair
to obstruct my view.
Every second I have lost
from seeing
my sweet child’s face
in playful laughter
can not be returned.
Wind,
do not sing
your beguiling song here.
The price you charge,
too high.
Darkness hid every drop
of rain that evening.
I could hear only
the tiny pings on the roof.
I felt the heaviness
of pressured air.
There was no line
between day and night,
between calm conversation
and drips of cutting cynical words.
Unwarned came the torrents,
the angry cry of clouds.
Finally, when it returned to a drizzle,
soft and steady,
the rain became my comfort
as you went out the door.
They all stood on this hill,
stomachs hungry
for more than the rinds
of day old bread.
Yet their voices are lost,
wispy like dying fires
after the dead coals
are stomped and ground.
We have not feed them,
filled their need,
while our own greed
has stolen their future.
Children can not play,
innocent in their day
when the sun only makes
cross shadows on the hill.
My large kitchen spoon
bent too easily
as I tried to dig
to China.
The top soil
was thin,
so thin,
barely covering
the rock below.
My mom
wasn’t impressed
by my efforts then.
I just kept
on digging.
Please keep
those tasty,
tempting,
tantalizing,
thesaurus teasing
bites of you
in this place where
I devour them.
According to me
it is easier
to fight
the robot codes
that to fight
my weight.
I will be
the Biggest Loser
if you bail and post
where I can’t
read your words.
Yesterday, there was one leaf,
green and growing strong.
It was the promise
of one tulip,
the mystery
of its color,
red,
yellow,
pink,
growing by the base
of my tree.
Today,
chewed off, again.
Just like last year.
I could blame
Princess,
my white squirrel
who circus walks the top
of our cedar fence.
I could blame
the rabbit,
who doesn’t deserve
a name,
chewing his door in the bottom
of our cedar fence.
Or I could blame
the fence.
Selfishly
holding back
this year’s view
of the carried,
buried treasure
of my neighbor’s
tulip bulbs.
Sr. Mary Aloysius,
fingers sliding
over pearlized beads,
keys jingling
in an unseen pocket,
bends down
to tie her black shoes tight.
Then a quieting finger
covers her thin lips.
She points to God
who apparently
was still looking
down
on us
even though we had already checked
our laces
and our manners.
I wanted to say
she was making more noise
than us,
but little girls
wearing tissues
for our missing chapel caps
already had enough
Somewhere around fifty
our brains shifted
from abstract thinking
about the events
of the day,
who is going where
and what they’re going to do,
to the minute details
of puss oozing
from our ears
and sciatic nerve damage
that radiates down our legs.
To remember the day
that meds our should be increased
while calculating
the effort needed
to climb a flight of stairs,
we need to shift
our creaking bones
to a place where we
remember the day
when we were too young
to care that we’d grow old.
Just when I think
I know it all,
the electrifying
realization
of your 2 to 1 ratio,
proves, once again,
the magnetism
between my spoon
and a quart of frozen custard
is justifiably intensified
by the viscosity
of my tears
and the volume
of her breasts.
Global warming,
earth’s demise,
heating arguments
conflicting
with knowledge
we all insist
is true.
Scientists can’t cool
the fiery tempers
of melting icebergs
and angst filled teenagers,
floating soul sisters,
colliding
and damaging
their sinking feelings
hidden
below.
He is thirteen
seen forever
by sensitive souls
who pass his hillside,
who hear his muffled
cry.
Scissors.
Duck tape
wrapped around
his mouth
his nose,
his eyes alone
cry.
Scissors.
I drive on,
no scissors
in my car,
my radio,
just a little louder.
A piece of paper,
value kept,
worth
fifty percent off
any number
of items
needed,
desperately
needed,
has now died,
died,
an untimely death
with the flipping
of the calendar.
Expired.
Hoarders lament,
tearing their treasure,
each half
now fifty percent
of nothing.
Only an old cat
can chuck up
a hairball,
stringy,
stinky,
slippery,
that floats
like an island
in a sea of slime.
Only me
left to wipe it up.
That old cat
and I
ebb and flow
with my paper towels
and his rough tongued kiss.
Wheels spun,
rolling down the road,
screeched us to a halt.
Time was my enemy of love,
held a hand up,
prevented our crossing.
No opportunity
to look both ways,
longingly down the road.
Then my heavy breasts,
filled past love’s capacity,
rested before they got home.
Damn flat.
Chequamegon Bay
quiet as the foaming
washing of rocks,
slow as applebutter
spread on toast.
Where lupines wave
their purple spires
giving seed to
crumbling
sandstone churches.
Barren blueberries
dust of pine
buckets of smelt
batter dipped
and fried.
Then brandy slush
it all till snow
covers the land
marking my trail
home.
Anticipating adrenaline’s rush
mingled with salty popcorn,
the script,
the first sacrificial victim,
heavy in the weight
of the writer’s agonizing
choice of words
falls
to its live or die
ending
with the first reader’s
ominous words:
“I don’t get it.”
PROMPT 3: Partly ___________.
Enclosed within the span
my arms can touch,
my eyes are closed
to effort of standing.
There are no rubber grips
beneath my slippery feet.
Naked vulnerability exposed,
I step out into my morning
pushing aside condensation
till drops cry down my arm.
Through my veil of Vicodin,
I’m only partly afraid to live.
I probably should not
have agreed to be a zombie
in my step-daughter’s movie
where home-made blood
was tossed on me
by the bucket full.
I have successfully washed
the blood off my clothes,
but on two separate shootings,
hoping for protection
in a back pocket of my jeans,
two innocent cell phones,
were killed
by drowning.
Zombie phones
don’t come back to life.
They die forever
doing Heavy Duty.
It’s okay to use two cans
and a lifeless string
to a call a friend
when you are young
and immortal,
but not so much
at 52.
Under my bedspread
thrown over a card table
with only room
for a pillow,
a blanket,
a box of crackers,
and me,
safety could still
squeeze in.
But I grew
and it became difficult
to keep my legs inside,
and so I stopped
hiding there.
I would go to Mom
who would hold me
and tell me
time and time again
that everything
would be alright,
and in my innocence,
I believed her.
Until sometime in adolescence
I came home from school
and discovered
my mother crying,
no place
to hide her tears.
I pulled my bedspread
off my bed,
climbed up next to her
and wrapped it around us
telling her it would be alright.
We were old enough
to know better.
She just continued to cry.
Even though nothing was more frightening,
there was no room
to shed my tears.
She is sock footed
in her pajamas
pulling a worn throw
over her shoulder
now curving
into the deepest
corner of the couch.
I take the deep breath
that she cannot
and reach into my arsenal
of aspirin,
and hot compresses,
thermometers,
chicken soup,
and cool wet rags
to lay upon her brow.
It is hard to watch my child cry,
her eyes pink and longing,
her fingers weak and airy,
a trail of tissues
in her slow wake.
She empties her eyes,
and only the arm of the couch
and I
are able to read the message
in the wet dots
she drops:
Fix me, Mom.
I sit next to her
my hand rubbing on her foot,
her eyes finally closing
in exhausted sleep.
We breathe.
I feel the void of everything
and the sky mimics my soul,
blue and vacant,
and I am one with it.
Then a vapor trail
slicing the empty sky
fills the nothingness
with a cloud not made from God.
I see the plane fly over
lifting you to a new place.
The crack in the sky grows bigger
and I begin to sob.
It is cold enough to change
exhaustion into ice.
I can breathe it here on earth
and cry till I feel empty.
The corner of her mouth
lifted at his gentle teasing
is now a tightened line
that is afraid to laugh.
And her shoulders sighed
with a nagging stiffness
that begged for his relief,
but his touch never surfaced.
Nightfall is her only solace
where his passing shadow
no longer has the power
to darken her brightest day.
Every day
unseen particles
drift down
from where you dance
and swirl up a storm
or punch pillows
as you cry
down a drought
and land in a whisper
on the surface
of every solid thing.
Neat freaks
will never take the time
to amass enough matter
allowing them to push a trail
of memories
into a dusty heart,
an accumulation
of yesterday’s unspoken words,
lingering,
waiting
for you to shake things up
again.