The box spilled
its contents rolled
and grass and flowers grew
then trees with swings
and birds flew
beyond the buildings
to the clouds
till Mama said,
“Use different crayons.”
But I colored everything
a happy orange
until I knew
what black and blue meant
and put my colors
down.
The day heats
my garden green,
overgrown to limpness,
mocking my bow
to God
who must find time
between listening
to my prayers
to rain upon my flowers.
Flowers wither
as my needs grow,
footprints hard in dusty dirt,
walking away
before the sun.
look, look deep into your eyes
behind the color blue
______rimed with darkness
a nebula world, one few know
few care, few will ever see
in twilight, your eyes open
letting in the nights shadows
_______shadows that fill you
shadows that complete you
weaving webs of deceit and fear
beware the dimly lit paths
aglow around you, drawing, pulling
_______like spirit lights on the moors
we will suck you dry and snatch your soul
no second chance, no escape
extreme sadness
____heart empties
into river of tears
hardens
as your face fades
nothing, nothing left,nothing
no you ,no us
_____alone with
just shadows of where you once were
old creaking joints
skin drawn tight
across skinny bones
lips once soft, smooth
pulled slightly apart
reveal yellowed teeth
hideous form caught in time
indurated, it blinks while dreaming
of tea party’s and lacy pink dresses
feeble, mind dull, it stops and grins again
my face, it’s face slid from it’s once firm place
a face that shadows me
useless, feeble, slow when once I know
yes, once I know I ran deer footed
and laughed, laughed out loud
when once I wore those lacy pink dresses
and danced the night away
trailing soft summer flowers
fleeting are our days
count count the hours as they pass
petals drop fore lorn
Bags tied to an old cart
Again and again she stops
Garbage her only friend
Lonely and homeless
Agatha walks on unknown
Day after day seeking cover from the cold
Yielding in the end to the ice and snow
did I remember to forget your kiss
drinking while softly singing your song
did I run out in the rain, too late
where now nothing but silent shadows remain
will you fade from my heart full of pain
My truths are laid before you
like a doily
intricate and knotted
beauty in construction
but covered with objects
meant to distract.
Your eyes so focused on the vase,
the beauty of the flowers,
do not see the tightness
of the string as it grips
to itself, twisted.
You cannot unravel the secrets
I have woven together.
They are tied
one event to one event
colored with brightness,
dyed with sadness.
My truths are laid before you,
a deceptive lie.
She sat in my classroom for one hundred and eighty days.
Front left side, third from the center aisle.
16 days absent, if truth be told.
Not much of a story here.
Flu, broken bones, all the usual ailments of a twelve year old.
If my students weren’t so easily distracted
from the topic of the lesson on that day,
I would have noticed her empty desk.
She entered the room quiet, so quiet, you may have not seen her
as she slipped by with her arms wrapped
around her books and she apologized
when she slid into her chair.
Crouched down with my face closer, I asked, “What was that?”
But there wasn’t another sound coming out
from under her shield of auburn bangs,
her exaggerated part falling against nature.
She moved her hair aside so one dark pupil could peek through.
I could see she had been crying
and in our glance we agreed
to leave the story there.
Students were asked to write about a happy memory.
The bell rang and her paper handed in
told the story of her older brother
ripping a clump of her hair.
In the jostling of books as she left, I could see it was non-fiction.
Her scalp showed a shining new bald spot
the size of a fifty-cent piece
but the story written there
went on to tell of how she felt safe in the walls of this room,
and since I was her teacher
could I write her an excuse
to stay away from home?
She sat in my classroom for one hundred and sixty-four days.
In 1960, Pete and Joe
wondered as they sang
when people would ever learn
where all the flowers had gone.
Gardens used to keep children
running under its sprinkler spray
and kicking the can and water balloons
filled cut grass with fun.
Laughter road the streets on bikes
with cards click-clicking spokes
and sticks banged out a tune
on the leaning picket fence.
Yet drive the street anytime today
and no one is outside
for children left the garden,
unattended, gone to weeds.
A long time since 1960,
you and I still wonder
where flowers in our garden go
when children live inside.
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?
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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