Tag Archive | grass

4/19/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – He Came Wanting

He Came Wanting

Softly woven
in discarded
string and grass,
he hides
his hungry babies,
and I hear him
chattering angrily
through the glass,
yet I have no time,
no stale bread
to toss his way.

My thoughts
are tied
to her clinic,
those time gorging
IV drips,
and no amount
of banging
my head
against the glass
can coax cancer
from her veins
and hand her
that small cracker,
that extra day,
that God refused
to give.

4/17/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Tomb-Tomb

Tomb-Tomb

She already had one foot
in her grave, when we,
innocent children of the 60’s,
peeked over the fence
at old ‘Tomb–Tomb Nelson’
tending her garden
in her tattered slip again,
and controlled our giggles
so she couldn’t hear,
while our mocking breasts
swung over our shoulders.
Tomb-Tomb.

Guilty, but never caught,
we’re sentenced by breezes
to remember
grass fluttering
while caressing her knees,
the scent of the dirt
perfuming her hands,
the feeling of snickers
lying deep in our throats
choking the childhood
out of us.
Tomb-Tomb.

5/27/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Dehydrated

Dehydrated

I watched the water
trickle down the hillside
slipping around blades of grass
the way boys slunk past me
their eyes fixed to the svelte curves
of the beauty across the room
as if in their thirst
they couldn’t reach
her fast enough.

I would crane my neck
around the dancers
trying to catch a glimpse
or hear her floating laughter
to learn the subtle
flutter of her lashes
that allows the boys
to drink her in
while she maintained
a strangle hold on them.

I would lose the youthful
moisture of my skin
before I would understand
I, too, had the ability to absorb
the confidence I needed
and hold my own
in a crowded room.

And I didn’t need
a drink to do it.

8/22/11 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections- Stay Within the Lines

Stay Within the Lines

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.

 

In Working Order

The dog needs to go out,
the lawn mowed and edged.
Somehow he puts on his socks,
feeds the kids and steps into the yard.

I hear the scrapping of his rake,
the rhythm of his work,
the continuality of life
mingling with the smell of gas.

Yet I saw his wife’s face
a few months ago at their door,
her hair shorn brittle like dying grass.
The cancer would not go out.

The dog, now insistent, barking again
demanding its needs be met.
The neighbor’s fence is not tall enough
and I just want to hear him scream.