Jars of individual colors,
olive,
peach,
wild strawberry,
lemon yellow,
so tempting and delicious,
blended into cocoa brown.
I did not give them the time
they needed to dry
as my tempera paints blurred
food into fashion.
Rushing
to grow up,
my childhood attempts
at gluttonous glamour,
when given time,
were so easily crushed.
floating around,
lost in time,
forgotten by all that live on.
lost in the dust of times long past,
unknown to all,
forgotten except when something goes wrong.
never there,
always standing by,
this will forever be my own fate.
left alone to fight my tears
time will never change my emotions.
left alone in a world all my own,
where I am never heard.
always silent,
always here yet never there.
staying in the same old place,
forced to be here while the world forgets,
no one hears my calls or pleads,
time will never set me free
imprisoning me forever more.
searching for someone who understands,
never shall I find such a person,
for I am left here to face eternity alone.
a slave to my past life’s feelings,
I shall be trapped for I’ve lost the key.
I gave it to those I left behind.
they threw it away once they forgot,
even though they tried not.
I became a slave to eternity.
lonely from the many nights I’ve spent alone,
wishing for the affection I need so.
single I shall stay,
until I find the one.
gotta find him soon,
before I go mad.
from seeing him,
only in my dreams and wishes.
forever it seems,
him so close,
and yet so far.
an inch in my dreams,
forever in life.
it seems I will never have him,
and so I wish with all my hopes and dreams,
that he will find a way to me,
before my time is gone…
In the last crisis
when your family needed
money,
time,
empathy,
anything,
your name was at the bottom
of the To Call list.
So you could sit back
with comments like,
“Yeah, that bites,”
knowing someone else
stepped up to solve
the day’s problems.
You’re the screw-up.
People don’t expect anything
from you
knowing you
stretch yourself
just twisting your mind
around your curly fries.
Yeah, that bites.
I imagine
squeezing seconds
like liquid
pimple poppings
from frantic
preteen pubescent
relatives reliving
illusional instances
of overly
pressing problems
that they
can’t control,
and again
they throw
me more.
ENOUGH, ENOUGH!
It is only when I am unsure
that I wonder what you think
and that use to be
all the time.
But now a calmness
has come
like Momma’s hand
pressing my bedspread
to the very corners
that my teddy bear
knew better than
to rumple.
The smooth orderliness
of my days
has begun to glide
me to the place
where my mother lives
where bowls are washed
before her cookies cool.
I finally moved my teddy bear
storing him way up on a top shelf
where my wonderings now live
most of the time.
I know instinctively
the seconds between that moment
when our infant toddles
at the top of the stair
and my arms reach out to grab him.
I can calculate how many minutes
of rest there is between loads of laundry,
giving the kids a bath,
and cutting the carrots for supper.
Only I know the passage of time.
No need to count it for me.
But my husband traveling
in a couch time warp
throws off the laws of physics
when the minutes left in the game
clearly marked in intervals
of decreasing seconds,
has morphed into a half hour
distorted by breasted commercials
and bottles of domestic beer.
Time stands still
as our eyes connect
with my wordless stare
that threatens to end his game.
The time between
August and September,
unaware of an impending threat,
falls quickly
swishing soft
with sounds of rustling leaves,
while my money
crackling dry
unfolds in the seasonal shopping
of back to school.
That hundred dollar bill,
an endangered alien species,
protected from the enemy
by my careful oscillation
of my arms to and fro
and up and down,
was tucked safely in my purse
until it blew away too fast,
sucked into a cash register vortex.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.
I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.
And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.
I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.
Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.
Adrenaline rush of air flies by you at 80 mph
filling your lungs with a vital breath of speed,
humming with traffic as you weave through it.
Somewhere down the road the strands of asphalt
will test your ability to navigate the curves
ending with loose gravel and a taste of bitter bark.
Trapped in the confines of my sealed up car
I curse your lack of respect for the living,
no thought of your loved one answering the door.
Strangers will tell her how the race finished,
holding her gently, giving no comfort,
gasping for breath when she goes down.
Suffering no broken bones, no dirt in her mouth to spit,
her lips will close without any words, humming a bitter tune.
Years will not fly by fast enough, her pain dying so slow.
It’s all about you,
and I am listening with my head nodding,
my eyebrows lifting at just the right time,
so you keep revealing
because it’s evident I feel
the depth of your pain.
You can tell by my furrowed brow
that if I was held hostage
by foreign assassins who plan
to pull out my eyelashes
one at a time until I cry out,
I wouldn’t retell a single word.
It’s all about my love for you.
But sadly my questions
are not meant to be misinterpreted
as interest,
just merely my attempt
to help speed your story along.
Because if I was connected
to their lie detector,
it would no doubt record
that I don’t care.
I just want my turn to tell you,
with my eyes searching your face
for obvious signs of concern,
that it’s all about me.
And if you loved me enough
you’d listen.
My watch face tells me
another ten minutes passed
and I recheck the wall clock,
but it isn’t confirmed
until I look out the window.
The driveway lays calm.
It is tolerantly waiting
though my aura of desperation
has settled unseen
on the pavement.
Even with repeated practice
I haven’t learned to pace myself
in my back and forth
back and forth
competition with the window.
But the window and time are partners
in a gunny-sack tied together
by my impatient waiting,
and only when you stumble in
will the race be over.
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.
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.
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 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?
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.
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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