11/26/09
When Paper Dolls Get Wet
She stopped
amid the chaos,
her back to the door,
stealing one breath,
then another.
Hardly recognizing
her own reflection,
her eyes said all
that her voice could not;
she splashed her face
with chilling water.
Grateful for the normality
of washing dishes,
she returned
to the kitchen
with her smile
where she repainted it.
11/25/09
My 64 Box Beats All
It is a snow day
and school is closed
because I stayed up late
to finish a second map
of Africa.
The sun is my ally
refreezing icicles
forming roof daggers
that my snowballs
knock down.
I lick mine until
it forms a sharpened point
finally
allowing me to close in
on my older sister.
Revenge is stuck
to my mitten,
and will not
be tossed away.
11/24/09
Everybody Said the Water is Fine
You quickly jump in
right off the dock,
knees to chest,
cannonballing a wave
that makes me turn
my face away
from your splash.
My chest protected,
my feet soft-stepping
through body lines
I dare to cross.
Inching slowly up me
shocking my breath,
air inhaled so fast,
I swim.
I want it slow
as my shoulders
feel the weight,
my body jumping
beneath your chest.
I have a sinking feeling.
11/23/09
Beyond Diversity
The silence in the room
was the loudest noise,
each so afraid
to say the wrong thing.
They said nothing.
That said everything.
11/22/09
Legal Limit
Their world changed
by man’s need
for sport,
gas emitting engines
and whirling blades,
bottles and cans
tossed when used.
Their hook healed mouths
when thrown back
are unable to shout:
911.
Their dead eyes
glaze a milky film
as their bodies float
to litter the shore.
11/21/09
Sound of a Hollow Ring
Earlier today
I saw a mayfly,
a miniature hover craft,
drop down
just enough to touch his toes
onto the water,
and as he did ripples spread,
tiny circles
growing bigger.
If I could hold water,
I would have cupped my hands
to contain the circles
before they spread.
But water
is as fluid
as your slippery ways,
your shoes
stepping softly
trying not to echo
on our hardwood floors.
The night sneaks in
in waves of doubt,
and I without
the soft touch
you thirst.
Walking on water,
is a skill for God
and mayflies.
11/20/09
And Then I was Reminded to Let My Buns Cool
I was a girl
playing
with my Easy-bake oven:
mix, slide, bake,
peek, wait, pull,
frost and eat.
Then thirty years,
smoke,
my reminder
of my baking,
the alarm
my reminder
to call.
The fireman
with rippling abs
through his water soaked shirt
and muscled forearms
pulling me to safety,
my reminder
that I am
a woman.
Peek?
Easy.
11/19/09
Tethered to a Dream
I suppose
it can be accomplished
by others
with their eyes open,
but my eyes have to close.
Her image
sleeps behind my lids
as close to me
as her lipsticked kiss
pressed onto the back
of a random
business card
that lays
upon her pillow.
It is necessary
to hold her pillow
close to my face
breathing deeply,
inhaling the last
glimpse
of her smile.
Letting our memories
smother me,
my eyes have to close.
11/18/09
Slow Man on the Totem Pole
The hot tub
bubbled a cover
over them
as he poured the water
slowly over her head
and the heat washed
over her.
Sleep began
to cover her
and he kissed her
eyelids
as he carried her
to bed.
His kiss
slid on forehead skin
and she knew
no matter
how slippery
his actions,
she was hooked
like trout
covered in the crunchy
nuts
she had pounded
earlier.
11/17/09
Taboo
Ore docks
stood tall for centuries
rising from the water
till the lake swallowed
it all.
It spit out wood.
Litter
caressed by water
till every edge
is as smooth
as a forearm,
the shore is tattooed,
black lines formed
by rejected debris.
The pilings stand,
a landing stool
for weary gulls
who add their poo,
exploding comments
on man’s efforts.
Fed Up and Down
Gulls are crying again,
their silhouettes,
a cloud,
circling for bread
they have come to expect.
They swirl inward
their tornado of wings,
bills open
angrily squawking
as they land in the yard.
Hunger pains
felt deep
and hard
can cloud your mind
to what you need.
Eat.
11/16/09
Cycling Home from School
I remember drawing
the water cycle:
land,
water,
clouds,
and lots of arrows.
While other kids
drew rainbows,
I was tempted to draw
Cupid pulling back
his bow.
But I didn’t.
I only drew
what the teacher expected.
I earned a lousy B
and cried.
Riding home
I can see Cupid there,
arrows quivering,
love amid the clouds.
Gulls mock me
as they form
the A
I still deserve.
I cry again.
11/15/09
Hanging Up My Towel
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
We are opponents,
equal in the fight,
yet I have no desire
to play your game.
Rocks will wear
and erode away.
Paper will dissolve
till sludge is left.
Scissors will rust
to cut no more.
No other tactic
is equal to your tears.
I don’t play with water.
Water always wins.
11/14/09
Deluge
Never mind
the torrential rains,
he would be with her.
His surge of love
would be his downfall,
his overwhelming
need.
He soaked his pain
in gin and tonic
before he drove to her.
The inundation
of caring souls
warned her
the bridge was out.
She fell to the floor
amid cascading tears,
flooded with emotion.
No one could stop
her cries.
The water has left her line,
a ring of red
on faded lips,
kissed
but not forgotten.
11/13/09
Lighthouse in the Fog
The trail leads to the water,
another step,
one step;
I imprint
the sands.
On water
I loose my touch,
weed my thoughts.
Hear my tears;
it is as if I must.
Automated.
It is as if I must
smell the taste
algae breathes;
I find what stinks
on sand.
The water
imprints me
one drop,
another drop;
the trail leads to myself.
11/12/09
If Only Water Flowed Upstream
If I knew the source
of your pain,
I would ride
with an urgency,
oars raised
high above my head,
never mind the rocks
or the current
that tries to drag me down.
If only water flowed upstream
then I might ride
the tributary
that heals my arms
and makes them
stronger.
If you knew the source
of my uselessness,
my weariness,
you will know
that when I lay my paddle
down
you’ll go down
for the third time.
11/11/09
Sign of a Dead End
Only Moses knew
to part the sea
with water walls
and hold back
terror in his flight.
But last I checked,
he’s dead.
What chance have I
to build a path
that leads to you
with only tears
to guide
my way?
My trail
is left in tissues
from our bedroom
to the bath
where foaming bubbles
can not scrub
the scum
built up inside.
What chance have I?
11/10/09
Mayflies
Nymphs, sink in freshwater
a year flying by so quick and cold
into the depths of Superior.
Emerging spontaneously
in swarms large enough
to be recorded on Doppler radar,
they bloom, a spring water flower.
Undulating in the air
meters above the ground
with their upright wings,
they are a decadent lunch
for bass, walleye, and trout.
Polish call them
jętka jednodniówka,
a one-day fly,
on their springtime sojourn
for a lakeside courtship.
They grasp females
with double the effort
for a mid-air mating
letting fishermen know
the water is fine.
Exhausted,
they cover the sidewalk,
and I crunch them with guilt
at the end of their day.
11/09/09
Interwoven
A jumbled bed,
a tangled web,
the Platt River braids
her slippery twist
of tributaries.
Chilling fingers snag
a delicate leg
of a sandhill chick
that tries to fly
before the snow.
Till a whore frost crone,
long and lean
and willing,
offers her body
in trade.
So winter mates
himself with ice
and the crane flies south
as the Platt goes cold,
in frozen angry repose.
11/08/09
Should Rain Begin to Fall
The canoe kept us
apart
each on our own
hard metal bench,
closer to each other
than we had been
in months.
We rode
finally
in the same direction,
paddling
first on one side,
then the other.
In the calming moments
when rocks were not
running up
to test us,
we found places
to lay our paddles down
and glide
in the quietness.
Both of us
checking
the sky for clouds.
11/07/09
Standing By
Yes, they all agree.
It’s time to go.
Relatives and friends
trickle away
leaving her
to close the door.
Washing up their plates,
she listens to the sounds
of silverware
clinking softly under the suds.
Her eyes cold and hard
as the knife she holds.
Staring at a dripping distortion
of herself,
the face on the blade
is unrecognizable.
Stabbing the knife into suds
that close behind the blade
in a slow thin flow,
no visible trail is left
to show the water’s wound.
Her tears drip through
unnoticed
in the changing color
of the dishwater.
Relatives and friends
stream in
to stand by her,
a torrent
of sympathetic chatter,
Red roses,
her favorite,
so lovely
standing tall
together.
Yes, they all agree.
That was clear
as dishwater.
11/06/09
Empty Handed
Her mailbox,
number G – 3,
opened every day
in the proper sequence:
Right 15,
Left 24,
Right 7.
Her hand thrust
Right
inside
hoping for a love letter
Left
amongst the bills.
Electricity.
Water.
Credit cards.
Car insurance.
Student loan.
Mortgage payment.
That covered
just about everything.
Adding it up,
would there be nothing
Left?
Right,
on all accounts.
11/05/09
Art Lesson
My paper
starts its creative life
born white.
I pick green to color the stupid grass
as it tries to grow in the field
again.
Didn’t it ride
as an infant
on the zephyr wind?
Didn’t it listen
to its mother’s warnings
where not to fall and grow?
I color green
on land around Chequamegon Bay,
but too soon it’s peeled,
exposed,
used up.
Stupid green.
I color brown
leaves that slowly cover
in a crunching decaying
death of green
until the last crayon
is breaking.
Stupid brown.
I color white
snow that slowly covers
swirling in circles
until all that can be colored
is white.
Always the last to come out
of the pack,
always the last
to die,
you think you are smart,
white.
But you are never needed.
I hold the emptiness of you
before I even start.
Stupid white.
11/04/09
Maybe She Will Breathe
There could be life
in the browning edges
of the dying ivy.
Watering can held
for just a second
to her chest
coaxing a prayer,
loving hums
pouring her breath,
scenting the water.
Leaving it in the window
to gather energy,
stripping herself
bare,
she steps into her morning shower.
Only silence for herself,
water flowing into her wrinkles,
her head back
absorbing it all.
There could be life
in the browning edges
of the dying Ivy.
11/03/09
Black Rocks
Water cuts everything
but rocks
that slowly stand.
The sailor’s lament,
a never touch wall
between the last ore ship’s hull
and ice.
The shouting
of the deck hands
circle out
to the heights
that on other days
eagerly swallow
women into their wedding white.
White Water
Rocks cut everything
but water
that slowly glides.
Canoe paddles
barely touching,
the last lace maker
on the lake.
The rippling
of the rowers’ drips
weaving out
to the depths
that on other days
eagerly swallow
men into her blackened death.
11/02/09
Day Shift
Waves crest
bubbling on the shore
as the smell of new coffee
pulls them in
to the Breakwater Restaurant
long before the sun
drops her first metallic hook
into the water of Lake Superior.
Abigal moves
ebbing in and out
pouring unifying coffee
in a tidal rhythm
while her customers
in an inside huddle
fill tables and booths
with driftwood stories
that pile into her memory
waiting to be poured
when the supper crowd
flows in at 5:00.
11/1/09
At the Breakwater Restaurant
There was a time
before I knew him
that I loved my father,
his boisterous laugh,
his gripping tickle,
the way he ran like a torpedo
into the water of Long Lake.
Now I see him
bony shoulders slumped
sitting in the back seat of the car
waiting to be driven home
unable to finish his breakfast.
I am still hungry.
The menu holds nothing
but the smell
of new coffee.