Archive | August 2009

8/30/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug30

Existing After Our Love Dies

People talk of finding their soul mate
with the power to bind themselves
together in their minds,
with their spirits,
their bodies,
connected
for the whole of their lives
and lasting beyond eternity.

I have come to realize
that we are not soul mates,
bound by that magical thread.

There is no psychic power
surging in between us
and the outside forces
that have finally succeeded
in pulling us apart
from the sensuous slippery taste
of our forbidden passion.

Yet here we are
together again.

I love you, chocolate.

Stiff as a Board

Women don’t iron anymore,
the lost homemaker’s art
of standing in the heat
of the afternoon
and sweating
in steam.

They have forgotten the arousing joy
mingled with a crisp scent of starch
giving a sense of accomplishment
earned while gently sprinkling
water from a reused bottle
covered with tiny pokes
in wax paper.

They have lost the repeated repetition
of flexing their upper arm muscles
back and forth, back and forth,
with afternoons of pleasure
not given to erotic sex
but the hot steam
of an iron.

It is harder for the modern woman to prove,
at the end of the day to her untrusting lover,
that she is innocent of unfaithful pressing
between newly starched sheets
without a towering mountain,
of his folded underwear,
her heaps of love
for him.

8/29/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug29

Involuntary Man Slaughter

You started sleeping in the recliner again,
feet and arms crossed as you lie,
your chest rising and falling
as you catch a quickie nap.

I can tell you’re dreaming
’cause your forehead’s cutely crinkling
while your eyes are twitching slightly
in the sweetest sort of way.

Then the smallest naughty smile
starts curling up your lips
tempting me to wake you
with a tender coaxing kiss.

I ask you who is in your dreams,
and you’d better cross your fingers,
’cause you don’t want to cross me,
if I catch you in a lie.

I Feel a Searing Pain

I am frying
this one hamburger patty
alone in the pan.

Even with a crunching
of freshly ground pepper
and a slathering of ketchup
that is heal of my hand
thumping thick,
it bites.

Because I have piled on
layer upon layer
of onions in crisp white rings,
now taunting halos
of my self-proclaimed perfection.

You tried in vain to teach me,
with recipes and directions
how to cook and sizzle,
and just about everything else,
but I never seemed to learn.

This simple hamburger
could taste even more delicious
if I could just kiss you again,
sucking the mustard
off your mustache,
so spicy and brown
and hold those buns
just one more time.

But I let you leave me.
Fried.

Wringing Warm

Your hands
press the towel
radiating heat
from the dryer
against your face
the warmth drenching
your spongy cheeks
tipping your head back
dripping sighs
of saturating comfort
allowing you
to absorb it all.

Then come to me
when you’re hot enough
for the two of us
to wrap ourselves
in the cuddling warmth
that only you can radiate.

Set the dial to TUMBLE.

One Man Crew

He has a job to do.

Tools, wood, nails, and dirt
are a part of who he is
with the end of his labors
caught up in sweat and beer.

His superior workmanship,
as the evening shadows lengthen,
joins his skill for mending fences
with a layout of our plans.

His gentle roughness
presses on my skin
so I lean in closer,
our breath already building.

He has a job to do.

8/28/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug28

I Am Reopening Applications For My New BFF

I won’t bore you with the details of how the opening occurred,
suffice-it-to-say, that was one whacked-up individual
who made it an absolutely necessity to ditch her at the mall.

So, perhaps I should tell you of the caliber of my other friends,
all interesting people with the unique ability to enjoy life,
and for whom it will soon be your pleasure to work with.

There’s Kyle, who periodically sends postcards from interesting places,
like the last one taken while plummeting from 10,000 ft,
although I will have to admit, I haven’t heard from in awhile.

Then Leanne, who has been known to wear a tiara to work
while carrying a sparkling wand that seems to have no magical power,
but you have to give her credit, she just keeps on sparkling.

Gina still holds her special place in my organization,
the only one who has been known to create a tent over her cubicle
and invite us inside to drink lemonade with curly twisty straws.

Wendy, top procrastinator for the month of September,
is willing to give up her privileged parking space by the hydrant
if you are willing to come on board and help her clean the litter box.

Tony, on emergency leave from repeated attempts to butter up the boss,
wanted me to remind everyone that his position is not negotiable,
as he expects to return to work as soon as his stitches heal.

But you need to know that I was thinking of connecting with that guy
who makes those photo-op restaurant statues of giant resin chickens,
so you’d better get your application in early, if you want to be considered.

8/27/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug27

Lunch With The Girls

Helena was the QUEEN,
in all capital letters,
who told us all what to wear
’cause, heaven forbid,
we might wear something
that didn’t match her choice today.

And if we wanted to be included,
sitting beside the QUEEN at lunch,
there were definite rules to follow.

Like how your hair should be split
down the middle with tiny braids
fringing your face
or tied with a ribbon,
but never a scrunchie,
or light jeans with rips
placed ‘just so’ at the knees
or t-shirts with messages
that make her laugh.

You could, if given permission,
get away with a slight deviation
from the expected dress du jour,
but there had better be
an excuse she can tell
worthy of nods
for the group acceptance,
their superior acknowledgement
of your final realization
that you are
just not worthy.

Thirty years later,
I can finally shout,
“SUCK IT, HELENA!”
in all capital letters.

8/26/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug26

Pre Game Warm Up

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.

8/25/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug25

Enough Already

I have been up since six
puttering around with this or that
doing trivial unimportant tasks
in a random leisurely way
making me stop and realize
that I should get in the shower already
so I can clean up, get dressed,
and finally get something done.

Forget that.
It’s 9:30.
I have successfully wasted the morning.

8/24/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug24

I Cry When I Cut Onions

The snow began softly.
I’m not sure if I can remember
when one flake landed alone.
Then it became crystal clear
as I watched the ground morph
thick into the white of the sky.

You came up behind me
putting a jacket over my sweater,
a gesture of kindness
before everything snowballed.
It was meant as an apology
to block out the cold words
that were landing thick and staying
as long as winter.

But my brothers taught me
to pack a snowball hard with ice
chucking it to cut on contact
while I dress in layers
staying soft and warm.

8/23/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug23

Inferior Exploitation of Viable Skills

B movies provide a necessary function,
a deviation from the norm,
gathering us on the couch
friends, chips, beer and bravado
all shouting obscenities
as we stuff our faces
belly laughing in agreement,
but viewer, B ware.

Plot lines twist to obscurity
in a random fashion
that is as necessary and expected
as giant alien rabbits
who devour small railways
while racing through Boston
on a mission to save the world
from white collar criminals
wearing breast popping armor.

This opportunity for upchucking
pent-up constructive criticism
is needed when we can’t complain
about the asinine policies at work
or the stupidity of leaching exes.

Just B sure
you have the stomach for it.

Pitch Perfect

The first bonfire
was probably just a cook-fire
gone terribly awry
that left the hillside
charred and black
as the fire-stokers ran
screaming at high pitch,
pointing blame
and throwing sand.

So I can’t blame you
as we heat up the night,
our arguments hot with pain
as we hurl insult upon insult,
our darkened truths
thrown into the light.

I just want to gather
every bit of what we had
and toss it to the fire.

Bring marshmallows.

8/22/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Aug22

Wonder Bread

I am wearing two Wonder Bread bags
over my socks again
because today the sun decided
to flips its calendar
from winter to spring
and I am there, stick in hand.

Stomping on crunchy blackened ledges,
I help the sun’s job along
creating a wider path for my boat
as it rides the gutter flow
again and again chased
up and down my street,
water blockades formed and destroyed.

Squishing without wetness
inside my leaky rubber boots,
I pour out today’s collection
and pity the kids whose mothers
don’t serve them Wonder Bread.

Aug21

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.