Archive | September 2009

9/10/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep10

Over Easy

The grocery bag split
spilling its contents
to the floor
where the eggs
took it upon themselves
to slither,
running with it.

He looked at me
wondering why I wasn’t
running for the towel
hanging within arm’s reach,
the logical thing to do.

Instead I held his arm
forcing a moment
to appreciate
the amebic forms
the whites created,
the yellow run of yolks.

Sharp yellow
cut by the jagged
white teeth of the shells,
started tears flowing
cutting lines in my make-up.

I looked at him.
He wasn’t running
away from my reach,
the logical thing to do.

Instead he held me
looking for the beauty
he knows is there,
somewhere in the mess.

It took more time
to put me back together.

9/09/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep9

Thickening the Stew

Her eighty-three years were tired,
and I had to crawl up beside her
if I wanted to hear her voice
too soft to hear at the side of the bed.

She lay with her hands clutching
the blanket close to her chin,
smiling as she rambles of days
children like me have never seen.

A farm wife, she reminds me,
knows the length of the furrows
as well as her husband.
She can look at the sky knowingly
getting the animals safe into the barn.

Her fingers tap the blanket
counting again the sixty-three jars
of beans she canned that year.
Laughing with the memory
of the potatoes cooked too long,
then only good for thickening stew.

I heard of running chickens,
burnt pie crusts,
and her sweet children
playing in the wheat fields
till the reaper came.

9/08/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep8

Accent Shifted To A Weaker Beat

A beat can be split
into two steps
like the main syncopation
in cha – cha.

We have no conductor,
no drummer,
to help us keep in step,
yet there a dance in the way
I carry laundry to the dryer,
passing you with electrical cords
on your way to the garage.

There is a soft repetition
of your kisses on my forehead,
merging with the melody
of my messages on the fridge.

There is a rhythm to our love,
the beat of our days together,
but if you want the band to play
our song,
neither of us can name it.

9/07/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep7

Fiber Is Indigestible

We have woven a perfect fit,
a cuddly blanket of us,
but you are messing around
with stuff you don’t know
anything about.

You want to change
just one tiny thing,
but don’t.
Tied to something else,
like a sweater thread,
it will all unravel.

I’ve strung you along
with a list of lies
and you can’t pull out
the first one,
or we will

fall

apart.

I am exhausted,
my nerves frazzled and frayed.

9/06/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep6

Scenic Overpass Just Past Washburn

The woman was standing
in the middle of Highway 13
and I had to slow my car
to avoid her.

Then I followed her gaze
to the sixty some wings
gracefully v-ing above us
and I stopped.

I rolled my window down,
and we listened for a long time
as their freedom song
collided with us.

The woman and I
in the middle of the road,
we’re glad there was no way
to avoid them.

9/05/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep5

Hopscotch

The morning cold
makes me sidewalk hard
and dampness
taps me on my chest
to say it is my turn again.

I’ve tried to beat God
at this game,
but it doesn’t seem
like an even match
when he plays with clouds
and I only hold
a rock in my hand.

Saturday at the Farmer’s Market

Farmer tans are understandable,
a tag team effort with the sun
marking a man for a job well done.

But the white line left on your finger
where you have removed our ring,
lies about your futile effort.

Stop shopping at the open market.
Can we finish the job we started
before we both get burned?

9/04/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep4

Our Gang of Two

I don’t want this to sound wrong,
but sometimes I’m glad
you have a stressful job,
because there are days
when you come home

all worn out,

exhausted,

unsure if you can keep going,

and plop down in the recliner,
pushing the comb
of your fingers
through your hair.

Then this cute little Alfalfa chunk
stands straight up,
and I have an excuse
to come and kiss it down.

I could kiss
your boss for that.

9/03/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep3

Sweater Weather

I feel the void of everything
and the sky mimics my soul,
blue and vacant,
and I am one with it.

Then a vapor trail
slicing the empty sky
fills the nothingness
with a cloud not made from God.

I see the plane fly over
lifting you to a new place.
The crack in the sky grows bigger
and I begin to sob.

It is cold enough to change
exhaustion into ice.
I can breathe it here on earth
and cry till I feel empty.

9/02/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep2

Bed Spread

In the morning the light is pouring in
through the slits in the blinds
creating blurring splotches
fluid against the wall.

I can see only the shadowy silhouette
of my fingertips as they flow
over the knuckle mountains
and hand valleys lying across your chest.

You are slowly waking with one eye
skeptical as you see me lying beside you
smearing the line between
what I remember and what you forgot.

When Two Worlds Collide

The cloth lay on the table
innocent in its intentions
to become something amazing,
and it held within its fibers
the inspiration we needed.

My daughter, only six, asked me,
“Who controls the power of clothes?”
I answered, “You do.”

Soon, with a hungry anticipation
and an eye for design,
she dressed for Halloween
as a Recess Peanut Butter cup.

It was difficult to control
my urge to eat her up.

9/01/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Sep1

Weapons of Mass Destruction

Only men remember the names of their cars,
the make and model and the year they got them.

They can recall the feeling on their thighs
from the cushioning of luxurious leather
as they slide in with a longing sigh.

There is no will power known to man
that can keep their fingers from caressing,
the steering wheel spinning in their fantasy drive.

Eyes scanning the dash to inspect the odometer
praising the low mileage of where she’s been driven
fooling himself that he’s the driver that counts.

If only they understood the true lust of leather
comes in the form of wedges or stilettos,
and not only noticed when they’re kicked off.

Which, by the way, are Pradas,
sold by Neiman Marcus,
bought last month at Fifth and Grand.