Out in the Open Spaces
My soft quiet eyelids
dropping like words unspoken
rolling downward
childlike
I am unable to tell you
how the answer
that I did not want
to hear
came to me today
blinking back
tears that only
adults can hide
disappointment
only I can feel
only you can see
and kisses soft
dropping like words unspoken
open up my eyes
The Crack
If you asked me
I couldn’t tell you
when I first
tipped my head
to hear you better
my eye caught frozen
in that quick glance
that two people share
when they think the same
thing at the same time
or was it the snicker
cutting and sharp
just as she was whispering
loud so I would hear
nothing, it was nothing
clear as a mother’s warning
no one knows for sure
just everyone but me
and if you asked me
again, as I see you
have already done
before,
I couldn’t tell you
when it sprouted through
the frozen earth
the rock solid foundation
of our partnership
that seed of doubt
Pulling Weeds
Grandma is outside
pulling weeds in the cabbage again
hunched into a permanent curve
her spine twisting
like bean tendrils
reaching for the sky
Dirt blacking her fingernails
digging deep into places
she can never clean
by wiping hard onto her apron
its dusty scent lingering
And today
again and again
and yesterday
the rows of beans and carrots
and cabbage
are growing so fast
They’re rowing so fast, Grandma
growing so fast
that we can’t keep up
with the weeds as they come
to choke the life out
of all our efforts
And Grandma and I
pulled weeds in the cabbage
again and again
and yesterday
until I grew up
and she bent down
Unable to pull out my name
from her sun dried lips
and I was a bug
to be tossed aside
like grasshoppers, spiders
and grubs
She shrinks from me
I fade from her
at the end of our summer sun
The Problem With Problems
Rube Goldberg comic creator
of Murphy’s law
gone bad
one crazy step at a time
Mouse TRAP!
Only Professor Lucifer Gorgonzola Butts
could come up with the plan
to solve the problem
that plagued mankind
like how to make
people buy your new and improved supersonic kind to animals mouse trap
Money TRAP!
Left the rest of us
to solve the problem
of problems
gone bad
one complex device that performs simple tasks in an indirect, convoluted way
at a time
Thought TRAP!
The “Self-Operating Poem” is activated
when the writer (A)
thinks of a clever idea (B)
which pulls a string (C)
of topic words and phrases out of their ass and thereby jerking (D)
memories of personal experiences (E)
haunting and disturbing images which triggers nightmares (F)
of ex’s indiscretions (G)
that spill out spiteful and bitter poetic slurs (H)
shouted and written in the boldest of fonts (I)
erased and rewritten with kinder words (J)
are laughed by the reader (K)
which causes frustration in the editor (L)
forcing numerous revisions (M)
until a finally complete and polished draft (N)
has thereby created a submitted poem (O)
IT’S CRAP!
Dear Goldfish,
Is it the right of passage
of every human child
that they must endure
the painful experience
of flushing
their dead goldfish
down the toilet
in order to have
truly lived
or
Is it the right of passage
of every fish parent
that they must endure
the painful experience
of hooking
their living children
onto human fish lines
in order to have
truly died
Sincerely,
Just Wondering
Route 66
draw two
telephone poles
one large fake foreground
one small bogus background
sagging string lines
connect them
along the road
center line markings
bottom long and broad
rise short and slender
upon the page
art class instructor
clairvoyant teacher
reveals the mystery
of three dimensional drawing
disappearing distance
made with simple lines
converge to a point
where we must go
to give the illusion
of space far
away
Route 66
deception of freedom
mystical call of the open road
disgruntled dissatisfaction
with yesterday’s journey
pulls us along
like puppeteer strings
unknown to us now
the places we travel
convergence of desires
from here to there
point the way
that we
must
go
point the way
that we
must
go
Finality of Death
There was an oddness to the moment
as I sat next to you
at your brother’s funeral.
It wasn’t the emotion
of the loss of my uncle
that caught up in wells
of my eyes
and I quickly dabbed away.
It wasn’t the picture frame
that came crashing down
letting everyone know
a spirit was about.
It was the simple gesture
of a toddling child
that reached for you
recognizing his grandpa
and you took him
in your arms.
A coldness
an emptiness
a hurt
beyond death
settled upon me
as you turned
your shoulder from me
to reach for him
a mirror of the choice you made
those many years ago
when you left us all
eight crying children
left without our dad
time has made that choice
more costly than you knew
it grieves me that
my child
your other grandchild
never felt that
hug of recognition
my child
your other grandchild
grew up alone
no grandpa to know her
no grandpa to hold her
twenty now
she does not cry
not knowing
what she missed
but that toddling child
is screaming
for us all
Absolution
I feel very small
kneeling down
in the pew
as I wait
for my turn
to confess.
Father Michael says
I must think back
to the sins of the week
that left those black spots
upon my soul.
Yes, I admit
I have sinned
the evil kinds of sin
that an eight-year-old can sin.
I did lie
when I told my brother
that all the chocolate chip cookies
were gone.
They are now, of course,
But they weren’t then.
Hell be dammed
I ate them.
I did think
un-pure thoughts
when I found my mother’s
brandy bottle
hidden in the hamper.
Hell be dammed
I drank some.
I did not feel
the weight of those sins
yesterday when they occurred
but Sister Mary Alouisus
makes sure I feel them now
as she places a clean white
kleenix on my head
just like all the other little girls
who so carelessly forgot
to wear a chapel cap
to church.
Dear God,
Do I have to confess
what I’m thinking of her now?
The Bath
The poem is not my lover
But it holds me just as tight.
Breathlessly I struggle
with thoughts tangled like lovers’ legs
crowded together
in a bathtub not meant for two.
There is no way to hold back
the pent-up emotion
lest it pour to the paper
slippery soap out of my fingers
the words the poem must say.
And in that washing of my soul
I bare myself
soaking
lathered
wrung out.
Stepping out
of myself
with naked vulnerability
the terry-clothed comforting caress
of just the perfect words
holds me just as tight.
Apnea
for fifteen years I slept on the right side of the bed
lying on my left side to face my husband
waking in the morning to the sunshine streaming
not outshining his smile and caressing secret words
that simple face to face greeting to start the day
solidified our union until the day
that was started with darkness and ended in our separation
as we both rolled over and moved away
many mornings later my new husband proclaims
that the right side of the bed is his side
the side he has slept on all the years lived with his first wife
and now it is too hard to change
so now I lie on the left side of the bed
and back to back we greet our walls
as the day starts with headache after headache
and kisses on the back of my neck are no relief
Through the Glass
sitting in McDonald’s
indulging on the famous fries
adding extra salt
so I can really taste it
on my lips
and through the glass
a car drives up
and parks between the lines
the man and boy inside
just wait
for another car
to pull up beside
a woman steps out
approaches the car
the door is opened
and the child steps out
and through the glass
no goodbyes are heard
the woman and child
get into her car
and drive away
and the man
alone in his car
drops the weight
of his head
upon the dash
and cries
and through the glass
I taste it all
with the bitterness
of salt
Thrift Sale
the alarm is set
for a summer friday morn
in the kind of town that has
a mufflershop slash bake-o-rama
waking me rushing to the paper
searching through
the listings
of today’s
thrift sales
this one
catching my eye
there’s no time
for breakfast
for I have to
get there early
to keep kay pendleton
from getting the good stuff
before I have a chance to see what I want
of the lifelong collection of mrs. willingstern
whom everyone knows diligently crochets until dawn
while mr. willingstern travels alone across country
collecting glass objects to set all her creations upon
and I have to be there to get the white vase that sits
in the livingroom window on last month’s doily
in a pattern too inticate for me
or that old
katy pendelton
What does she need it for anyway?
So We Decided To Walk to School
we began our trek
on a cold winter morning
with snow glitter-sparkling
in the seven-thirty sun
we were four little girls
walking along the road
on our way to school
crunching noisy snow
old Hostess bread bags on our feet
in our old fur-lined slip-on boots
keeping our socks dry
slinging our lace-tied shoes
over our shoulders
we are carrying our notebooks
with grandma-made
christmas mittens
two hours we walked
winding through streets and alleys
walking sometimes backward
to keep the wind
off our foreheads
the only exposed skin
on our determined faces
peeking in house windows
to check the time
and arriving at school
just as the children
were let out for recess
we joined them
not really sure
if the nuns even knew
that we were two hours late
later that night
we kept our mouths shut
like soldiers who do not ask why
ours was just to do or die
’cause no one want to tell mama
that we had missed the bus
Magic in Stained Glass
On any given sunday morn
curled up in grandma’s wingback
I hold a clear glass mug
molded into Flintstone boulders
up to the dusty stream
of warmth pouring
through my dirty window;
I am not the housekeeper
I used to be.
The cat slithers
from the heat of the floor
to investigate
the pool of orange
a mirage of juice
spilled with no liquid
to make my slippers wet;
I am making magic.
And in my ‘daughter-grown-and-moved-out’s room
tables and shelves hold an array of glass
and tools and ideas not yet
held together with copper tape
or solder melted into controlled pools
to magically create
the intricate designs
of what I think of
on any given sunday morn.
Inspired by Inaugural Poem: “On the Pulse of Morning”
(A Rock, A River, A Tree)
by Maya Angelou
On the Eve of Your Annihilation
(A Rock, A Paper, A Scissor)
A Rock, A Paper, A Scissor
Remembers back when cavemen,
Threw sticks and stones toward their foes.
The need, to retaliate
For the injuries
Both real and imagined,
Any nasty words with their sarcastic wit
Is forgotten in the moment of the challenge.
But now, the Rock cries out to us, obviously, vehemently,
Hey, You. You may compete with me
Dare to face your future embarrassment,
But don’t come crying to me.
I won’t save you like ‘yo mama.’
You, twisted only a bit more inferior than
Your sister, half bent over backwards
Your big behind,
Sticking up with your
Face down in white-trash.
Your mouth egging me on
Picking a fight.
The Rock cries out today, you may cover me,
But do not cut yourself.
Beyond the wail of humanity,
A Paper chats tormenting insults,
Dragging a line in the sand.
Each of us a stronghold might,
Weak and bizarrely made arrogant,
So haughty under pressure.
Your arms struggling while wrestling
Have left no way to prevent escape
My grip, firmly upon your shirt.
Yet, today I confront you to admit your weaknesses,
If you will contemplate defeat no more. I dare you,
Ready for battle we will proclaim our superiority
The Referee gave to us when the Rock and the Paper
And the Scissor were right.
Before sarcasm was a wounded blister on your
Soul and when you thought you could win
You lost.
The Paper taunts and taunts on.
There is a real desire to react to
The opened Scissor and the clenched Rock.
So say the Weak, the Feeble, the Scrawny,
The Pathetic and Wretched Refuse of this Scheming Whore,
The Useless, the Inadequate, the Hopeless, the Desperate
The Frantic, the Distressed, the Hysterical, the Anxious,
The Nervous, the Worried, the Concerned,
The Emaciated, the Tired, the Wasted.
They fear. They all fear
The slap of the hand jive.
Don’t you dare run with those Scissors
In your fist. You could poke someone’s eye out.
Settle down already, here beside the Rock.
Each of us, conceited in our righteousness
Our victory, has been wagered.
You, who called me that nasty name, you
Hypocrite , Charlatan and Impostor, you
Namby-pamby, who bullied on the playground, then
Ran tattling to teacher, left me to the thrashing of
Other tormentors–desperate for popularity,
Ravenous for blood.
You, the Creep, the Sneak, the Slippery Fish …
You the Villain, the Scoundrel, the Desperado, bet
Gambled, lost on the throw of the die
Wishing for a victory.
Here, stand directly in front of me.
I know the rules,
Which will not be changed.
I, the Rock, I the Paper, I the Scissor
I am yours–your exchange of words has been heard.
Lift up your hands, you have a stabbing need
For this intense struggle emerging between us.
Previous battles, despite their outcome,
Cannot be un-played, and if challenged
With guts, need not be lost again.
Stand up to your oppressor
Let no one conquer you.
Dream again
Of glory.
Women, children, men,
Take structure into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of a Rock, A Paper,
A Scissor. Form it into
The contour of your chosen icon.
Lift up your hands
One, Two, Three new chances
For your latest win.
Do not be committed eternally
To losing, restricted forever
To wrestle-mania ways.
This possibility goes further,
Offering you a chance to finally come even.
Here, on the pounding of this new disagreement
You may have the nerve
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the Paper, the Scissor, your tournament.
No less to the coach than the player.
No less to you now than your daddy then.
Here on the beating of this new confrontation
You may have the strength to look up and out
And into your opponent’s eyes, into
Your competitor’s face, your challenge
And say for sure
Really sure
With conviction
I win.
Black Day White Night
past three a.m.
on this pitch-black night
nobody is about
no cars no trucks
speeding on their way
with the business of the day
it is night and too dark to see
the spray of flowers
fastened to the streetlight
marking the spot
where the young boy died
earlier today
his family
knelt down
and fastened his bike
now spray-painted white
and chained it
to the sign
warning drivers
to slow down
and children to reflect
before venturing
into the dangers
of the busy road
lest no other mother
should grieve like this
and in that moment
devoid of light
his mother
leaves the brightest glow
of her soul
on the dead end of the curb
and travels home alone
unsure of how she arrives there
and falls fitfully to sleep
and the boy rides
and rides on
in his mother’s dreams
white wheels spinning
emitting a blurred carnival trail
memories of ferris wheel lights
where mother and child
swirled around and around
blending yesterday and today
smiles and laughter
roll down the road
and far away
from the rigidity
of the warning sign
finally unchained
the boy rides
and rides on
and the open road
is all his own
and it’s nobody’s business
what he does with the night
All I Want is Value
My drawer held a pair
of size seven jeans
that would not go on
for three years
regardless of the jumping
and tugging
and sucking it in.
But you can’t throw away
seventy-five dollar jeans
so I kept them until
my treadmill
earned its keep
and blessed today
they fit.
In celebration
I went to the movies
paying eight-fifty for
a loving comedy
with pencil thin actresses
that would also fit
in these expensive jeans
and there was a gloating sort
of comfort in that.
Until in the darkness
a couple’s giggles
crossed the theater
and I looked to see
extra large lovers
snuggled side by side
overflowing
their chairs’ capacities
He gently licking
salty butter from her fingers
she noisily sucking pop
and then his cheek
both sinking low
into the flesh that they grew
And I suddenly lonely
in my size seven jeans
spent five more dollars
for a extra large bucket
salty popcorn spilling over
and all I want now
is for the butter to last
to the bottom
Quiet Transformation
It is quiet
so quiet
deep in the darkest
recesses of the closet
where
on a white
plastic hanger
tucked deep
in the back
behind loudly
patterned jackets
blouses
vests and shirts
screaming their
polka-dots
paisleys
and stripes
the black dress
is silent
quiet
calm
so self controlled
with quiet optimism
just waiting
waiting
waiting
for her
to need
the power
it holds
in its simplicity
dark fibers
flowing softly
as her hands
smooth the
fabric of her skirt
she twirls
the mirror
catching
the magic
of transformation
with the flip
of her hem
from soccer mom
to goddess
the little black dress
shouts
The Seed
it started small
that tiny seed
a speck
in the palm of my hand
dropped to the ground
like dirt
onto a magnetic field
sparked with life
that plugs into the earth
and sunsets marked
the time that passed
with rain like tears
that wept
then wispy emergence
of a slim tendril twisting
climbing hair-like thread
coiling
around and around
attaching to the support
curling
and winding
like something warped
turning, bending
twirling
deeply entwined now
interwoven
like a spiral twisting
two ribbons of smoke
curved into their tendency
to grow together
ringlets and wood shavings
crests of breaking waves
maneuvering through the helix
looping through the vortex
a sinuous whirlpool
of lust
even with
your ring on mine
that succubus
has you tightly wrapped
around her little finger
When Dorothy Runs in Kansas
it is probably
just an old wives’ tale
that when you hear
the piercing cry
of the city’s alarm
warning you
of incoming disaster
you should
open the windows
to let out the pressure
before you run with
your dog, blanket, pillow,
and frightened kids
to the space under the stairs
when a tornado is about to hit
but when you came home
dropping the f-bomb
on our sweet children
for leaving their toys
blown like leaves
in the yard
I opened a window
just in case
the innocent line
between anger and fear
seen with poor visibility
on this turbulent day
is painfully crossed
again
Called to Service
time honored tradition
from father to son
a ritual repeated
the old lawnmower
red war paint faded
chipped and worn
was hunkered down
hiding in foxhole obscurity
unseen behind the ladder
and the wheel barrel
and the paint cans
where for the extended furlough
of the lonely winter
it rested from its battle wounds
finally freed from
its earthly toil
some thought it dead
but it was languishing
reliving as in a scrapbook page
with flakes of crusted grass
now black with time
clinging to its underside
a testament to its last
glory days of summer
where without exertion
it cut grass and roots
threw sticks and rocks
in sunshine skirmishes
causing parental warnings
sending little children screaming
from the mighty power
of its blades
old rusted then
the blades still spun
ready to cut off
any innocent child’s toe
so foolish as to be exposed
in a flip-flop thong
on a summer day
now kicked and tinkered
gas filled
oil checked
the mower
is spitting popping
a revolution of sputterings
leaking everywhere
exploding with anger or excitement
with every shoulder-popping pull
it desperately tries
to restart the fight
eager to battle
another day
Idle Hands
her hands
deeply furrowed lines
wring her knuckles dry
like wet flour sack towels
and twisted donuts
frying in lard
her hands
wrapped in yarn
more colorful
than her life
crocheted into patterns
too fancy to keep
her hands
nails singed yellow
from stoking the wood stove
with kindling split
her sunrise work
while children slept
her hands
on the seventh day
thankful in prayer
idle only
for the split second
they held onto the bead
Dark Centered Pansies
and momma hangs our quilt today
over the fence that gates our yard
and the velvety blocks of color
equal our pansies
as they breathe
our fresh northern air
and enter our pink house
through slanted storm shelter doors
step slowly on our spidered stairs
don’t smell the dankness
of our cement basement walls
come into a place
where no color
can live
and here our hands
if given courage
can reach into nowhere
through a hole in the darkness
created where concrete
fell like Jericho
in a crash
seven nights before
and imagination
takes a white child
off on a haunting journey
where black men snuck
into basements at night
on their way to freedom
and in the halls past rooms
where little children sleep
our shadow walkers roam
and dreams become
the tales of day
in a place
where no color
can live
NOTICE:
Grandfather gave me an empty
wooden Havana ten cent cigar box
with this label glued to the bottom:
Factory No. 25
18th District, STATE OF OHIO.
NOTICE.
The manufacturer of the cigars contained herein
has complied with all the requirements of the law.
Every person is cautioned not to use
either this box for cigars again
or the stamp thereon again,
nor to remove the contents of this box
without destroying said stamp,
under the penalties provided
by law in such cases.
So I guess I am safe
in using it these forty years hence
considering it does not hold cigars
but the fragmented collections
of the events in my life
worth keeping
providing they fit in the box.
Photos, ticket stubs, and significant
kicking rocks mingle memories with
my first communion scapular
the two small pieces of cloth
religious stamps
protected in plastic
a picture of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel on one
St. Simon Stock on the other
joined together with strings now faded
then worn over my shoulder and back underneath
my dress to signify my membership
in our Catholic church
a symbol of protection stronger than
warnings marked on a cigar box
Pray for us
as I remember
the sweetly sickening scent
of Grandpa’s cigar.
Fast Food
at sixteen she slowly walks
with a saunter and a slink
her head to the side
a curl
coquettishly covering an eye
almost further concealed by
the smokiest
of smoky-eye make-up
she smiles
a welcoming
eat me grin
that is supposed to resemble
the almost anorexic model
on page 67
of the Comso
her mother read
and tossed aside
her lashes flatteringly flutter
in the direction
of the group of soccer players
standing around after class
wearing Fighting Tigers colors
in the halls of their high school
and the boys did not fail to notice
her opening
just one more button
revealing
the full budding of her breasts
slipping ever so beyond
the requirements of the code
when a teacher goes by
and with mother eyes
in the back of her head
she passes the group
knowing full well
the meaning behind
the glances
the giggles
the grunting
and then with the silence
that only teachers speak
she sighs
and tips her head
with that look in her eye
the girl’s arms pressing quickly
her books to her chest
and her smoky-eyes now
offering an innocent question
the message is read and tossed aside
as the teacher moves on
to correct algebra quizzes
leaving the girl giggling
and the boys gut laughing
as they gather their backpacks
and head to their minimum jobs
definitely no labor of love
they learn to put on
the fakest of smiles
and with a curl of charbroiled
smoke stinging their eyes,
they sigh,
“Do you want fries with that?”
We Like Ice Cream
Car hop’s breasts
two luscious scoops
tempting tongue to taste
years not yet melting
ALL her skin.
My husband’s eyes
reading the menu
groaning a sigh
as one who hungers
GUILTY as sin.
My shoulder cold
with envy chilling
twisted cones ordered
with a whore-frost stare
His ice SO thin.
Hiding her chest
behind cream and cone
our backseat infant
demands all attention.
INNOCENT at the drive-in.
I’m Roasted
It started as an insignificant drop of anger
hotly thrown out critical and wild
the comment that began the madness
with barely a hint of intended insanity
like water on the spit grill escaping
reacting to its sizzling harsh heat.
Apparently, I can’t take the witty heat
and my volcanic reaction is anger
and I curse the night with words escaping
so sharp cutting and chicken cooking wild
the partygoers now know of my insanity
by the violent outburst of my irrational madness.
Ice cubes are grabbed to melt the madness
dripping stains onto my dress in this unbearable heat
like blood dripping in a headless chicken’s insanity
the life is twisted out of a wet rag in anger
but my actions are perceived by my guests as wild
and I feel trapped with no way of escaping.
The rag is now dry and no moisture is escaping
there is nothing to relieve this madness
and my cowardly husband’s fears are wild
when the thermometer is cracking 104 heat
and my swollen puffed hands are raised in anger
tying back my hair in frantic insanity.
Tearing hair where it clung with insanity
from my neck with featherlike wisps escaping
securing it with bands and pinned up in anger
trussing it firmly despite the madness
too limp and weak to stand in this heat
my hair is so wet and languidly wild.
The flames of the grill begin to burn wild
and while others are battling the charcoaled insanity
I use this distraction to flee from the heat
and not unlike a free-range chicken escaping
I run into the house with unrestrained madness
hurling a plate at my husband in anger.
I cry in my pillow with anger, the moisture of my tears so wild
I’m burnt by words spoken in madness, killed by his fowl insanity
For there is no escaping the lunacy of my husband’s heat.
haiku:
wash off fingerprints
emissary raccoon thief
steal nocturnal show
anti-haiku manifesto:
suppose you propose
reason for haiku treason
doesn’t have to rhyme
Triolet: Path Back
circling around and around on an endless loop
I am on the path to nowhere and everywhere
walking while thinking and trying to regroup
circling around and around on an endless loop
doing all I can to avoid a support group
over and over an internal questionnaire
circling around and around on an endless loop
I am on the path to nowhere and everywhere
Stigmata Never Heals
When I was small
my grandma always
greeted me
with her arms out wide
a pat on the head
and a cookie
cinnamon and sugared
and so it is surprising
that even though I loved her then
I betrayed her
on that day when
my mother needing comfort
asked for me to be with her
when she went through
the chest at the foot of the bed.
The cover was lifted
and the contents were revealed
all lovingly wrapped
in lace-edged cotton
tagged with the names
of the living
when I saw the statues
bronzed and heavy
Christ and the Virgin Mary
and I hid as I switched the tags.
My grandma lies sleeping
in her grave these twenty years
perhaps she has forgiven me
but when I look upon my mother’s shelf
to see Christ with his head bent down
and Mary arms out
in grandma’s way
the tender spot
rising from the pit
of my stomach
and lodging in my chest
is eating me
from the inside out
all cinnamon and sugared.
You Will Never See Eye-to-Eye With Your Family
There is nothing more annoying
than your little snotty brother
armed with a mischievous grin
and his eye on the sight of a squirt gun,
and there is nothing more dangerous
than your curious older sister
armed with a tiny silver key
and her eye on the location of your diary,
and there is nothing more frightening
than your ‘good intentions’ mother
armed with a sharp pair of scissors,
and her eye on your fly-away hair,
and there is nothing more intimidating
than your hovering protective father
armed with combat knowledge
and an eye on your nervous boyfriend,
and there is nothing more humiliating
than your sweet old grandmother
armed with your naked baby pictures
and an eye on your embarrassed date,
but there is nothing more special than prom.
Highschool Sweetheart
“The times they are a changing”
cliché as courtship
once performed with petals
chocolates
and father’s permission
now Brach’s conversation hearts:
“Get my drift”
“ILU”
“Email me”
love is spoken
not by two lips in intimacy
but in the number of hits
on facebook
or blogspot
and large red spots
on a clustrmap
XX (kiss, kiss)
The Teller
My quivering
choked up voice
admitted my failure
my divorce
to another stranger
who had to know
I felt the shame
of Catholic girl
gone bad
no chance for
everlasting redemption
my head bent down
when
“Congratulations”
she said with a genuine smile
as she handed me
the balance in my bank account
I looked up startled
with no reply
no concept of how
to make a smile
did she say what
I thought she said
confusion
so she repeated
“Congratulations”
and just then I wondered
if the pain of divorce
like the pain of childbirth
is forgotten when the next
hope for new life
comes along
Becoming Partners
The music is slow
languid and deep
fingertips climb spines
palms caressing curves
the dance allegretto
gradual
slow
clumsy foot tangles
toe touching toe
so slow.
The dance is languid
leisurely sighed
draping arms entwining
excite emotions
from our passions within
simmering
slow
fortune telling all
hand touching hand
so slow.
Steps poetic deep
tones to explore
with sensuous forms
and neither one knows
where the music will go
beguiling
slow
unwind tangled souls
heart touching heart
so slow.
The song is over
the room is hushed
hesitant footsteps
departing the hall
delayed secretive paths
evading
slow
unsure where we go
the two of us
so slow.
It’s What I See
I watch my feet scuffle
on the dusty road
crunching pebbles
kicking stones
and stepping up
on the sidewalk
where my mother’s back
is suddenly in peril
for I am angry
and it matters not
if she too can feel my pain
and so I two-footedly stomp
coming down with a thud
that isn’t much heard
but is felt in my shoulder blades
and it doesn’t help
the mood I am in
when the red tip of a cane
pokes it way onto my path
and I feel annoyed
by its presence
suddenly in my way
for the blind man
is walking confidently out
he is looking up
and he smiles
his greeting to me
but his aim is higher
a little above my scowl
and I regret my disability
for now with the anger
is added the guilt
because what can I have
to be angry about
for I see the blind man
looking up