Tag Archive | breath

8/18/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Before the Sheets Could Breathe

Before the Sheets Could Breathe

Our worries
tangled,
your heated
breath sighed,
and my fingers
sweat traced
condensation trails
when in a sudden
inhale,
I felt
my surging
rain of laughing
tears wash
us both away
in our cloud
of cotton.

6/24/ 2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Child’s Play

(From Poetic Bloomings prompt:  http://poeticbloomings.com/)

Child’s Play

I have blown my share
of tiny bubbles
sending them drifting off
to space,
yet not one of them
with my breath
could live a second more.

So when God
was done mixing up
the heavens and the earth,
I hope his mother
tenderly kissed his head,
and let him lick the spoon.

6/9/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Guillotine

(Writer’s Digest – 2nd Place Winner- Quatern Challenge 3/05/2012)

Guillotine

When your lips brush my yielding neck,
I remember why I should turn
away from all the sharpened words
that landed with a cutting edge.

Your warm breath tries to soften me
when your lips brush my yielding neck,
but I’m still stiff and suspended
above your pensive punishment.

Even though I reprimand you
as your strong arms coil around me,
when your lips brush my yielding neck,
you make me want to struggle less.

For I’ve been found guilty of love,
and if I have to bite my tongue,
I’ll forgive my shoulders dropping
when your lips brush my yielding neck.

6/03/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Only a Sigh

Only a Sigh

The dark summer night
hid their desire
till the stars came out
and kissed their skin.

Her breath came slowly
only a sigh
but he inhaled it
till it filled his soul.

The rhythm of the night
lulled her to sleep
and he blew out the stars
with only a sigh.

10/14/2011 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Sidewalking

Sidewalking

——————————————

Taken with a gasp,
our severing is swift,
even though my mother,
and I in my enlightenment,
saw the darkness coming.

——————————————

At first I jump.
‘Don’t step on the crack,’
but anger builds till my feet rejoice
in a double-footed cementing
breaking of my mother’s back.

——————————————

Then faith must carry us,
each to our own square
till we slowly stand alone
and set our worlds upright
allowing our breath to escape again.

——————————————

Then, head up, I walk
ignoring the cracks
down my own twisted path,
leaving my mother
perplexed at my pace.

——————————————

5/16/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Poetry at Bedtime

Cat

Poetry at Bedtime

A hundred and one things
compile today;
my back yields to the weight
of all of them.

Yet, my cat must be hugged.

My fingers deep,
press her close
till my breath slows
to her softening purrs.

Yet, my poem must be written
before I sleep.

Digging deep
I try to leave my mark
as blood is seeping
from her scratch on my thigh.

11/26/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Wallflowers Wither as They Wait

threadWallflowers Wither as They Wait

There has to be a time
when breaths will slip again
unnoticed
into a day of laughter,
but today I feel
every one.

I hold a thread
so thin
it is hard to imagine
that it can sew anything
together.

My needle goes in
and out
and in again,
my rhythmic movements
the only thing
I cling to.

If I close my eyes
I can see you
dancing barefoot
and all I want
is to kick off my shoes,
but pins are on my floor.

I will keep on stitching,
in and out
and in again,
my rhythmic movements
the only thing
I cling to.

9/27/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Blood is Thicker Than Water

I probably should not
have agreed to be a zombie
in my step-daughter’s movie
where home-made blood
was tossed on me
by the bucket full.

I have successfully washed
the blood off my clothes,
but on two separate shootings,
hoping for protection
in a back pocket of my jeans,
two innocent cell phones,
were killed
by drowning.

Zombie phones
don’t come back to life.
They die forever
doing Heavy Duty.

It’s okay to use two cans
and a lifeless string
to a call a friend
when you are young
and immortal,
but not so much
at 52.

Fortitude

Under my bedspread
thrown over a card table
with only room
for a pillow,
a blanket,
a box of crackers,
and me,
safety could still
squeeze in.

But I grew
and it became difficult
to keep my legs inside,
and so I stopped
hiding there.

I would go to Mom
who would hold me
and tell me
time and time again
that everything
would be alright,
and in my innocence,
I believed her.

Until sometime in adolescence
I came home from school
and discovered
my mother crying,
no place
to hide her tears.

I pulled my bedspread
off my bed,
climbed up next to her
and wrapped it around us
telling her it would be alright.

We were old enough
to know better.
She just continued to cry.

Even though nothing was more frightening,
there was no room
to shed my tears.

Armory

She is sock footed
in her pajamas
pulling a worn throw
over her shoulder
now curving
into the deepest
corner of the couch.

I take the deep breath
that she cannot
and reach into my arsenal
of aspirin,
and hot compresses,
thermometers,
chicken soup,
and cool wet rags
to lay upon her brow.

It is hard to watch my child cry,
her eyes pink and longing,
her fingers weak and airy,
a trail of tissues
in her slow wake.

She empties her eyes,
and only the arm of the couch
and I
are able to read the message
in the wet dots
she drops:

Fix me, Mom.

I sit next to her
my hand rubbing on her foot,
her eyes finally closing
in exhausted sleep.

We breathe.

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

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.

8/18/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections

Danger, Bill Robinson!

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.

Confessions of a Pastatarian

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.

Crotch Rocket Man

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.