I’m not my makeup
yet I draw
like child’s play
a path to find me
under my blood lip twists
and black brow turns
till the sidewalk of me
heaves
and the earth below
rises
as my dark desire
finds its joy
and double dares
the clouds to come.
Our shopping cart
has become
our walker
as the clouds
that cover us
get wispy,
and all our
yearnings
are falling
through,
so to perk up
that lonely meat,
we’ll need
a good
bottle of vodka.
Don’t try to change
my mind
like God changes
the wind
when he finds himself
lying on his stomach
on a lazy summer day
longing for clouds to billow
and twist like earthly balloons
into cotton-candy animals
and dream of far-away days
when all he had to worry about
was forming mud-pies
into imaginary children
who could be his friends
instead of today’s looming
clouds of destruction
that threaten to blow it all
away.
I Borrowed My Father’s Circular SawWhen I was young
my arms could curve
all the way to my father’s smile,
and his warmth encircled me
till I saw my dreams.
Then I turned my back
as I built my life,
eclipsing him into darkness,
yet I always knew where he was –
my ebb and flow of life.
Now the dimming stars
foretell his numbered days.
There seems no time to ask him,
“Can we extend our ladders
and demolish these growing clouds?”
The box spilled
its contents rolled
and grass and flowers grew
then trees with swings
and birds flew
beyond the buildings
to the clouds
till Mama said,
“Use different crayons.”
But I colored everything
a happy orange
until I knew
what black and blue meant
and put my colors
down.
(Inspiration from: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella – My Own Little Corner)
On the wings of my fancy
I can fly anywhere
and the world will
open its arms to me.
In my dreams I am floating
though the gossamer clouds
and the bird’s wings
flutter against my own.
My gauzy ribbons flowing
have braided as I twirl
and I cry out
frightened as I fall down.
‘Cause failing clouds can’t hold me
as I tumble to earth
and the bird’s squawks
keep ringing within my ear.
I’m hoping you will catch me
if I die in my sleep.
Will you hold me
more tenderly than soft clouds?
PROMPT 5: Write a poem about too much information.
Covers rolled over me
clouds billowed past
my distortion of day,
my mixing of night.
Dreams dropped the words
that slumber used to describe
my mixing of people,
my confusion of time.
Somewhere in the pillow
that holds my jumbled words
my poem was left in pieces,
my frustration wakes again.
I thought I would remember
all the feelings of the dream
my clarity of morning,
my forgetfulness of you.