Thousands
of mornings
have started the same
where you sleep warm
and yet
I rise
the quiet day
nudging me
with gentle thoughts
forcefully pulling
my covers off
and yet
I don’t feel
like rhyming today
where rules
must count
and lines
be broken
so the naked
truth
must spill
or spray
or drip
and dry
until my secret’s
clean
and the mist
of it
forms in the steam
and yet again
I trace
my heart
on the mirror
cold
while in your dreams
you must decide
if you’ll wake
in time
to see.
Tag Archive | cold
Ebony or Ivory
4/10/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – How He Served Cold Tea
How He Served Cold Tea
Her eyes held
the same contempt.
Their reflections
mired in the puddle,
her pollen filled words
landing on his back,
and he brushed them off
like a discarded book
jacket.
No amount
of tugging
them around herself
could warm her
as he crushed
a wet cigarette
beneath his boot,
and she felt
her insides
discolor the rain.
4/3/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Small Engine Repair
Small Engine Repair
And you thought
I had a screw loose.
Your cutting words
twisted
dormant
in the cold.
It seems
too simple
now that they’re exposed.
You might want
to pick up
the pieces.
Or I’ll figure out
where they really go.
And let the mower
have its way.
12/20/2012 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Writer’s Digest TOP 25!
I am VERY PROUD to announce that my poem ‘Plum Crazy’ was listed in the TOP 25 poems during the 2012 Poetic Aside’s April PAD Challenge! (Hundreds of poets and thousands of submissions!)
Plum Crazy
William Carlos Williams
was lucky.
He had a forgiving partner
who was able to imagine
the delicious, sweet
and so cold plums
and settle for flakes
that probably weren’t so
forgiving
and quickly limped
into a soggy mess.
And even though
his apology was so
cleverly written that it is still
read and reread
long after iceboxes
have turned into Frigidaire’s,
I would have smacked him
with a frozen leg of lamb.
Forgive me,
I am so cold.
Leaving the Fight
Warm drips melt
on my shoulders
falling down my arms
like dappled leaves
gently spilling sunshine.
Warmth can’t be cupped
cold and hard
like snowballs
forming a sheltering fort
to challenge you from.
Summer, you vixen,
my long distance love,
you have teased me again.
I ache for your taste,
your heat on my tongue.
1/23/10 Guest Poet: Melanie Bishop
Guest Poet: Melanie Bishop
Poet, living and writing in NYC, sharing her work on her blog: Cassiopeia Rises
Behind Your Eyes
look, look deep into your eyes
behind the color blue
______rimed with darkness
a nebula world, one few know
few care, few will ever see
in twilight, your eyes open
letting in the nights shadows
_______shadows that fill you
shadows that complete you
weaving webs of deceit and fear
beware the dimly lit paths
aglow around you, drawing, pulling
_______like spirit lights on the moors
we will suck you dry and snatch your soul
no second chance, no escape
Extreme
extreme sadness
____heart empties
into river of tears
hardens
as your face fades
nothing, nothing left,nothing
no you ,no us
_____alone with
just shadows of where you once were
Deja Vu…..
old creaking joints
skin drawn tight
across skinny bones
lips once soft, smooth
pulled slightly apart
reveal yellowed teeth
hideous form caught in time
indurated, it blinks while dreaming
of tea party’s and lacy pink dresses
feeble, mind dull, it stops and grins again
my face, it’s face slid from it’s once firm place
a face that shadows me
useless, feeble, slow when once I know
yes, once I know I ran deer footed
and laughed, laughed out loud
when once I wore those lacy pink dresses
and danced the night away
trailing soft summer flowers
Fleeting
fleeting are our days
count count the hours as they pass
petals drop fore lorn
Bag Lady
Bags tied to an old cart
Again and again she stops
Garbage her only friend
Lonely and homeless
Agatha walks on unknown
Day after day seeking cover from the cold
Yielding in the end to the ice and snow
Did I Forget
did I remember to forget your kiss
drinking while softly singing your song
did I run out in the rain, too late
where now nothing but silent shadows remain
will you fade from my heart full of pain
Contact Melanie at:
10/15/09 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Man a C ured; Mittens on a String
Man a C ured
Her thumbs whitened
white pressure spots
against her fist,
a contrast to the hot red
polish of her anger
toward him.
Four curved ‘C’s
lined up in her palm
the compression
of her fingernails,
the only order
her balled fists offered
to hide the
C allous,
C old,
C ruel,
C haos of her frustration.
When she C hipped
a nail,
he was smart enough
to run.
Mittens On a String
Cold winter winds
struck my forehead
sending me backwards,
mittens covering
what they could.
I learned a toe-heal
crunching loud boot step
that tested the path
I could not see,
until insecurity won
and I had to face the bitterness.
Feet forward now
I am walking
with my eyes open
as far as they go
without making myself
look like a character
in a bad B-movie
reacting to a ghostly
apparition.
Yet, I stumble again
walking where I shouldn’t go,
my mouth
leading me down
a bitter path
of pain
that cut my cord
to Momma.
My mittens
hold no solace.
9/05/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
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?