I grieve
for the loss
of a mother’s
embrace
the kiss
on the forehead
the rest
of a rough hand
on my shoulder
the bristled edges
of a corrective
rebuke
where shouts
to get out
disguise
her desire
that the sun
will heal me
hold me
warm me
kiss me gently
when she
can not.
Tag Archive | kiss
6/17/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Whether Vain
Whether Vain
I wake today
with the seed
of a fertile memory
and hope
the morning’s
translucent sun
will dance
its laughter
upon my tears
swirling
like a whirligig
and lift it
as leaves
in an October
breeze
upward to kiss
the branch that
wisely let go
yet the haunting
dreams that colored
my damp pillow
and clung the bits
of mixed emotions
into my tousled hair
can’t be brushed
away
4/10/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – How to Kiss a Baby
How to Kiss a Baby
Her grasping fingers
pull you in
till closed eyes
absorb
the powdery
fear
that bullies
might torment her
if that rose petal nose
should ever grow
to match yours
so let
that tear
linger on your lips
and taste
the injustice
of the lover
who could ever
hook her
with thorny promises
then leave her
sobbing
dab and
dawdle
lip to rosy skin
until you realize
she’ll always be
too innocent
to tell you
that you just
did it wrong.
11/13/2011 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Red Light, Green Light
Red Light, Green Light
There is a spot on my neck
that tickles when you kiss it
and I have to giggle
and turn away from you.
Stop that.
I need you to find the place
that calms when you kiss it
and I have to moan
and turn here into you.
Start that.
10/12/2011 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Bowl Full of No Thanks
4/27/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Spring Deluge
(Many of you know that I have not been in the best of health for over a month. I am now on a medical leave, hoping for less stress, and more healing. Thank you for your patience. I appreciate those of you who I see still coming back.)
Clouded
Spring brings the deluge,
the pouring of sky’s soul.
Here I drip
many days’ deluge
finally feeling
ready to fall.
Watering Can
Eyes blurred,
I planted iris bulbs
crooked.
First shoots,
curved leaves leaned,
proved my pain.
Yet today’s stem
of tomorrow’s flower –
straight up.
Straight down,
a pint of past beauty,
for a bud of hope.
Screams Drift Up
Only her eyes moved,
darting back and forth,
my god, oh, my god.
His eyes open,
starring into the sky;
she knew him, dead.
They took him
in hushed tones;
she alone on the hill.
Her screams bent
allowing no words,
just agony.
Her body curled
sobbing with her softly,
then gut wrenching.
He took her life.
Even her pockets
were empty.
Push Me, Pull Me
I have reached for the tissues
more than five times
and the pile of my agony
still grows.
Tomorrow I will pick them up
and toss them in the trash,
but today the floor
is where my heart
will lay.
Somewhere around
tissue eight or nine,
anger will come out of the box
and I will cry
no more.
The Concert is Canceled
I have never been a fan of singers
whose voices lift
the spirits of thousands.
And, Wind,
I am no fan of yours.
You roll my child’s ball
making her run
far away from me.
You curl my shoulders,teasingly tossing my hair
to obstruct my view.
Every second I have lost
from seeing
my sweet child’s face
in playful laughter
can not be returned.
Wind,
do not sing
your beguiling song here.
The price you charge,
too high.
Thanks For Letting Me Know
Darkness hid every drop
of rain that evening.
I could hear only
the tiny pings on the roof.
I felt the heaviness
of pressured air.
There was no line
between day and night,
between calm conversation
and drips of cutting cynical words.
Unwarned came the torrents,
the angry cry of clouds.
Finally, when it returned to a drizzle,
soft and steady,
the rain became my comfort
as you went out the door.
The Night Hid the Fog
They all stood on this hill,
stomachs hungry
for more than the rinds
of day old bread.
Yet their voices are lost,
wispy like dying fires
after the dead coals
are stomped and ground.
We have not feed them,
filled their need,
while our own greed
has stolen their future.
Children can not play,
innocent in their day
when the sun only makes
cross shadows on the hill.
Trying to Find Myself
My large kitchen spoon
bent too easily
as I tried to dig
to China.
The top soil
was thin,
so thin,
barely covering
the rock below.
My mom
wasn’t impressed
by my efforts then.
I just kept
on digging.
According to Me
Please keep
those tasty,
tempting,
tantalizing,
thesaurus teasing
bites of you
in this place where
I devour them.
According to me
it is easier
to fight
the robot codes
that to fight
my weight.
I will be
the Biggest Loser
if you bail and post
where I can’t
read your words.
Do I Blame the Squirrel or Rabbit?
Yesterday, there was one leaf,
green and growing strong.
It was the promise
of one tulip,
the mystery
of its color,
red,
yellow,
pink,
growing by the base
of my tree.
Today,
chewed off, again.
Just like last year.
I could blame
Princess,
my white squirrel
who circus walks the top
of our cedar fence.
I could blame
the rabbit,
who doesn’t deserve
a name,
chewing his door in the bottom
of our cedar fence.
Or I could blame
the fence.
Selfishly
holding back
this year’s view
of the carried,
buried treasure
of my neighbor’s
tulip bulbs.
Sr. Mary Aloysius
Sr. Mary Aloysius,
fingers sliding
over pearlized beads,
keys jingling
in an unseen pocket,
bends down
to tie her black shoes tight.
Then a quieting finger
covers her thin lips.
She points to God
who apparently
was still looking
down
on us
even though we had already checked
our laces
and our manners.
I wanted to say
she was making more noise
than us,
but little girls
wearing tissues
for our missing chapel caps
already had enough
To Remember the Day
Somewhere around fifty
our brains shifted
from abstract thinking
about the events
of the day,
who is going where
and what they’re going to do,
to the minute details
of puss oozing
from our ears
and sciatic nerve damage
that radiates down our legs.
To remember the day
that meds our should be increased
while calculating
the effort needed
to climb a flight of stairs,
we need to shift
our creaking bones
to a place where we
remember the day
when we were too young
to care that we’d grow old.
Two Scoops
Just when I think
I know it all,
the electrifying
realization
of your 2 to 1 ratio,
proves, once again,
the magnetism
between my spoon
and a quart of frozen custard
is justifiably intensified
by the viscosity
of my tears
and the volume
of her breasts.
Two Wrongs
Global warming,
earth’s demise,
heating arguments
conflicting
with knowledge
we all insist
is true.
Scientists can’t cool
the fiery tempers
of melting icebergs
and angst filled teenagers,
floating soul sisters,
colliding
and damaging
their sinking feelings
hidden
below.
He Knew That I Cut Snowflakes
He is thirteen
seen forever
by sensitive souls
who pass his hillside,
who hear his muffled
cry.
Scissors.
Duck tape
wrapped around
his mouth
his nose,
his eyes alone
cry.
Scissors.
I drive on,
no scissors
in my car,
my radio,
just a little louder.
Even Solomon Loved a Sale
A piece of paper,
value kept,
worth
fifty percent off
any number
of items
needed,
desperately
needed,
has now died,
died,
an untimely death
with the flipping
of the calendar.
Expired.
Hoarders lament,
tearing their treasure,
each half
now fifty percent
of nothing.
Hairball Island
Only an old cat
can chuck up
a hairball,
stringy,
stinky,
slippery,
that floats
like an island
in a sea of slime.
Only me
left to wipe it up.
That old cat
and I
ebb and flow
with my paper towels
and his rough tongued kiss.
A Spare Tire was in the Back
Wheels spun,
rolling down the road,
screeched us to a halt.
Time was my enemy of love,
held a hand up,
prevented our crossing.
No opportunity
to look both ways,
longingly down the road.
Then my heavy breasts,
filled past love’s capacity,
rested before they got home.
Damn flat.
Washburn
Chequamegon Bay
quiet as the foaming
washing of rocks,
slow as applebutter
spread on toast.
Where lupines wave
their purple spires
giving seed to
crumbling
sandstone churches.
Barren blueberries
dust of pine
buckets of smelt
batter dipped
and fried.
Then brandy slush
it all till snow
covers the land
marking my trail
home.
A Writer’s Fear
Anticipating adrenaline’s rush
mingled with salty popcorn,
the script,
the first sacrificial victim,
heavy in the weight
of the writer’s agonizing
choice of words
falls
to its live or die
ending
with the first reader’s
ominous words:
“I don’t get it.”
4/04/10 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – Reflection
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:
9/04/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
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.
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.