I never
really learned
to swim
to ebb and flow
with confidence
in the deeper water
that couldn’t decide
which way to flow
and so I strapped on
plastic wings
and belly rings
trying to find a space
where boisterous laughter
and rigorous splashing
couldn’t float
upon me
on the surface
I would smile
a white facade
of cloudy calm
while all the while
my treading feet
were kicking,
kicking up
a storm.
Tag Archive | smile
4/29/2015 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – No One Likes Her Aspic Salad
No One Likes Her Aspic Salad
What she doesn’t know
is there’s only
a curvy carroty
snake-like hook
of an ‘s’
between mother
and smother
where a good spit clean
always lasts too long
like braids too tight
in starched underwear
while overheard praise
becomes a mocking taunt
and who ever invented
the ‘kid-on-a-leash’
should be forced
to smile at her
and eat it.
8/28/2011 – Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections – I Borrowed My Father’s Circular Saw
I Borrowed My Father’s Circular Saw
When 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?”
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.
8/20/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
Firefly
Her laughter followed her
as she ran at dusk
trapping a winged nocturnal beetle,
an excited firefly.
It glowed during its courtship
producing an intermittent light
from luminescent chemicals
in its abdominal organs.
Catch her smile today
in a clear glass jar,
and its radiance outshines
fireflies chased when she was small.
Her stomach flutters.
A light reflects on her hand
emitting a woman’s smile,
ready to fly into the arms of her love,
her new fiancé,
the man who finally trapped her.
7/31/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
Dinner Date
Meat is prepared in a variety of ways,
and the menu tantalized
with descriptions worthy
of a well written mystery novel,
leaving us both
unable to decide.
Then you smiled that appetizer curl
of your succulent lips
tempting me to want
what you had ready to serve,
leaving the waitress
an empty booth.
5/30/09 Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Reflections
Objects In Mirror
Are Closer Than They Appear
In the back seat
of our family car,
we are rolling up the windows
and complaining to dad
about the odor
coming from the cornfield
we are passing.
The farmer,
riding on his dusty John Deer,
is taking in the deepest
of breaths
sucking it all in
until he is tasting
the scent
of money
growing deep into
his fading pockets.
He can afford to smile
and wave at us
as we pinch our noses
and drive away.
Flatlined
There is a lifelong
debilitating disease
that artists suffer
causing them to abruptly wake
from a sound sleep
as if from an electric shock
with their shifting eyes thinking
resting on nothing in the blackness
until they frantically
reach for the notepad
and pre-sharpened pencil
on the nightstand.
The ability to write
without seeing the line,
a compelling genetic defect,
is causing them to break
from the rest of night
to rise with their thoughts
before the dawn’s activity
can flood them away.
Their lovers have come
to follow in their wake
turning off curling irons
and moving pots off the stove
where interruptions
have carried them away
drowned in thought.
Burnt Sienna
When she was small
and picked up her crayons
the 64 box
held all the colors
she needed.
And my Crayola girl
colored in magenta
vibrant and lively
bubbling with the laughter
that painted her mood.
And gray was bypassed then
for sepia and raw umber
when forceful scribbling
was needed.
So there is no surprise now
when her nights
are marked in black and white
with no way to erase
the mistakes of the day.
If she had been playing
with an Etch-a-sketch,
she might have learned
to turn her troubles over
and shake them away.