Walking and Watching

It is good to go on a walk
past the house of a high school friend
and see each window lit up,
tall rectangles of warmth in the gray evening --
snow and sky and siding --
someone in each room,
wrapping presents.
I can picture him and his family.
It's Christmas Eve.

It is good to watch a snowflake
for the last five feet of its life,
pulled into the pavement or onto the lawn,
joining fellow flakes and losing shape.
"The death of individualism," I think.
It saddens me, and I remember holocausts
I survived secondhand, flipping the pages
to discover my own chance survival.
How many snowflakes died each day
during the Holocaust?
And yet the end of their flight
is the cause for my joy,
piles of snow I can lie in
tomorrow, when
it's Christmas Day.

Birds for Windows

The birds have the truth,
carry it on their wings to their death
brought on by the advanced technology
of cleaning products,
which make windows and glass doors
completely transparent,
a trait worth paying for,
apparently,
or no one would ever upgrade their Windex.
But they do,
sealing the doom of the winged.
And after the impact of Bird and Windexed window,
someone -- a boy in a flannel shirt with one pant leg rolled up,
the right leg -- finds the body
and endeavors to preserve it.
Borax and scalpel in a wooden box
covered with national pride,
a red and blue flag papered on the inside.
Ironic ownership for a Mennonite taxidermist.
He pinches, pries, with long and beautiful fingers
blue eyes. Peels back the skin, looking for truth,
but it isn't there.
It is the part of them that no longer lives post-Windex impact,
the part you heard from the corner of your ear
outside a window at night --
Nightingale, sing us a song
of a love that once belonged --
singing truth as you fell asleep.
The birds know, but they're dying
for the sake of transparent windows
and doors.

Fountain

I ran away with all your love --
filled my pockets,
cupped my hands to catch it,
poured what I could
in the curls of my hair
and my morning, afternoon,
and evening mug --
"Call Your Mother"
it says.

You laughed at me,
playing in the arc and splash
of your love,
like the children
who play in the fountain
in the Park on Queen Street
in the summers,
the ones we said
we wanted to be like.

and then I ran --
mug and pockets and hair
arms and eyes
full of what you gave so freely.

The Evolution of God

Shadow in a speckled wood

Rustle of the leaves

These that haunt the hunting man

keeping safe his seed.

Under-haunted, unbelieving

taken by surprise –

the brother of the man who lived

and gave us El Shaddai.

Pages, pens, and ink away

Israel’s story thrives

Learned people hunting hist’ry

For the reasons why –

Shadow in a speckled wood

Rustle of the leaves

These that haunt the hunting man

keeping safe his seed.

Sleepover (4/30)

Pillowed heads

side-by-side in bed

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see 

with the lights out.

Bare feet

poking out from the sheets

that cover the bed

with the pillowed heads

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see

with the lights out.

Unquiet minds

that speak whispers 

and rustle the blinds

beside the bare feet

that poke out from the sheets

that cover the bed 

with the pillowed heads

in the corner room

with the ochre walls

that you can't see 

with the lights out.

Scene from an Auction (4/29)

75 and now 80
80 dollars and we're onto
90! 90 dollars from the lady in the back.
And now who'll give me 95?
90 dollars now going at 95
95,
90 dollars and now 95,
do I see 95?
90 dollars and now
95! 95?
Sold! for 90 dollars!
and your number is...
11, number 11

Study Break Poems (4/26 - 4/28)

Finals week proved to be the hardest week for me in April's poetry challenge. Instead of taking my 11:30-12pm block of time for poetry writing, I started taking advantage of small study brain farts and moments of exasperation. When such a moment crept upon me, out of the books and papers strewn about me, I would lean over to the wall beside me, and make a magnetic poem. These poems were use small collections of words, like the ones you see below. Usually, the words were close together, so all I really had to do was push them into form with my pointer finger (Things have to be simple during finals week. Anything passed simple is strictly overwhelming.) And so, without further introduction, I present to you, my simple (and semi-humorous) magnetic poetry.

 

Re(as)semble

Everything here feels like a beginning.
It's a new season,
and love is growing on the trees.
I feel an excitement inside me
building to something,
a climax --
but only we drive forward
to separation --
Turn, turn, turn.

What strange tossing in a familiar sea.
In and out of water
re-learning how to breath.
I feel an excitement growing inside me
building to something
a tsunami --
but only we swim forward
to separ-
ation.
Turn, turn, turn.

The long awaited vista is peaking
out from behind this mountain
asking to be seen.
I feel an excitement growing inside me
building to something
a mountain peak --
but only we climb onward
to separation.
Turn

Juice

This is how a poem looks
the night before a final exam:




Time for bed.

Red and Whites

It's a Tuesday night,
street lights been on,
buzzin'
loud as shit.
I'm on my street corner
'cause that's where I go
Tuesdays.
I'm just smokin'
my last three Red and Whites
'cause I save 'em --
I save 'em Tuesdays
s'I can smoke 'em here
and by the time they's all gone,
I know Tuesday's too.
Why I come here
is what most people demand.
"Get your ass home man,"
they tell me.
Guess you stop appreciatin'
street corners
when they's more like a bed --
more like a dinner table
more like a place of business
than a thinkin' spot.
Man, I don't really have reason
to be here tonight
on Tuesday
chose it pretty arbitrarily.
I just like settin'
and thinkin' with my three
Red and Whites.
Maybe I wanna watch people,
ya know?
Maybe I just wanna feel
like a part of the city --
part of the street
and not the streets,
like I belong
much as this bench
I worn in
belongs on this corner.

Room of Squares

There were once entire afternoons

that I spent sprawled across my bed,

staring at the star shaped reflection of my body

in the round glass light fixture above my bed, 

crooked

because I once hit it with my towel

on the way to the shower,

flailing, trying to fend off a large mosquito.

Sisters

Today I thought of Sarah's
day-of-the-week underpants.
How she liked to show them off,
proud to know which day it was
and proud of the fact
that she didn't have to remember
which day it was
because it was printed on her underpants.

Today I thought of the way
that Jenna did my hair
on the first day of 7th grade.
She gave me a scarf to borrow
and pulled it through my belt loops,
paired it with a blue shirt
(also hers)
and fixed my hair
in a smooth swoop
off to the side,
how I caught my reflection in the
framed wall hangings
and the glass doors that day.
I thought I was the most beautiful 7th grader
maybe ever.

Today I thought of Mom
and how I cried for a long time --
over days and months
and maybe several hours all at once
on one occasion,
sobbing about the absence of love
even though she was
holding me,
"Becky-pie,"
how what I didn't think I could feel then
is what I remember now.

Today I thought of all the times
Sarah asked me,
"Hey Becca,
wanna sleep in my bed tonight?"
how I said no most of the time,
because she had cold feet.
How, when I did agree,
she'd talk until it probably
wasn't worth it anymore
to fall asleep,
And how I wouldn't admit she was brilliant
until I missed her more
than I wanted to be the one that was brilliant.

And I miss the way she wore
day-of-the-week underwear.

85 Degrees

Probably no one ever dies on days

when it's 85 degrees outside

and the sun is so close, 

you can almost catch it's rays

on your tongue like snow. 

But maybe farmers,

who have been waiting for rain

all spring long,

die inside  

when it's 85 degrees

and the sun is on their tongue 

instead of rain. 

Probably no one ever dies.

I don't know...

no one should die today

when it's 85

degrees outside

Critic of the Night

Lynne tells us "The audience
     is stupid."
"You really have to knock them
     over the head with it.
They don't know this music
     the way you do.
So you have to show them what you've found."

Lynne tells us that we sound
     like robots.
"Hey! You got through it!
    but that's the easy part, yeah?
Give it some life! You've mastered the technical
    now add the emotion.
And
    that's the part that's really difficult.
It's easy to robot right through it,
     yeah?"

So I knock the music out of the violin
    and I swell to the highest note
    like my true love is dying.
"Even more!"
    she yells, smiling and nodding
    at me as my bow flies
    and my fingers prance.
I feel like a clown, as I overemphasize each note
    each dynamic, each accent, each cadence.
But where did I get the idea
    that playing well is embarrassing?

And now, as I listen to my peers,
    trying to make music with their words,
I wish that Lynne were here.
"Louder!"
"Surprise me! Where is the emotion?
I don't know this piece,
you have to show it to me.
Can you try that again?
   Yeah, just one more time so I can hear it.
Yep, that's it. Now let's do it again.
More!
That's great. Can you do even more?
Yeah,
     even more."

It's not even about the words,
     when you're reading.
Just like it's not about the notes,
     when you're playing.
It's about how you play them.
It's about how you deliver them.
If you're not yelling the angry words that
     your character is thinking,
why should I believe you
when you tell me he's angry.
If you aren't almost crying
     when Ramona's true love is dying
how can you expect me to cry?

Lynne tells us "The audience
    is stupid."
And if that's true,
    then I guess, tonight,
that makes me a critic.

   

Late Haiku

Nineteen minutes late
Because of dirty dishes
Two poems today

Banter in my bedroom

Banter in my bedroom
Prattle between two women,
my sister and my mother.
"The Lemon Zinger's not even open yet!"
"Well what the world."
And goldfish aplenty
passed back and forth
between them.
"Are you looking for inspiration or something?"
Yes.

Room

What it's like to live in a room you don't own:
It's like finishing off a glass of iced tea
and realizing you drank the backwash
of the kid sitting next to you.
It's like decorating a Christmas tree perfectly
and watching the Grinch take it from your living room.
It's like hurting somebody's feelings
and knowing each time you see them
that you were never forgiven.
It's the moment when your handlebars start to shake
and you know that shortly
you will fall off your bike.
What it's like to live in a room you don't own:
It's like not having a home.

Story of a Celiac

Today I ate a piece of bread
It smelled so good
but now my shit is red.

The bread baby was kicking
whilest my saucy fingers
I was licking.

Auf's klo! Auf's klo!
Toilet paper
there was no more

Dreamlessly I lie awake
regretting the bread
I dared to take.

The Old Fish Mufasa

Things are better for Laura
now that Mufasa is living in the lounge.

She still feeds him several pellets a day,
too many,
according to the instructions.
They, the instructions being they,
also say
that over-eating
causes death
in Mufasa-fish.

She might be spiteful.

Such a perverted way to take a life --
She thinks she may remember hearing
once, at a reunion on her mother's side
or was it a dinner with a cousin
come to visit,
that her family
descended from an undocumented
bastard child,
the product of a drunken Egdar Allen Poe.
And now,
as she feeds Mufasa to death -- smiling and cooing at him,
she knows that it must be true.
They say that ancestry
starts to shine through at this age,
don't they?

        %%%%

You have to recognize,                  
she tells herself,
when a relationships is simply
detrimental
to you and your mental health.
Who knows,
if she had not removed him from her room,
he may have become physically abusive as well.
Maybe he was hiding shark's teeth
in that tiny sucking
circle mouth,
so small
that they could pierce human skin without ever triggering a nerve
to tell the brain to send a message saying,
"Pain! Pain in the finger that Mufasa is secretly biting!"
His biting would of course be
disguised as kisses.
And his microscopic shark teeth,
laced with poison,
would easily take her innocent finger
victim!
So unassuming,
so ready to believe in love!
"What a tragedy,"
they would say at the funeral.
And after the tear streaked faces
empty the church,
her mother would rush home
to find that damned Mufasa
and fry him to a crisp!
seasoning him with her tears.

Furthermore,
you have to know
how to protect yourself.
(And here she starts to feel quite proud --
her chest might puff out slightly, but they don't notice --
proud of how much better she is feeling
now that Mufasa,
the betta-fish,
is no longer angry-eyeing her back
as she types on her keyboard
or cuts with her scissors
or draws with her pencils.)
How to skillfully defuse the aggressor.
In this case,
I simply removed him,
she tells her imaginary patients,
in for their afternoon group counseling session.
They take note of it
on their lined yellow notepads.
"How to defuse aggressor:
      *remove"

She smiles at them
and they nod and smile back,
acknowledging her great wisdom,
knowing that they got every penny's worth
of the money that they paid
to see the great
Laura Ellen Poe.
No! that won't do as a doctor's name,
"Bad for business, I'm afraid"
business Laura tells the doctor.

She leans back in her chair,
wondering about good doctor names.
They must get more business!
she concludes.
And someone must have studied this.
She swivels to face her laptop,
where the answer to everything
waits to be found.
But before she has figured out how to fill the Google box
for this particular search,
she smiles, realizing that she is finally free
to play again.
Who needs friends like Mufasa anyway?

Yes things are better for Laura
now that Mufasa is living in the lounge.

Rosie

I've got a pocket full of change,
but I don't want to.
And you,
you've got a pocket full of empty
hands.
Here we stand.

Winds that take and toss my hair
Does it look alright to you?
You don't care.
Hands in your pockets
empty stare.

I've got a pocket full of change,
but I don't want to.
And you,
you've got a pocket full of empty
hands.
Here we stand.

Always wondered what those hands would hold
most days you're too scared
or it's too cold
empty hands in your pockets

I've got a pocket full of change,
but I don't want to.
And you,
you've got a pocket full of empty
hands.
Here we stand.

The New Fish, Mufasa

All that she can think about today

is fish. 

It's not a good enough reason

to skip class --

for most people,

but anything is a reason to skip

when you're Laura. 

She sits on her stool,

perched at eye level 

with the Betta,

Mufasa. 

He looks terribly angry!

What an unfortunate configuration

for a face.

Then again, 

he is only a fish,

and there are no other fish for him 

to impress.

Why not have an unfortunately configured face
if you're going to be alone?

Oh, it's not so bad really.

Someone would love him.
probably.

Maybe she should buy him a mate.

Mail order bride

for the fish,

Mufasa!

Ha! That makes her laugh.

When she pokes her finger into the water

for him to come 

and kiss

with his fish lips

as, she's told, fish do,

he convulses,

hitting glass and splashing water.

Could it have been real anger 

in his eyes?

He's only a fish.

       %%%%

You would not believe 

how hurtful

the darting spastic 

movement of a fish

can be. 

Laura is embarrassed by 

Mufasa's rejection

of her pinky finger.

She returns to her desk,

back to

Mufasa

so that she can't see him.

        %%%%

If you talk to plants,

it's said 

that they'll grow.

Laura believes, it is the plant's 

way of expressing love.

Perhaps a fish can show love too.

And perhaps Mufasa will learn to love

if she talks to him

the way she talks to her plants.

So Laura tries,

nervous --

Talking is hard enough with people...

After the awkwardness 

of the first broken silence is over,

she begins to enjoy it. 

No excessive nodding, needless smiles

"Uh-huh"s and "Mmm-hmm"s 

from a fish.

He just floats,

almost transfixed.

She sings to

Mufasa,

songs from Sunday school,

long forgotten

somehow surfacing again

provoked by her tender feelings

toward the fish,

Mufasa.

He swims towards her

a little

from his previous spot,

plastered against the wall of the tank

furthest from her.

She smiles.

He plasters himself back to the wall

refusing to look at her again.

How dare she think

that a few songs

will win the friendship

of Mufasa!

"This has been good."
She stands
ready to walk back
to her desk.

"We'll talk again soon,"

and she leaves him

for today.

Magellan's Truth

I love you to the ends of the earth,

which --

there are not.

My love for you with no end,

like the circling

spherical constant curve

of our planet,

in every direction,

bringing you back to the start,

to the heart,

without fail.

Like the cycle of blood --

out through my arteries

back through my veins

to my heart

like the quickening completion

of each beat's circulation

when your fingertips brush against me

unexpectedly

This is how I love you --

Again

and again

to the earth's ends,

which are not.

Tonight I Had to Study

Homework
sucks the fun
out of life.
So many poems
that will never
be
...
so much poetry.
Homework
sucks the fun
out of everything.

Homework
sucks the life
out of fun.
So many times
I will never
enjoy
...
so much anxiety.
Homework
sucks the life
out of fun.

Found in the Attic

Denim bag with a flannel flap

as big as my hand

strung on a strap.

I once had a coat of denim

that matched.

Brass snapping buttons,

red flannel neck.

I hated that coat

how it puffed,

like my hair

how it made me so big --

but my mom made me wear 

it.

Denim purse with a brass zipper

closes and opens

to hid my small treasure,

a wallet with slots

where the swipee cards fit

and each fabric pocket

has a card in it.

Five colored cards

all plastic and sleek

"Leola Family Pool - 2003"

Denim purse with a small red bow

that matched the big puffy coat

that I hated

that hid the treasured wallet 

that I loved

that held cards that bought

doll clothes and food

from fake stores.

And still I treasure these things

I only wish

that my plastic cards

could buy me more memories

like these.

Tied

We love
with noses
buried in shirt collars,
fingers
playing on the fringes
of new haircuts.
We love
with arms
encircling shoulders
chests
and stomachs
voices
whispering and whistling
clandestine words.
We love
with tears
on shirt sleeves
fingers
pilling at the fringes
of love.

Unknown

They decided that instead of a half-way house

Grandma could have me.

I woke up this morning under her NASCAR blanket. 

No clock in the wood paneled basement,

but I know it's 7. 

You don't break a year of routine 

in one day. 

She shows me where the Cinnamon Toast Crunch is kept.

I find the bowl myself, and she finds for me the soy milk.

As long as I know she is watching, 

I find ways to avoid pouring the Silk into my bowl.

When she leaves to hang the laundry, 

I put the carton back in the refridge,

and begin picking cinnamon squares out of the bowl

to eat dry.

I cancel my plans for a shower and make a mental note

to avoid the bathroom,

where her lipsticks, shadows, lotions, and creams

sit around the sink, staring me down.

Staring at me as I beg my bladder

to empty itself faster, so that we can escape our audience.

"Hardly anything there!" "I'll bet 

he's never been with a woman." "No, it's not much

to look at,"

the bottles of body lotion giggle. 

I hurry with the button, the fly,

concealing my small manhood

in shame.  

I've dressed and awkwardly situated myself in the blue Lazy Boy

by the time that Grandma comes back inside. 

She looks at her reflection in the microwave,
guiding the fake blonde curls back into their place,

before acknowledging me.
I wonder if I should say something.

Then she grabs the car keys off a hook on the wall
and raises her penciled in eyebrows at me,.
The blue shadow sparkles in contrast to her dull eyes. 

"Groceries," she informs me. 

Trailing Grandma in her grey sweat pants, I walk through the automatic doors

and am reintroduced into the world,

passing shoppers each on their own individual missions.

Produce, canned fruits, sauces, noodles, and crackers fill the cart.

As she waits for the apron and hair net 

to bag her quarter pound of chipped smoked ham,

I survey the selection of bread,
lagging behind the cart and the meat conversation.
A head of red, ears pierced with peace signs

brushes against my arm.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I didn't see you there, sorry."

My mouth produces these words and multiple variations on them rapidly.

I hold my hands up and then smile to show my sincerity,

probably a little over the top for bumping shoulders 

at the grocery store,

but I'm happy to be out and even happier to see people,

going about their usual business,

unaware of who I am 

or who I was.

Size Media

From the back of a studio theater,

a camera pans in over an audience of women,

It starts from the left 

and sweeps over colorful silky 

product infused hair

to the stage,

where a plush armchair and matching love seat

sit, facing each other.

The panning is accompanied by the sound of applause

and the whooping of the audience women

as the host makes her way out onto the stage,

looking infinitely more attractive

than any other woman selected 

to be in the audience. 

The camera singles in on her,

and she introduces the show

with zest that takes the form of smiles

and rehearsed laughter.

The women in the audience burst in 

with applause at the appropriate points of excitement.

"So Shelby, you're here with us today

to tell us about how you turned your life around.

Two years ago,

you said to yourself --

Something's gotta give. 

Why don't you tell us about it."

"Well Kate, 

two years ago, 

I weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds.

I was embarrassed and uncomfortable in my body,

*a picture of Shelby in a pair of size 22 jeans appears 

on the screen, the audience of women sighs with sympathy or is it pity?*

and I knew I wasn't setting the example that I wanted to 

for my children.

One day, after picking up the kids from daycare,

as I was trying to carry their backpacks and finger paintings

inside from the car, I decided that I was going to do something

about my weight.

Since then, I've lost over one hundred pounds."

*a picture of Shelby holding up her old jeans appears next to the old picture.

The audience bursts into enthusiastic applause*

Kate nods, smiles and claps along with the audience.

Her face says What an Inspiration

As the applause dies off, 

Kate stops clapping and turns back to Shelby.

"What was going through your head

that day, getting home from daycare

with your children?"

"I was tired of feeling --"

*click*

The remote bounces once 

on the cushion of the couch, and the backdoor opens

to the grass,

bare feet over belly fat.

Sleep Walk

I wrote today's poem with a collection of magnets that I bought some time ago at a thrift store. I decorated the metal border under my window with the words as soon as I was back in my room, thinking I would use them daily for creative exercises. Sadly, with less than a month left in the semester, this is the first time that I have made a point of using them. I pushed a few words together once or twice, while avoiding homework. I remember the combination

season 

of

love 

seed

staring at me from my favorite spot by the window for about a month. Other silly pairs like "but crack" made appearances as well.The following poem, however, is the longest strain of magnet words I have yet to string together. Enjoy!

Without a Manual

Chains, washers, and spokes

You are a great mechanic,

But girls are not bikes.

Ich habe das wort Apfel gelernt

"Guten morgen"
"Gut geschlafen?"
"Ja"
Du liest mir ein buch vor.
Du sagst "Du machst mich glücklich,
meine liebe."
...
Das feld
Der berg
Du sagst "meine liebe" 
aber du sagst nein. 
Nein nein nein und nein 
meine liebe
...
Das licht, die wand, die tür
Ich mache die tür auf.

Elementary Decisions

There are 10 people --
one rope.
The last event of the day
and the mothers have their cameras out.
The brick school is behind.
Miss Fisher's room
(and it's Miss. Fisher, you hear?
Mrs. Fisher is my mother)
has a window with a nice view
of the scene,
but no one's inside today
to watch out the windows.
Mrs. Groff, blue shorts
and tight tan calves, stands
by the orange cone.
It looks like a witches hat
but more erect,
more stolid,
more ...orange.
Maybe it doesn't look like a witch's hat after all.
They line up,
facing each other.
They lift the rope off the ground,
red hankies tied to its middle, marking the win.
The whistle is in her mouth.
Everyone knows what they want --
except for the rope.

National Poetry Month -- Part Two

April is a month
30 days in length
Today is April first,
(15 more minutes for a prank!)
but this is not a joke,
my friends,
I'm telling you the truth,
that by the time that May arrives
I'll have some poems for you.
30 to be exact --
a poem every day.
I'm counting on some sloppy ones,
but I think that it's okay
to write a rhyme-y silly thing
at 11:48
Just to keep the poems coming
each by its due date.

To Cover Tulips

Red Tulip in a bed of purple
flowers below you, like grass.
All alone, tall, striking
mouth open,
flaunting your bits
for the bees and the bugs,
hoping that someone will
notice you and, drawn to the
tall red cup,
enter you,
take of you,
that the art that you are
may live on,
that it might extend
to new gardens and lawns
tall red cup in a new bed,
lips open wide
in the spring.

And who would call you a sin,
tall red Tulip?
For flowers bring glory to God.
No one covers a tulip when it blooms
in the spring,
not in protection from hungry eyes- eyes that
move hands to pick.
Not to shield children from looking inside
at the clandestine work
of the bees.
Where is the shame
in the making of honey,
the giving of pollen
to the wind?

Stand tall, beloved tulip
above purple grass
that kisses your roots,
tilts to see your red cup.
Stand tall to the sun,
with no shame
for your beauty,
never to be covered
never to feel guilty.

Southern Exposure

If I had a house,
the violin would be in the front room
on the east side,
the one
with the southern exposure.
And each morning,
I would play the sun
into the sky,
sing with a voice that only exists
in my fingers,
in the wood and the strings and the bow.
In the fall, I would play the leaves their soft descent
down to earth,
play them
into their brown,
their red, their yellow,
orange and purple shades,
out of their green summer dress. And
on Tuesday evenings,
I would sweep up the dust
from my rubber eraser,
collect all the notebooks that are scattered about,
and I'd read from the pages
to my guests.
Read them welcome
and love and
loss, and death
and beauty and new. And
I'd sing the leaves down,
their soft descent,
with the words that escaped
the rubber eraser. They
have their own words to sing,
the leaves,
in the fall, and I'd
play them welcome
and love
on the violin, try to translate them
on the page smeared with rubber eraser.
The leaves, dying in the shades of the season.
Death is beauty, falling from trees
in the room
in the front of the house
on the east side
with the southern exposure
with my fingers that sing
to the leaves that were green
turned brown,
releasing their grip
on the trees.