Posts for June 30, 2015 (page 2)

Poem 30, June 30

My Voice

I have no notion that I can take a cruise

to the Bahamas & invite you to go as well.

If I can disguise the invitation as a rhyming

poem, with a scheme you do not know,

I have a notion that I have nothing to lose.

If you refuse, I will not mix words. I will tell

you the Bahamas are too flat for rock climbing

& leave it at that. I have a notion you would go

on a ghost walk with me in Harrodsburg,

or watch the moon rise & line up with planets

or leave your mark on the world behind a falls

in Madagascar.

I have no idea just how far

you can hear my lonely calls

echo along a valley of granite

& return. Not to Harrodsburg…

Not to the Bahamas…

Not to Madagascar…

Not on a ship…

May you lift up my voice

to the Appalachian hills

when you read my poem.

(list poem from MLK Day on I-275)

Old people short of breath
babies with wrist-sprain and joint-pain
urgent care close to surging tide
warm clime for personal injury
every exit a dolphin’s tail
Amish vacation just down the road
Dali’s whales beached on white sand
the treat of Magic Kingdom out of tricks
kind insurance for life’s mean surprises
lads go to college with army Sargent
light beer, testosterone on tap
filtered Kools say you can live to eighty
in the state of melanoma, Eskimos
     with naked toes
rainbow legs dangle from broken piers
gated homes for wealthy widows
poor women sugared to death
a public service where coke and pepsi
     clog your veins
role model gladiators
low rent alligators
two years of pineapple on the dole
rich kids cocooned from middle class yids
my god, Whitman touting i-pads
and Martin’s dream hoisted above Target.
Peaceful end at the toll on Sunshine Skyway

               inspired by a recent prompt, posted by Accents Publishing, suggesting that one take words and phrases from a book of poetry’s table of contents, create a title then take words and phrases from at least fifteen poems in that book and create a poem from there. I attempted this using Nikky Finney’s Head Off & Split.

The words pay your Indian Head,

were poised in the corner of her slightly parted lips

ready to be spoken as gently as if it was the last time,

more delicate than lace, more articulate than ivory keys,

by a woman with pom pom legs.

The elder woman, in her favorite sitting chair,

chewing down an old bone,

stated to her lover,

guillotined and gutted

would he be

if cheating took place

in the apple of the kitchen

blooming around her.

Her fists balled in sweet anticipation

for the moment when the three heads

united, loved and departed.

My aunt lived in the tallest building
in Paducah on the nineteenth floor
of public housing, curtains drawn,
hands wrung, mind strung
like a string just before it snaps

On her table a youthful shot
of her in thin dress and thick
Kelly hair and when I touched
the edge of the frame I thought
it must be someone else’s soul

And though I was mistaken
she lapsed from her body,
so alive and eager in the photo,
after Pearl Harbor, when voices
colored her dreams with gunmetal

El-low-weeze  they would say
El-low-weeze, Eat-your-peas

To win your first World Cup in 16 years, take risks.
The rest of the world has come to play, too.

No more drumming your fingers during the anthem
or waving to the fans or kissing the goalpost.

Forget the last failed shot. Press high up the field
and dribble at defenders. Show swagger with each possession.

Make probing runs from varied angles. Be fast
and relentless and create surprises.

Have the face of an angel and tackle like a beast.

wrote a book
called Midnight Butterfly
metaphors
crept across pages
secret caterpillars
munching on manic truth

slathered in slaw,
chili,
and caramelized onions
and delivered on a plate
to someone more deserving
of 4,000 joules of
energy
who won’t waste it
whining
about the contents
of his crowded pantry

Sunday afternoon in bed:
Your Sacagawea teaches my Clark
how to explore unknown lands. 

Speaking not in whispers, but softly,
you tell me of your childhood:
The games you played in the fields,
the gods you worshipped each day. 

I hear the pinks and purples
of sunrise at a new river bank.

“Everybody Does It” 

That excuse holds no purchase
with the teacher confiscating crib notes,
the patrolman writing speeding tickets,
the prosecutor investigating tax evasion.

“Everybody does it.”

And yes, we are all terminal.
Still – that’s no excuse!

Mary Allen