Posts for July 1, 2017

I imagine being breezed away in a swirl of rainbow and late-night tv snow static
into a world of sepia and slow jazz
solid but not solid in form, an other-worldly pudding
whisked into a mix like meringue folds into batter.

We watch as MacArthur battles Napoleon, Gandhi and Nelson Mandela have tea
Valhalla, Heaven, Svarga intertwine and combine, the cosmic fiber-optic infinity network
movies of past lives play on a big screen
texts of speculative futures unfold streaming toward technicolor doors that swing open and shut, open and shut

Waltzing on ponds and flying through windows
Spectral experiences are elastic, stretching and springing, our phantom abilities are untethered,
Until they decide to take me back home, tuck in my blankets, sprinkle some sand
Haunted and holy, existing again, holding dreams of unhinged imagination. 

[Duet Poem by Maggie Brewer and Michelle Knickerbocker]

I imagine being breezed away in a swirl of rainbow and late-night tv snow static
into a world of sepia and slow jazz
solid but not solid in form, an other-worldly pudding
whisked into a mix like meringue folds into batter   

We watch as MacArthur battles Napoleon, Gandhi and Nelson Mandela have tea
Valhalla, Heaven, Svarga intertwine and combine, the cosmic fiber-optic infinity network
movies of past lives play on a big screen
texts of speculative futures unfold streaming toward technicolor doors that swing open and shut, open and shut  

Waltzing on ponds and flying through windows
spectral experiences are elastic, stretching and springing, our phantom abilities are untethered,
until they decide to take me back home, tuck in my blankets, sprinkle some sand haunted and holy, existing again, holding dreams of unhinged imagination. 

– Duet Poem by Michelle Knickerbocker and Maggie Brewer 

You take the fourth
All its fire-
Works at night
Its boom and crack
I’ll take the fifth
Refuse to in-
Criminate myself
To a matter of fact

When the stars are loud, 
there is no black sunshine –
only a black hole
that devours a star
and belches fire. 

(This poem arose from a combination of three things: a line from Misty Skaggs’s June 4th poem,  Jude McPherson’s pseudonym, and an article about black holes.) 

The last hours of the last day.
The pages turn and the story folds.

                            ~~~

I was told, once, that the mark
of a fine writer, of a finer story,
is how you wish for it to go on
when you reach the end.

The lights have been dimmed.
The sheets have been lowered.
Your head presses pillows,
fighting the inevitable
silence.

                          ~~~

Sometimes you can see the ending
before it’s ever begun.  Sometimes
the story is worth the risk
of those darker hours
of the night,
anyway.

                            ~~~

One of your first lines read,
“Don’t write the story.”  We knew
even then.  You knew.  I knew
I would try to follow your rules;
I did.  That one.  For the most part.

The paragraph closed, with this:
“Don’t fall in love.”  I never
saw you coming.  I never
stood a chance.

                           ~~~

Some settings recall more
than description, more than a place
you’ve been.  Some settings aren’t
just like — some settings are —
home.

                           ~~~

Sometimes you can see the ending
before it’s begun.  Sometimes
it really is the end.

                            ~~~

But first, you have to turn the page.
First, the entire story turns, folds
into the last hours of the last day.

Saw her in the field
next to the house.

Talked to her softly, and tried
to coax her onto the back porch.

Left a saucer of cream for her
to partake at her discretion.

She waited until I went inside.
Then the backporch became hers.

Saucer was cleaned.
Never saw that cat again.

On a 50s, turquoise vinyl chair, 
flashlight in hand, our sitter reads
her Bible, one eye wa n der in g
in my direction. “Don’t you be
talking when it thunders, God is.”       

With my 70s, flower-embedded candle,
I stand in peace as the end, according
to my landlady, draws near. “Savage
thunderstorms spew God’s wrath!” 
(Wonder if her cockroaches will live.)  

Now, wind whips black canvas awning
spills a torrent of water onto leaning,
red brick retaining wall, as elm roots surely
inch its slant closer to the drive; thunder lacking,
I predict lacebark’s tawny seeds will appear in fall.      

Once, just once
did I have a blind date with you.
We flirted some,
and then you left –
I must have disappointed you,
perhaps you found me
unprepared …  

The thought of you
hits me at night
as I wake up, all in sweat,
and fantasize about your touch,
wondering
what it would be like
to be in your notorious embrace.  

Sometimes,
you walk past me
only to choose someone else –
prettier and younger –
leaving me jealous …  

Why?
What is it about them
that attracts you?
What is it about me
you don’t like?  

Sooner or later
you’ll notice me again, I know,
but when?
I’m so curious
and so excited…  

Then,
you’ll take me tenderly
and painlessly
and you won’t hurt me,
will you,  

Death?  

                             Zlatna Kostova

June gives way to July
and in this almost missed transition
of one half year to another,
I’m drawn into the intoxication of alliteration
and the perfection of symbology
coming together in a new direction.

I’m chasing a butterfly again. 
God called my attention to its youthful flight
through the gift of an extra day.
Once more to think about
my life in present tense
and what remains in tomorrow.

The pure creature will land
in the crossroads of divine trust and patience, 
buried there will be the joy reserved for me.
Whether that will be home or another hard fall,
As the now the unshackled prisoner, I’ll run
in this new direction,
chasing a butterfly,
chasing serenity,
chasing July.

so Huck and Tom
and I must now cease from
skipping stones
hopping rocks in the creek and
I’m an old woman again