here’s to June One
LexPoMo has begun
seed words scatter
within brain matter
universe of thoughts
screened caught
root in fertile field
of verse yield
flowering poetry
of every variety
bouquets gathered
shared remembered
tradition met
time well spent
No longer will I be shamed into hating
my jello jiggling thighs
my eye corner crow’s feet
my veiny opisthenar
No longer will I be shamed into hating
my mastectomy scar
my one breasted body
my unreconstructed chest
No longer will I be shamed by a society that finds
old ugly
gray dull
wrinkles disgusting
Instead I
laugh with the crones while my crows feet crinkle
dance with abandon while my loose parts sway
revel with the wild things at dawn
hug trees and howl at the moon
I will not be an invisible old woman for you
beyond the feasible reality
is the realm where dwells the dream,
defiant of the issued guidance,
deviant of the standard mean,
an aberration, an anomaly,
unparalyzed by dim prognosis,
unparalleled, unnamed, unorthodox,
unruly, unbridled, untamed,
unfettered by the forecast range,
obtuse, even profane.
the naysayers with their quizzical gaze,
look down long noses, eyebrows raised:
still the dream remains
unflappable, exquisite, strange.
of odds uneven it is undeterred.
it does not mince words.
a mode fresh, a riff
to shatter former norms,
a virtuosic variant,
yet unheard.
The noise you hear
In the creek flow
a man sits on a stool
of a washed-down milk crate
making marks of mysterious significance
on the inside cover of The Book
He’s sure
that in all this gurgle it’s ok to ask
“a penny for your thoughts?”
He throws a coin into the stream,
then looks up…
Sky,
windless and
dressed in an unknown hue of blue,
spells out his importance
wiht her utter silence
Little Red Stripes are Normal
Many people avoid inundating you with the spiked
details of their pain. They stuff
it in the private landfill
of their hearts. It’s perfectly
understandable. I’m thinking
of William. For most of his 75
years he withheld from view
the anger and deepest regret that wiggled ever
so slowly in his aorta like a catfish
raking a muddy river. Despite ingesting dead
microbes, snails and leeches he kept breathing,
walking and punching
the clock in all the normal
ways though there were small
hints. How often he balled his right
fist like a grenade. That, too, was normal.
William did it, got used
to bothersome panic attacks, clenched
his jaw while giving a well-paced,
respectable Toastmaster’s speech—The History
of Tornadoes in Tennessee. When his wife
needed comfort he’d push the junkheap
of suppression straight into
his hands. He’d make
love, hug her so tight his fingers
made little redstripes on her lonely
shoulders. When William was stricken
with Alzheimer’s things changed. Came the tantrums,
the inconsolable sobs. These, too, fit
on the bellcurve of normal. Most patients
lose control, forget they had irongates,
reins, and blinders.
the view was nice up there
on the hill, near the pond
our little town in all its
“splendor”
we could see everything
my house had the big tree–
the one that, two years later,
would fall and crush my dad’s
Mustang
your house had the pool
the kids in the neighborhood
knew your mom
always baked
cookies from scratch
my little sister cried
when we said she couldn’t come,
but the view was nice–
worth it
you and me,
billowy clouds,
insistent and direct
sun
you said you liked me
more than a friend
you liked me
i laughed,
thought it was a joke
you laughed–
of course it was
we should go bike riding
you said
you would meet me later
and we would pin
baseball cards into
the spokes
and pretend
we had motorcycles
but i didn’t see you again
that day
and when i did see you again,
it was different–
as if my best friend
had been replaced by an
almost exact duplicate
that was, of course, a
long time ago
i’ve got my own kids now
and so do you
i think you are in Missouri,
maybe Kansas
i still think about the two of you often–
the one who sat on the hill with me,
counting clouds,
and the one who always came
in your place, after–
and i wonder
Order in the Court
Dust motes float by sun drenched
Windows,gavel rests on wood square,
Brass spittoon shines at heavy door.
Folks’ hushed voices echo
Overhead, murmuring of bees.
Silent fear hangs on gray walls.
Bailiff fidgets, waits by judge’s door,
Defendant’s attorney chair sits empty,
Terrified plaintiff tortures a handkerchief.
Justice waits for vices of men to play
Across this ancient stage. Stories
Silly others grim fill aged crevices.
Walk with me to view folly or fallacy
Of man played out for judge and jury.
Win or lose woven in this court’s room.
Hear ye, hear ye, time-worn litany spills
From practiced lips demands decorum.
Doors open, officials move. .All rise.
A dance to justice, led by black robed
Dispenser of good, bad, right, wrong
Opinion for this parade of procedure.
Order in the court, the honorable
Judge Edward Hill, presiding.
Who versus Who Intoned.
Gavel taps. Court is in session.
The Ohia trees and Hapu`u ferns gag on the furled fronds of Uluhe.
Once pretty, purple spirals seeping from rainforest floor,
now, I rip them, tear them.
My sickle flies through undergrowth severing old vines like tangled ropes on a ship mast.
I peer into treetops, pulling the dried and broken
leaves crumble, silt shakes loose, makes its way to my scalp, my eyelids, my finger nails,
I blink. Hard. Rain-splatter sticks to sharp stems,
leaves deep wounds on bare skin.
Rain-slogged,
tangled clothes drag me down in a torrent of weight,
cold and wet, I keep going,
four more hours. I think of Gilgamesh,
But what was the symbolism, again?
I remember there was irony, but what?
The slashing of old growth? The sacred forest? Humbabba?
These names, these words, filter between rain drops.
I wipe bark from my cheeks, my neck.
There is something stuck in my eye.
Memory eludes me. It seems important
somehow. I am not tearing down a cedar forest,
but saving the trees.
Arenʻt I?
“There you are,” I croon. “I can see you now.”
Gloves are off, dark, saturated bark, and vibrant, moss,
my palms, my fingertips, my breath,
only the sound of rain patter and birds
in a rainforest.
In my apartment, the humming fan
says “full of woe, full of woe,”
and an email notification clunks out of my phone
like a thrown shoe.
On the television, people argue
or compete. On YouTube, people apply make-up,
restore furniture,, cook. People play video games,
streaming from their homes into the dark.
I think, I’ve lost so much
of myself in the past ten years.
I’m breathing through a swath of cotton,
sitting in the dark when the sun sets.
I am not fear, exactly. Who’s
to say what is left behind?
