Posts for June 20, 2021 (page 5)

The fact that you wrote poetry
feels like something I should have known
instead of remembering
silly little things
like ice cream at the back of your freezer
at Christmas time
next to those blue plastic ice cube trays
we had to twist to release
before refilling them with water from the sink
and waiting for them to freeze  

potatoes with milk and cheese
you heated in your brand-new microwave  

7-up in a glass
I blew bubbles into
with a plastic straw
from a box you kept in the corner cabinet  

little things
that make me think of you
as much as the words you left on yellowed pages
as I wonder what else I didn’t know
what other part of you I missed 

I hug you as often as I’m able,
joke with you as much as I can,
but years of American wonder have warped
my Urdu lehja¹, my Pakistani soch².

Papa, please know
that all the seconds we spend in silence,
all I am doing is seeking, chasing after
the right lafz³, the best cheezain⁴
to stay by your side.

lehja¹ = accent | soch² = thinking | lafz³ = words | cheezain⁴ = things

sun shines through my windows
wind moves the grass near my feet
sky is light with blue and rainbows
trees are green and dangle to meet
wood in large piles beg to be burned
children’s chalk sinks onto pavement
flowers in gardens are in their bloom
stormy rain drizzles over the gutter
with all of the elements here at play
the solstice of summer fades away

Stealing Focus from Mercer

—In theater, “stealing focus” refers to when an actor takes focus he/she is not supposed to. Source:  Theater Exam 2 Flashcards

Activities directors
lead me to circles of chairs
where residents take their seats.
“All the world’s a stage,” so I
scoot back into a pillar
where I become a member
of this sacred story ring.

Once I join, the links begin.
The woman to my right sings
a hymn learned in the mountains.
I add the third above her.
Charmed by harmony, others
find their places near the warm
of each one’s inner fires.

We laugh at “Yankee Doodle.”
Our country’s first marching song
rose from British attempts to
lampoon patriot headgear.
We chorus the closing line,
“and called it macaroni”
with rock and roll big finish.

We sway and swing through four songs
before the care team breaks in,
asks me to move from my space
as they build a sound tower.
Dazed, I circumvent the sphere
carved with invisible lines—
sharp latitudes of sheer will.

From the far side, I watch.  Forged
chains break, lights fade, mouths close, mute.
All fires’ bright coals scraped cold,
I shiver, begin song five
about glow worms, but the mic
the aide is holding in front 
of my face blocks the lyrics.

I wanted to wish you
Happy Father’s Day
but it doesn’t apply. 

What am I supposed to say?
If you had been agreeable
I would have borne your children

If you had been agreeable,
I would have borne your children.
Happy Father’s Day.

Copper dirty pennies reflect
From the bottom of the fountain
From all the old men who live in this county
1999
1942
1985
Years vary
Wheat backs
And liberties
One wish
Most presumably from little girls
But I’m sure some are from the old men
I’m sure the wishes are random
From baby dolls
Houses
To tractors
To wives
To no more drinking problems
To moving out of this place
For winter wood
And winter food
For summer crop luck
To wanting a new dress
But…
The murals on the flood walls make no promises
They just crack
And the wishes in the fountain get turned off 
For the season and thrown in
That green dumpster
Or pocketed by someone else

Horses are galloping in my heart:

Don’t look at the time, you say,
And play some music in my ears.

I feel you breathe inside each
Of my breaths. You live inside me,
A being that will never be birthed,
A hope that will never be homed.

I hold you within the eye of every storm:
A promise kept, a chosen thing wrapped,
A hurt honed into a blade so keen 
No man has bled its cut
Though every woman knows it – 
Cleaving and heaving and halving.

It is enough.

I release the stampede.
But even the horses –
Sweating and tearing and screaming – 
Cannot bring you forth.

I am nulliparous.

He flitted through the kitchen 
Then slid across the wall 
A murky transparent mist 
That wasn’t much at all 
I even walked right through him
Feeling the air turn cold 
Heard him sigh irritably 
Then he became quite bold 
He appeared while I showered
 And again while in bed 
The shadow man did not know
 That he was truley dead 
He follows me to the store 
And when I go to work
 And sometimes I think he knows
 He is a fucking jerk 
Now I seem to have a guest 
That will not leave my home
 I wish the damn shadow man 
Would just leave me alone

                ,         died.
    stopped talking to           months ago because of
but                                     write                  while still in shock.
Earlier, I felt                    cold chill                       made me feel                 
empty                      close to when            died.
I  wonder what                                          after we stopped talking.
I wonder how                will be now.
   don’t know        exact details about                 other than it was                                . 
We                             two years ago and I know             felt                  but that’s in the past;                             forgave me for that.
Anyhow,  wish I had more to say but
I bought L&M menthol 100s in         honor
and shared them with        since
         liked them too.

Oil on Canvas
25.4 x 33cm (11 x 13 inches)

Blue eyes glisten and twinkle
rosy, cherub cheeks glow
honey hair hangs in curls
framing all and a button nose

Not much has changed in twenty years
as far as my mother mind can tell
where I once put up pigtails
will soon don a white veil

My marbles are tiny glass vaults
snapshots locked safely inside
one of a cutesy toddling daughter
and one coming soon, a blushing bride