A QUIET POEM
On the floor shadows
Of plants my mother tended
A cloud passes by
maybe in another universe
when the outcome might have shifted
clouds of pink and blue
overtake the senses
the scenery down below
breath taking
somewhere between now and everywhere
we’ll meet
ignoring thorns and bristles
of the language we no longer speak
how ridiculous of a dream
to think we’d ever meet again
when all you’ve done is run away
from anchoring down and taking responsibility
but still i’ll hope
ignoring faith
that existence is far more
then my world bargained for
don’t forget me over time
please remember all my suffering
so my image
might live on
…..Inspired by Lisa See’s Snow Flower and the Secret Fan & Linda Bryant
Gatherings fluttered
Me round acknowledging
words scribbled in pleats
Printing her own in floral
scenes hidden, unspoken dreams.
it’s interesting to me
to consider the plan
I label myself as a middle of the roader
if that’s a word
I like a plan, sure, but let’s not get crazy
time will make a way, let’s be spontaneous, come what may
all that jazz
but here’s the thing
I am also uptight and like to know, in exactness, what’s up and down and all around
for example, it’s June but let’s discuss October
and don’t the financial gurus tell us
as well as bosses and leaders of the free world
we need to make some allocations based on the calendar
so I am in a constant push pull of wondering if I am on the right track
all the while trying to maintain the lifestyle of freedom and surrendering to the wind
I long to be one way or the other
the uber organized, disciplined follower of my own agenda
or
one of those hell’s bells all will be well types who seem that never a worry arises
at this point in the game, I doubt I will manage either
therefore I’ll most likely continue as a moderate
which maybe, perhaps, is the essence of balance and I truly have mastered the plan
Summer, virgin bride, hides in winter’s
Greedy grasp to make us wait
For her promised glory. At last
June wends its way past
Borning of summer to
Seek July’s pressing fire.
Days of grill fed smoke,
Sunstroke and rude shock of
Black powder’s shriek and boom.
Ice cream cranked under shade
Of smoke house wall, flags
Both loved, scorned, waft under
A listless wind curling round the oak.
August waits in the wing, scritch
Of locust and hush of sun burned doze.
Baked earth,
Dry sky,
Baby birds fly.
Remember summer hidden in winter’s
Greedy grasp . . .?
I wish instead
The gift of April’s easy
opening of her flower,
shower,
and promise.
(a dishy bish)
i am a black and cream striped silk dress.
i sandal. i turquoise. i dream—
in the aisles of i.g.a., in air, on train,
i dream—in fluid black and cream.
i am a foo-lard shirt with contrasting seams.
i turn up. i orange. i rain—
run in libraries from Maysville to Aberdeen,
i rain—on corners of pattern and main.
i am a wide legged pair of pants.
i platform. i saunter. i flow—
on a river of tunes, in car, in boat,
i flow—between freestyle and rote.
i am a sundress with a big back bow.
i hold forth. i flower. i beam—
i let down a shoulder. i preen. in sweet obscurity,
i beam—a baby blue rack of linen dreams.
i am a nonce-word, off-rhyme ishy mess.
i am a black and cream striped silk dress.
