Posts for June 3, 2022 (page 10)

That night we sat on the front porch 
to count shooting stars — 
I was going to wish for a happy life
now that the hard part seemed behind us —
but the clouds rolled in before the show began.
It was the night of no moon, so dark 
I couldn’t feel you sitting next to me. 

And then the train whistle —
you said it was like a siren song,
always teasing the anchored with stories of motion,
of corn fields stretching out like a green sea,
of bridges built on stilts as tall as a city block,
mysterious headlights at midnight crossings. 

I said in the morning I’ll wrap the trunks 
of the young saplings white and tight, 
like a prizefighter’s fists. One day,
we’ll have shade, life will be easy. 
After that you were so quiet 
I thought you’d fallen asleep. 
When finally the sun rose, 
I saw that you were long gone. 

to mourn
the loss
of it,

i am
rendered

split

in feeble
parts
unequal.

i keep intact

only
a hollow
soul shell,

an impression
cast on its thin
crust is the lip curl

of a smile
remembered.

Consider the teachers in front of the class.
While many extoll them,
Some others will troll them.
The latter. Can kiss. My ass.

Lawmakers mandate just what teachers teach,
Telling words they can’t say
And which facts are hearsay.
As I see it, that’s all overreach.

Let lawmakers take a turn in their schools.
Create lesson plans
Answer all upraised hands
All while following politics’ rules.

Let them handle the student and parent headaches.
There’s paperwork reams
And leadership teams
But with limited bathroom breaks.

Happy National Donut Day!
there must be a poem
here—
but is there?

sprinkles

It is a curious thing to be a woman alone,
Free to scream and whirl around from room to room, dizzying yourself until you fall down.
To cry when you need to, laugh if you’re able,
Storm around and yell at the laundry with no need to explain why.
No one to walk on eggshells wondering when the next wave will strike.
It always does.
And this time, you can be free to be the storm or the eye-
it’s your choice alone.

All Marie Howe tries to do:
communicate the essence
of being alive.
And she does it sparingly,
with no unnecessary words–
just the gist of the gist.
I want to see how she
pares away the extraneous
when all we need
is the root dangling with mud
and the blossom glinting
with dew.

According to an Internet data search tool
574 people in the U.S. share his surname.  

Edward Likely, Edna Likely, Elmer Likely
John Likely, Ginny Likely, Jeremy Likely,  

all fine people, but none of them is the one
who phones daily, never leaving a message.  

Ring! Don’t pick up – see the screen name?
Scam Likely. What were his parents thinking?  

You kicked him out but not all the way out.
You always say you want peace & quiet
but in some wolf den in your mind it’s the last
thing you wanted then or now. What’s it all been for, 
if not the way the hair on the back of your neck
stands up when he looks at you? Sometimes 
you want him gone forever with his howling lying
beautiful mouth & you don’t give a good goddamn
how empty you are without him. But then
everything slows down & gets way too quiet
& instead of thinking about him every fucking
second of your life, you start thinking about yourself
& there’s a reason you stay away from mirrors.
It’s just easier in the end to have him there, his lip
curled & his fist balled, because then you know
who you are. You know they say you’re codependent.
You know they call you an enabler. But there’s
a blood moon tonight & you want him looming
in your bedroom door, claws out & hackles up
& in his yellow eyes that same old look.

The word swaddle is like a womb

Dogs barking at birds.
Birds chirping at dogs. Shut up,
you gorgeous morning.