Once pain blew me up
into a swollen balloon,
I tried to avoid all
points & pricks &
sharp tongues.
But they cut
unexpected.
Like when my friend—
a songwriter
whose brother
killed himself—
warned me,
don’t say anything
depressing.
I squealed into the ether,
then disappeared.
Maybe you saw me
on the sidewalk—
busted blue rubber
with a ribbon tail.
Plastered to the concrete
by foot traffic.
Waiting for the next big rain
to wash what’s left away.
From rooftops smoke drifts up to a solid blue sky,
becomes clouds. Something must fill this emptiness
after all.
Pick up the abandoned gardening glove lying on this
pebbled plateau. It fits your hand like a slightly larger
hand.
Look up like the statue of David, with his hair curling
around his ears like ocean waves. But you are not carved
in stone.
So unfurl your brow, drop your sling, see with your heart-
shaped pupils the lines of sun & star cross, know that the giant
is inside you.
Lift moon as it casts a jade shadow on the streets below & weds
itself to lamplight that heralds dusk over the mossy heads of passersby,
the unknowing.
On this rooftop you can turn your palm to stigma & stamen, wield your body
to stillness, cradle firmament in valentine eyes, swim up to afternoon’s wisp-peppered vastness,
tumble back down to this paved mesa in briny whitecap
shards, then weave them into a love song
for one.
~inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s painting “Love Song,” 1914
again,
I’m still reading
again,
the book made
my feelings
fall
from my face
but
this time I realized
that the words that seem
to bring me to tears–
wet pillows,
silent sobs–
are not always the characters’ tragedies
but just as often
their kindnesses
Given here free reign
To form myself.
I turn my ear to those without gain
No Beatrice in paradise to baptize me in her name.
Only time can pierce such a vein veil.
Now, every character breathes
Every sound finds the body that needs.
The pen kisses its reaper on the lips
Barely having touched the truest truth that lies at its tip.
I question every inner depth
Every straightforward aim.
Always a beginner full of jest
Forever finding myself lame.
The scythe of the poet, forever under the feet of the writer that has leapt.
What stories are written across the
rocks scattered along this creek bed?
Notches and swirls in patterns I try to read,
ancient life once roaming this land
as we are now.
How many moments did they have to
prepare before the end?
Did they try to stop it?
Work together?
Just watch it all crumble?
Can I find the answers here
displayed in stone?
Reminders of what’s at stake
cast into fossils,
reminders nothing lasts forever,
reminders we can fall.
Would anyone care if I did?
For a time, I fancied life to be like the
fantasy novels nestled in my nightstand,
cascade of poems swirling in my psyche,
modern movie scripts steeped in my esse.
For you, I would have
feuded with fae, studied spells, abandoned abilities,
charmed Death, redrafted the past,
impeded airports.
For now, I will
give all my small graces,
bear your bared, intimate burdens,
embrace our fragmenting minutiae.
For you, I
stay the voices to stay by your side,
lay your hand in mine while I’d rather lie asleep,
pray pardons for wrongs when I am overwrought;
relax ramblings even if the wind’s tease feels an insult,
lend my sanity the second yours is not sanative;
twist, entwine our stories into something found only in fairy tales.
Wanda travels to work each day on her blue dragonfly. She loves the way the wind flips her hair into tight ringlets. She named her dragonfly Gypsy. Gypsy Saint Clair to be exact. Gypsy boasts a Puka shell necklace Wanda gave her one Christmas. They both think it brings them good luck. Who’s to say it doesn’t?
Wanda and Gypsy leave promptly at 7:15am each work day. They always pass by the 2 women down the street (Barbara and Jessica), who smile and wave. Wanda knows their friendliness is as fake as Cool Whip, as she’s heard that they tell everyone she is a nut job. Wanda smiles and typically mumbles, “Namaste b*tches” as she flings her hand in the air.
Gypsy always takes the scenic route to work. Flits through the Chevy Chase neighborhood. Lots of morning runners there. Wanda and Gypsy always try to guess which one of the runners will keep jogging in place, checking their FitBits at the crosswalks, and which ones will just stop, look around and spit. More than not, they are correct in their guesses. Gypsy says most of it has to do with what kind of shoes the runners are wearing. She says you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear……which is interesting since Gypsy doesn’t own a pair of shoes herself.
Most days Gypsy hangs out in the park behind Wanda’s place of employment while Wanda works her ass off. The park is full of mosquitoes and midges, which Gypsy considers a delicacy in the dragonfly world. She can pretty much eat her own body weight in midges daily. On occasion, Wanda’s caught Gypsy smoking behind the large oak in the park so Gypsy’s taken to smoking in the boy’s bathroom. Wanda never thinks to check there.
Typically, Wanda is clocking out at 4:30pm as Gypsy waits in the parking lot. Sometimes Gypsy has a cold Diet Coke waiting for Wanda. This is one of many things Wanda loves about Gypsy. She is so thoughtful. On Fridays, Wanda and Gypsy stop by Pop’s Resale to check out the new old vinyls Pops has set out. It’s a great way to end the week.
Wanda says “life has a way of connecting us with who we need, if we just let it.” I would have to agree with that…..seems Wanda and Gypsy were meant for each other.
And now, some limericks:
OPEN-ENDED
There once was a naked acrobat
Who never looked before he sat.
He’d collected a spectrum
Of bits where you’d expect ‘um,
And let’s just leave it at that.
DERMA DILEMMA
There once was a man named Jones
Whose skin was too short for his bones.
He let out a shout
When he tried to stretch out,
For his phalanges poked out through his toes.
I CAN NEVER EVER STOP TEACHER-SPLAINING
Limericks are five lines long,
Shorter than most of our songs.
Lines 5, 1, and 2
Rhyme, and so do
The middle two lines (if not wrong!).
CECI N’EST PAS UNE LIMERICK
There once was an absurdist limerickman.
Spleen.
