Posts for June 9, 2023 (page 5)

In memory of Carol Frances, 6/28/14

To the hornet nest inside my head
you’re buzzing all about
the noisiness constricting me
and filling me with doubt

To the slimy worms inside my throat
you’re clogging up the pipes
and the words I want to say
don’t come out just right

And I’ve got a stomach bug
festering inside
he’s been poisoning me
for all of my life

And instead of butterflies
my heart is filled with crooked lies
implanted by the toxic plumes
of a caterpillar’s fumes

And to the moths inside my soul
eating each thread with no control
I ask to leave the part of me
that doesn’t want to die

To the ants that eat the parts of me
that no one’s gotten yet
if you’ll cherish what is left
I’ll be forever in your debt

And to the spider I swallow
once I am entirely hollow
be my Charlotte’s Web
and don’t spindle me with dread

Fix me up with pretty words
show me the worth of my own life
and eat up all the toxic bugs
who have filled me with strife

My hopes are in a spider
casting their net
trying to catch all the insects
that might become threats

You should come by sometime soon. 
Tell me all about where you’ve been. 
Have you run into John Prine yet?
Smoked that 9-mile long cigarette with him?
I still love you. I know you heard me say it
in my head this morning when I woke up.
You should come by. I have your slippers.
They’re in my bedroom closet.
Probably need to check them for spiders first,
not that a recluse could hurt you.
Your pajama shirt is in a large baggie,
third drawer down in my dresser.
Still smells like you,
or I think it still does–I haven’t opened it for awhile
because I didn’t want to use it all up.
You should come by. Read me one of your stories.
I haven’t changed all that much,
lost some weight, gotten grayer and less social,
still love you.
I thought you were on the porch a few nights ago.
I thought I smelled cigarette smoke when I was in bed.
I waited for your shadow in the doorway
until I couldn’t stay awake anymore.
I sleep on your side of the bed now,
but I wouldn’t mind moving over
if you decided to come by.

*after Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s “Miss you” poems

If there’s anything life has taught me lately,
it’s that I desperately need to work on my crescendos.

Somebody raises their voice
and I armadillo up.

Asshole oversteps his bounds,
I’m the welcome mat at his door.

Pretty girl turns the corner and
what the fuck do I do with my hands?

Talk to me while I’m busy,
I may not even acknowledge you.

My mind is a one-track that will railroad
all your interests into oblivion.

Try to shift these gears, the clutch
seizes then my brain stalls

even when i’m genuinely curious
to see where conversation travels;

wanting
that critical human connection.

There’s only so many times 
you can pretend to play it cool,

only so much accismus
to carry you through the awkward.

She. Is. So. Beautiful
and I’m never gonna tell her that.

I’m gonna cave when someone fights me;
no bravery to see the battle through

because at some point I lost my confidence.
Possibly never had it.

Conflict shuts me down 
because movies aren’t real.

Knights don’t slay dragons,
heroes don’t get the girls

or maybe that’s just my learned existence
so far.

But if I’m not louder, I’m at least learning
how to not be okay with that.

The other day, she’d done her hair so pretty
and I would not clock out ’til I told her as much.

Took two hours to make the courage
and it was worth every minute for that smile.

So, what will come tomorrow?
Well, I’m aware of my nature.

Could be another round of reluctant accismus
but I feel like I’m at least one less -issi-.

love and suffering
carnage and progress
opposites that harmonize
to the point of cliché
perhaps one cannot exist
without the other
so much of the melodrama
that is intrinsically tied to
humanity comes from our
individual dreams, at once
extravagant and mundane
needing to take center stage
perhaps our whole culture
comes down to children shouting
each vying for the attention
of our mother, pushing siblings
out of the way at whatever cost

It took me quite longer than spring
to shake the soil
break the shell
grow strong roots
hold on tight

tight to the ground

                                        and bloom

Out of step
desynchronized with the rest

It took me a wintery decade
to shake the soil
break the shell
grow strong roots
spread myself

spread myself wide
towards the shining promise of the present                                                                                          
                                    
                                        and bloom

Every layer of me is a thin shell of linden wood. The outermost is the mother—calm,
unblinking-–a resolute smile frozen on her pale-cheeked face. Her body meticulously 
hand painted with slithering vines and budding flowers, the colors are faded beneath  
a translucent sour-yellow glaze, fissured by time. She is the keeper of all of my other 
selves, nestled deeply within. A tight-lipped guardian of their most fragile memories.

Swift fingernails worrying at the equatorial seam around her tumescent stomach
I pry the two stubborn halves apart, widening the gap, then twist and pull 
to reveal the next iteration. Pry, twist, pull-–again, again—lining them 
all up side by side in a row that stretches backwards through my
lifetime, each more diminutive, her story told in fewer words.

As each begins to speak I say yes, you are me,
I remember being you but I’m searching 
for the smallest one, and when she is
revealed at last, crouched alone
in the center, I suddenly
realize that, even
then, I felt
hollow.

The days run together with a frantic speed
The summer is speeding by on fast forward
I need to start working on lesson plans for the fall,
but didn’t summer just start?

When did the days start passing by at the speed of light?
I think it was when I turned 50,
or was it 40, it really doesn’t matter
because time got stuck in fast forward somewhere in the past few years

There is still joy and pain and all the other emotions
all blended together
In one big blur of a memory that is a year
or ten years, a chunk of time

I am happy, so that is good
I struggle with some hard aspects of life
but I love my husband and kids
and enjoy the time I have with them

Is this how old age happens?
Time flies by so fast, that you 
hardly recognize the days, weeks, months, years
as they go by quickly, in a blur?

All I can say is, bring it on!
I love life, and I love the lazy days of summer
which seem to be going by too fast
or is that life that is whirring by?

after Thomas Merton

The scent of a cherry blossom
is everything when it falls
from the branch
without a breeze,
grazes your upper lip
for just a breath,
and carries on to the earth.

To reach for a flower
is to crush it in your palm,
smelling your own oils.

Luna was thinking about her namesake.

Submarine quaking between her legs birthed a swelling
Coursing through her, past her belly and breasts,
up and across the complex structure of her neck, 
Fist full of bedsheets
Spine tingling
Eyes rolled back
The realization as she reached toward heaven, 
That she didn’t need anyone else to feel so blessed.