Posts for June 1, 2024 (page 7)

the burning, split open, back of my left ear

aware of the salt in the water, the breeze

catching me alone, the rattlings freeze

the empath curse, the neck hair raising fear

bruised on the frontline, we all live at war

sixth sense for the lies, rain storms in our knees

locked doors buzzing for all their missing keys

beneath the photos, the mantle glamor

the fire and ash, the holes in bathroom tile

open scars, fleshy wounds and polite smiles

a fresh paper cut, lemon juice stinging  

our matching grins, back molars worn by bile 

pull our strings, this crowd is yours to beguile 

this perfect family’s gone deaf, ringing 

The earth rests in a subtle crust
as frozen flecks stretch through 
the tilled rows.
A late frost delays planting
for a few days. She waits for the sun
to accommodate the need
to drop seed
that dance and root.

Once seeds find their place,
each row is covered,
a mother
laying a quilt over her children,
drenched in care.

She whispers this is her last garden,
an echo across the valley. The memory
of sage that tripled in size the day
her youngest was born, flowers ripe
in bluest indigo, rests on her.

The last garden will house the usual,
snow peas with purple flowers nodding
in gentle haiku. The dark green splash
of rapini woven through rows of tomatoes
and a chorus of sweet basil.

She can almost
smell the ancient fragrance. Potatoes, parsley
with a mention of garlic chives will line 
the back border, close to the
sweet water well.

Fruited flowers to float in vinegar, always
a tradition. And the bee balm,
Oswego sweetness, the treat of hummingbirds,
the deep red of blood drenched in
the myth of Pyramus and Thisbe.

to be flat
to be smooth
to be pale, drained,
to wear color,
to not let it wear you.

to be soft
the way that it is right to be soft.
to eat,
to not be eaten.
to curl, to curve,
to bend,
never to break.

never to change,
never to swell,
never to shrink,
never to smudge,
but somehow,
to live.

the set on display
is destined
never to be worn.

Before the daughters,
she raised show dogs-
Afghan hounds,
royal sisters. 

Kahandi was the eldest;
narrow- bodied,
always at attention with
clear and deep black eyes
focused forward, her
linear muzzle punctuated by
brunette locks, a
gifted learner, a
serious hunter, and 
task mistress.

Kamikaze was golden like wheat,
with maximum fluff, a
stellar specimen of the breed,
a beautiful dimwit, with
smiling, distracted eyes, a
lover of all creatures,
she tried to learn commands but was
built for snuggling. 

She trained them both,
loved them equally,
praised their qualities but
there was always
subtext- wishing the achiever was
more beautiful, or the
glamour girl more determined, or for 
some method of combining the two into
one extraordinary contender.  

my alarm rings and it’s not fun and exciting like the end of the challengers (2024) theme song.
i lied down for an hour and didn’t sleep at all.
i thought about dialogue i’ll never say out loud to anyone because i’m too shy and have no one to talk to,
and i won’t write it down because it’s just for thinking, not for writing.
i don’t know how to approach the page anymore.

everyone is having a fun summer without me,
but i’m too tired to go out.
my georgia friend asked me if i could ask my michigan friend if i could be invited to eclipse-type events,
and then she went to the beach without me.
am i allowed to ask?
i don’t know the ettiquette,
or how to have a fun summer.

the girls in the theater next to me laughed everytime they played the challengers (2024) theme song.
i wish i could understand their humor.
i am the perfect audience for a film score. it effects me as desired.
i was roused, excited, and engaged.
they laughed under their breathes.
the couple sitting to the left of me didn’t make it through the whole movie. they defintely came to fuck, thinking it was a late showing to an old movie, and no one would be there.
we were all there.
there was another couple, two friend groups, and two alone people—me and a guy.
we all came to see the three-way movie, which was way more than a three-way movie.
i was surprised a man wrote this movie, because it seemed like it was made for women.
and then i remembered, that man was gay.
and it turned out, it was a movie made for people attracted to men (gender disregarded.)
it was a very bisexual movie.
i felt really regarded.

salsa class was a disaster today. and i already signed up for 8 more lessons.
now i learned my lesson: wait and see.
i had fun dancing with myself in my apartment and got cocky.
now i’m re-guarded.

i hate my alarm. i don’t want to leave my house. i don’t know how to have a fun summer.
maybe it’s not like the alarm in the challengers (2024) theme song.
it’s like the guy cursing out his alarm at the end of the challengers (2024) theme song.

a new feeder hangs
on a crepe myrtle branch–
yet the birds, sporting
their brighter colors,
hesitate,
stay low to ground,
peck at spilled seeds.
even here among
crepeflowers that surround
our round stone patio.
hops halting. glances darting,
they flit onto limbs at last
but ignore the taupe feeder
with its sky-blue trim.
their complexions
dance against white blooms
day by day til i find the feeder
near empty. their new gift
now trusted. i wait,
eager to experience
their brave leap,
their shed timidness.
for i cannot.

It’s June, it’s poems

It’s green, it’s poems

It’s frog, it’s poems

It’s toad, it’s poems

It’s words, it’s poems

It’s song, it’s poems

It’s poems, begin

again, begin!

Throwing the blankets back my feet hit the floor

Still groggy from a nights sweet sleep I make my way to the kitchen

Grabbing the kettle I fill with water and start to wake up

Sitting it on the burner I am starting to get excited, next is my favorite part

Walking over to the cupboard I start looking at all the different sizes and color of boxes

What tea shall I start my day with

Choice made, an earl grey. I hear the whistle of the kettle, its time

Grabbling my favoite cup, I fill it with the hot water and slowly  lower my teabag in

The faint aroma of bergamot tickles my nose

I wait patiently for the water to turn that light brown amber color

With both hands around my cup the warmth feels so good

I slowly raise it to my mouth, first smelling and then tasting

Its going to be a good day

The engineer of the train going somewhere pulls the whistle three times.

There’s a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a remnant of a trauma
the clouds unleashed on land.

I first saw this place with my father
after terror’s demotion to memory;
our awe at destruction striking
so close to a place we called home.

It takes me back to a storm-filled night
as a sleep-denied child drenched
in beads of sweat and rosary-
one Hail Mary per thunderclap.

It makes me think of the American city
just minding its own business
when the wrath of windborne devils
threaten all we hold dear.

Some towns aren’t very lucky.
Some get wiped from the map.
People die in gross miscalculations
of the reach of nature’s power.

Others pay attention, sounding
alarms at first signs of danger
so parents, siblings, children
can brace themselves in bottom floor bunkers.

They huddle together in the dark
hoping for a home to return to.
They offer up similar prayers,
Please deliver us from the storm.

Then the noise dies down and the chaos soon passes,
the calm inevitably restored
save for a subtle fear of what could have been;
not all are as fortunate.

Those who get spared offer what they can
to alleviate those affected,
each time wondering when is our time
to be the victims of a vicious sky.

Thus I watch for a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a reminder of greater forces always around us.
Respect for the Earth is earned.