Grey area
Forever tangled
between
unstoppable
and
undone.
Full steam ahead.
or
Puddle on the floor.
Soggy nonetheless.
You’ve been in me head
Circling for six months,
I hope that I’m in yours
Now that all of this is done,
I hope you think of me
When you hear that song on the radio,
And I hope you think about me
When you see a girl with pigtails,
I hope everytime you’re in that theatre
I am in your mind,
And I hope the next girl who fawns over you
Makes you think of me,
I hope you think about me
Like I think about you,
And that you don’t forget
My hair, my face, my smile,
A permanent tattoo,
Just like I have of you.
I wasn’t always like this—
once, just a blob of potential,
plastic resin on pause,
waiting to be more
than a joke with a beak.
They molded me,
not a swan, not even
a goofy gnome—
just a stupid, tacky goose.
Stretch, shape, stuff me in a box,
ship me out—
factory reject,
neither duck nor bird,
destined for display.
I’ve imagined other lives:
a birdbath, solid among zinnias,
offering the city finches a drink—
or maybe a lamp, giving off light,
enlightening the weary.
But no, I’m just a goose,
lifeless, less than a punchline.
I could’ve been worse—
a plastic flamingo,
horrorshow pink,
mocked in manicured lawns,
but at least flamingos
stand together.
Or I could have been better—
a plastic Buddha—
catching whispered prayers,
offering luck and peace.
Instead: this.
A porch goose,
under watch,
costumed for every season,
draped in hollow cheer.
They could have made me
useful, at least—
something with purpose.
A diaper pail—imagine!
The 80s loved plastic.
I could have held
the honest stink of living,
earned my place in a nursery’s corner,
a vessel for the mess,
respected in necessity.
That’s purpose.
That’s fate.
Instead, I began
wrapped in cellophane,
smothered and dreaming,
until the aide from the “retirement home”
tore me free—
too cheery by half.
“Oh, look at you! So cute!”
Her mission: dress me up.
Seasonal garb,
ghost sheets,
ridiculous hats,
dragged over my rigid head.
I wanted solitude,
she wanted festivity.
“Lovely,” she called me—
no, just plastic,
molded and mute,
a stage for her holiday whims.
Parked by the sliding doors—
rain, wind, heat,
the icy gnash of winter.
Halloween: a ghost sheet,
reject from a horror flick,
kids giggling, “Ghost goose!”
If only I could roll my eyes,
kick a shin.
Christmas:
green wrap, fake fur,
like a tree, not a bird.
Santa beside me,
lightbulb up his rear,
glowing warm as I froze,
my own plastic butt
bitter in the cold.
Fourth of July:
red, white, blue,
balloons knocking my head,
patriotic farce—
humans parading freedom,
while I am lashed to festivity,
hopeless and unmoving.
Even the dog peed on me—
a family’s mutt,
open house humiliation.
No beak to bite,
no voice to curse.
Just the hot yellow of contempt.
Election season:
flags, banners,
ballot fervor.
Humans project their hopes,
never asking if I share.
I’m from China.
I hate their democracy décor,
the noise, the pride.
Then Ms. Betty—
sweet, confused—
took me in,
fed me pretend food,
tucked me in her bed.
If I could scream,
I would have.
But the nurse laughed
and sent me back—
back to the porch,
back to being a prop.
Some humans get it—
the ones not sucked into
porch décor mania.
They see the absurdity,
the creepiness,
the fake bird in a dress—
a horror in broad daylight.
One lady once—
stood before me,
squinting,
horror and confusion
in equal measure.
“That’s just wrong,” she said.
And it is.
The night the storm came,
I dreamed of freedom.
Rain pried me loose,
set me afloat—
but only a little.
I drifted,
briefly alive
in the gutter’s surge,
then found,
returned,
placed back on the porch,
scratched, dented,
spiritless.
Now, I sit—
watching the seasons,
enduring the elements,
the next round of tacky clothes,
dogs, flags, lights,
always staring,
never free.
I’ll never be more
than a gosh darn plastic goose—
costumed and silent,
guardian of fake welcomes.
And now—
you too can own this fate.
Order your own plastic goose,
dress it up,
display your devotion to all things ridiculous.
Because nothing says “home”
like a fake bird
with no soul
on a porch
waiting for someone
to see the joke.
I often talk about my love of creek
gravel-
the variety of rock types and colors
available locally
and reasonably priced.
So…
right before he left
he spread a load over my once
flat #57 white gravel driveway,
pretending to be doing me a favor.
“It’ll keep you out of the mud”
he said.
It was more rock than gravel, with
a variety of sizes, the
averge about that of a baseball.
He spread it thick and uneven-
My driveway became an obstacle
course, unstable -downright dangerous!
I moved many of the larger boulders
but walking on it was
still a challenge, especially at night.
I tripped.
I twisted my ankle.
I think negotiating the uneven surface
contributed to having to get a
hip-replacement.
I cursed him and my
rockpile-of-a-driveway
everytime I got out of the car.
After year of weather, being
walked on and driven over
the rocks have finally settled.
Although not flat, it is stable
and I can enjoy the colors, texture and
sparkle of the creek rock.
Did he really think he as doing me a favor?
Or did he want to show me the error
of my creek rock love’n ways?
When I get out of the car I no longer
curse my rockpile driveway, but
I do, sometimes curse him.
PoMo Tongue Fun
A poem a day
Could scare muses away
so,
Pam’s poems pranced, passed, pacified people
while
Master Milo’s mollify many muses.
–after Basho
I wake to a full moon,
run down the street to catch it.
It winks at me
from behind homes.
A wanderer steps aside for me
but the moon drops out of sight.
In its place, I try to catch a falling
leaf, its abandonment
a short-lived twirl.
Though leaves conceal the way
my friend the wind
sweeps me home.
At the dinner table, I rise
while others are still eating,
leave family in mid-sentence,
close the glass-paned door
behind me, find my way
into the basement.
Every good apocalypse throws
a good red carpet pre-party.
The Theatre of the Renaissance complete
with Rococo influences, Tiffany lamps, a Parisian
Palace on Ice and fluted glasses well paired
with some dish in gilded glass cages
for consumption by the bedecked and bejeweled.
Too many revelers
& not enough thinkers
to stop the blood tide
of Franco-Prussian Austro-Hungarian drama.
History’s pedaled wheel comes round
again and continues for all our days.
How many folks today,
Know the value of the churn?
To learn of its magic,
To whom would they turn?
There was a time, a while back,
When every house that was a home,
Had one in the corner,
Or on a shelf all its own.
Every man, woman and child,
Back then did avow,
That the root of independence,
Started with a cow.
Twice a day, she’d wend her way,
To the old milk gap,
And back her leg, for those who beg,
To feed the lass and chap.
The gentle cow would give enough,
To feed her calf and us,
Like any devout Brahman,
We could say, “In cows we trust”.
Opening Day,
three syllables that splash
across my face each year like
the wave of a giant flag, as baseball
season begins again, and again and again.
It should be a national holiday,
when schools close, business give discounts,
children wave small flags and babies wear
cute onesies with team mascots
emblazoned across the fronts.
The day reminds me of the year
in summer when my parents bought
each of us our own transitor radio, early
in its creation, teal green rectangle with
gold knobs to fit in the hand, a sense of freedom.
I suspect it was a covert operation of my
father’s as he planted the elements of sports
into the psyche of his five daughters, hoping
they would pursue an interest, with its nine volt
battery, small antenna and plastic case.
On summer days when we were expected to stay
outside, we had our transitors and sat under the
huge beech tree on the front lawn, listening to
day games or searching for music that would lure
us into adolescence when we lost track of those transitors.
Yet, the sound of the bat,
smacking a home run into the stands, our
hometeam winning, the roar of the crowd and
even the sometimes annoyance of announcers all
comes back each year on opening day.
do you know what wakes me in the night:
the swell & diminshment
of the ocean of my life
its 28,00 days filled
with the motion of bliss & duty
the despair 0f divorce &
the ecstacy of our first kiss
how bad I’ve been & how good
you dare ask what happiness is:
the English alphabet use to end
with an ampresand
x, y, z, and “&”
we use letters to make words
words to make sentences
sentences to complete thoughts
there’s always more
how can we just end with z,
happiness is like that,
accepting that everything
contains its opposite
the easy & the hard
the start & the finish
the good & the bad
&…..
