Posts for June 16, 2025 (page 5)

Before the cross uncross shot

        made famous by Sharon Stone
        three of us,
        desks turned to face the rows
        of a freshman science class,
        and we counted the teacher as four,
        there was no one who could have missed
        the daily criss crossing of the blond,
        blue-eyed girl in the first row.

        It was innocent,
        at first,
        white cotten panty,
        flowers,
        an occasional green glimpse,
        but one day,
        she criss crossed,
        and it was there,
        shaved bare.

        Four faces, eyes focused,
        unbelieving,
        like the men in the film,
        when the Sharon Stone clip, 
        32 years later hit the big screen.
        It was reported that Sharon Stone
        was the only one in the room
        for her shoot.

        It was a fact that four of us
        counting our teacher, too.
        did not skip class that year.

you gave me coffee
today, so we cannot have
anal sex tonight

The air tingles with vibrations,
small waves stirred by wings
in figure 8 vortexes
where she pauses
as if listening to every
little prayer you hum.

A strained face. A grunt.
Is it a toot or much more?
I guess we’ll find out.

is there not a point
when disappointment, frustration, the like
take a back burner
revealing the sun
all its fullness
yellow, glimmering glory
allowing for the outburst
wildflowers, even on a downtown stretch
between the street and sidewalk
the mundane thrown aside
not gently
the honest meaning, hope
found, present in the blowing stems
bright colors atop

It was a routine check up,

is Christmas morning
dazzling you silly
with its tree-tinseled nuances
its ornamental nature
the piney greenness of it
30 dolls couldn’t compete
you fly down the stairs
bed haired and fuzzy slippered
coffee cup in one hand
thesaurus glued to the other
and there it is
beribboned and wiggling
mouth a slant of delight
onomatopoeic whimper
you nuzzle its connotations
rub its gentle iamb
then take it to the backyard
to that blank page of snow
and let it run wild

                                                      For all writers who search the perfect word

This double digit is a harbinger of luck,
its componets of seven and eleven
are naturals in the game of craps
where the shooter achieves a pass,
alas for me it’s no certain trick.

I’m fourth generation of potato men
who came from County Mayo to escape
starvation. the tombs of the three
before me are lined up in ascending row
in the cemetery on Old Mayfield road 
three miles from my childhood home.

Michael, who rode over on the Irish boat,
drove a horse-drawn dray loading
and unloading heavy loads all day. 
He died at the age of forty-four.
James Joseph (my name sake grandfather),
a traveling salesman, came up in the world
until he went down at fifty-five.
Patrick, my father, who I cannot explain
in a line or two, went to his rest,
as they say, at age sixty-six.

That I have reached the next milestone
in this progression does not keep me awake.
Unlike my forebearers noone can say
He Died Young.

I’ve always liked to play with numbers
and so I mark my life in seven stages
with eleven years for each. In this one
I’m Innocent, in that one Guilty,
or Greedy or Angry or Loving
or Overcome With Loss.
In this seventh stage 
I’m trying to shuffle toward Mindfulness
so I can let the eighth be what it is

Every poet should take a vacation.
The famous, the rising, the seasoned, and the beginners alike—
A species of the introspective
Should have a mandated time away from thinking too much.

Lest the brain and heart, working in tandem,
Not only to power the body
But also the pen,
Look at each other, then to its restless host,
To clock out on its own time—
Frustrated and fatigued,
Leaving the poet to fend for themself
In what is known as burnout.

Every person who has taken the time to think out and write a verse
Should take even more to walk barefoot along a sandy shoreline,
With the smell of salt and seaweed and skin
Overwhelming your senses.

And folks with tattoos walking around
That the elderly give disapproving glances at,
And crabs that gently nip at your heels when you get a little too close.
The sun giving you red cheeks and a sore back,
A stranger giving you a suggestive eye,
And—well, it seems I’ve disproved my point.