Never participated before,
Over participated this time,
Submitting every single poem I wrote.
But your poems inspired me,
Your feedback encouraged me.
It gave me a place
On the lee side of my world
Where I could escape
For a little while.
It brought me joy
At a time in my life
When I desperately needed
Some joy.
House Cleaning Day was always the terror
Awaiting us every month
Mom wakes up at six sharp
With her league of clean pop music
And “back in the day” Sturgill Simpson
I wasn’t born a prodigy at luck-based games
And so when my curled fist lost to my brother’s spread-out hand
In a tense round of rock-paper-scissors
I was stuck scrubbing the toilet,
And peeling hair out of the shower
Cleaning out the grime inevitably collected
In a bathroom shared by two teenagers
But I refused
To touch my brother’s side of the sink
I didn’t want to see what horrors lay beneath the shaving cream he’s had since seventh grade
Or clear up his drain that has started making used-car noises similar to Dad’s twelve-year-old Honda
Or be caught dead rearranging his beat-up toothbrush, his 99-cent deodorant, his prehistoric retainer
I hoped, longed, and prayed for the day
He would pack up all that crap into a suitcase
And give me a perfect, boy-free bathroom
All to myself
The curious thing, however, is that when he gathered all his things and moved out of the house
I couldn’t find myself spreading my hair products and facial cleansers across the sink
Like I always said I would once he started college
I kept them crammed on my side,
Leaving the counter half-empty
Suddenly, I started to miss walking into the bathroom
And seeing a mixed-up array of acne treatments,
Or a men’s razor propped up against the faucet
I didn’t think I would miss something so annoying
And I never thought I’d be whining over half of a fake marble countertop
But here I am
Holding back tears every time I glance at his now-empty side of the sink
And wishing
He never left at all
The poet sits, pen in hand,
blank paper laying on the table,
distasteful as an unwritten tombstone
or is it a door, waiting to be opened,
leading to, perhaps,
a beautiful new world,
or an incomprehensible tragedy,
or an inconsequential lark
the pen, once it touches the paper,
pushes, pulls, turns–
leaving behind symbols
to approximate that
which had existed, before,
only in the mind
of the poet
later, the poet hands
the paper to the reader,
who converts the markings,
stained onto the page,
into ideas, filtered through
the personal framework
living inside the reader’s mind–
word, phrase, line, stanza
building up each
into a cumulative whole,
which, if successful,
leaves behind
something new,
passed from one mind
to another
later,
the poet sits, pen in hand–
starting again
This pink Catawba sky—
could it be the eve before the end?
Prayed-for rain has brought lush
backdrop for whatever comes next.
Grandson clinks through gate, veering
my thoughts from the end
to how each day seeds the next—
a random scattering of what was
thus carries on beneath
this pink Catawba sky.
Emily Withenbury suggested a cento for this last day–with a twist–the lines come from our own poetry from this month. My thirty lines . . . (title is one of them).
my mind paints life-scapes–
i brush on their colors, soft,
smear sagey hue on canvas,
listen to sage whispers
dance against white blooms.
a nugget of life’s meaning,
penciling color onto black and white
i hear, let color flow over you–
yes, the yellow of sunflowers.
then daybreak observations
shout, we elegant dance.
kentucky speaks from very near–
a look and feel and smile
enjoying stillness under colorful masses
with soft breezes, rich colors, callings–
i break free, in garden
play at new play, rural peace,
consider the steady measure of day.
in dim moonlight, i see deer leap,
girl swing from oak branch. she smiles, laughs.
through new days, forever gifts of magic,
i live vicariously via songs
among butterfly wings
who whisper i’m cool, too
and echos of triumphant trumpets
satisfy for now, reasons to be still,
and i breathe in a ton of love.
in poetry, in hope,
i bid all an adieu. for now.
My childhood holy cards
of J.C., in royal robes, ascending
into heaven were framed
in the ethereal light after a storm
when clouds break to create colors
like Turquoise Blue, Hot Magenta,
& Atomic Tangerine.
How lucky I’ve been
for my minimal ambition:
living in the country
on a beautiful woman’s farm,
driving the backroads
in a rusty ‘84 Landcruiser,
learning to keep my nuisance down
and growing old in shabby clothes.
In the dark
waiting for Ole Sol
to make another Ascension,
I’m freckled with the shadow
of leaves in moonlight,
and my old belief returns
here, right here where I live,
how afraid I’ve been
of the simple moment
when life leaves
and my thoughts and breath
are absorbed into the orb
–Mavis Staples to Bob Dylan, NYT, 30 June 2024
Oh, Bobby:
you gotta keep on
singing.
To swim in a big green lake
where the temperature
fluctuations
currents- cool, warm cool again
small fish tickle my toes.
I wonder what’s down there
-way down there.
man size catfish?
rusty car parts?
cinder blocks attached to bones?
I wonder how deep it is.
But, it doesn’t matter.
One can drown in 10ft of water
as easy as one can drown in 100.
I told myself to post away, but
should’ve ordered self to write each day.
What happened to the month of June?
It flew, or poofed right by, too soon,
and I, who thought myself a poet, well,
this June I certainly didn’t show it.
