I keep almost finished books
by my bed. Procrastination
may kill me, but in the end
I could have extra time to read.
In the night air,
planes chrrr overhead,
trains couple,
trucks shift
on the interstate.
Dreams take me places
without a sound.
Late night guests
chatter softly in my ear
hoping I’m listening.
This poem is written
in spite of them.
not minding either of us
Friday, March 30, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Twitter poems 6
I got a mention at Muses and Metaphor 2012 !!
You could paint the stars
to find God, but it’s already been done.
Close your eyes and tell me what you see, Vincent.
(b. March 30, 1853)
Even if your dishes match,
dinner may not satisfy.
Prepare a meal with love,
eat from your lover’s hand.
You will have enough.
My mother waited for the end time
until she found hers, always believing
she was ready.
When death came,
she fought to stay.
You could paint the stars
to find God, but it’s already been done.
Close your eyes and tell me what you see, Vincent.
(b. March 30, 1853)
Even if your dishes match,
dinner may not satisfy.
Prepare a meal with love,
eat from your lover’s hand.
You will have enough.
My mother waited for the end time
until she found hers, always believing
she was ready.
When death came,
she fought to stay.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Twitter poems 5
You are iced coffee & tiramisu.
I am the glass & the plate.
Leave your lip print
on my soft curves, finger
scattered crumbs.
Savory herbs from an old garden
poke through grass & weeds.
If no rescue comes before the weekend,
dinner will be trampled.
The choir sings Monteverdi,
no accompaniment.
The weakest soprano
clings to a bass for support,
wrapped around his vibrato.
I am the glass & the plate.
Leave your lip print
on my soft curves, finger
scattered crumbs.
Savory herbs from an old garden
poke through grass & weeds.
If no rescue comes before the weekend,
dinner will be trampled.
The choir sings Monteverdi,
no accompaniment.
The weakest soprano
clings to a bass for support,
wrapped around his vibrato.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Twitter poems day 4
Beach Interlude
Sand fleas love pink skin
under cover of darkness,
thin blanket no protection.
Better to sleep in the car.
My daughter sits
on the chilly front porch
at midnight
painting abstract landscapes.
I am nowhere to be seen.
Endtimes
Build a bunker underground
for your family.
As the world outside collapses,
you can kill each other with close contact.
Sand fleas love pink skin
under cover of darkness,
thin blanket no protection.
Better to sleep in the car.
My daughter sits
on the chilly front porch
at midnight
painting abstract landscapes.
I am nowhere to be seen.
Endtimes
Build a bunker underground
for your family.
As the world outside collapses,
you can kill each other with close contact.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Twitter poems Day 3
No heaven, says the atheist.
No atheists, states the priest.
Your life is in my capable hands,
says the surgeon.
The smell of (too-early) summer in the air,
I want new tennis shoes,
to run faster, jump higher,
to soar, to be twelve again.
Lack of motivation keeps me
tied to this chair, this screen.
I should write a memoir
in 140 characters. Or less.
I just did.
No atheists, states the priest.
Your life is in my capable hands,
says the surgeon.
The smell of (too-early) summer in the air,
I want new tennis shoes,
to run faster, jump higher,
to soar, to be twelve again.
Lack of motivation keeps me
tied to this chair, this screen.
I should write a memoir
in 140 characters. Or less.
I just did.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Twitter poems Day 2
getting ready for National Poetry Month with little bits of poems:
Day 2
Sing the body, celebrate woman,
wear your beads
but leave the drum in your car,
it’s really lame & you have no sense of rhythm.
You won’t help me move because it’s raining.
I have to be out by tomorrow.
Landlords disrespect global warming.
I’m melting.
No face painting at the park today,
Mrs. Bunny went back to bed.
If it’s raining later, we could dye some eggs,
hem your dress.
Day 2
Sing the body, celebrate woman,
wear your beads
but leave the drum in your car,
it’s really lame & you have no sense of rhythm.
You won’t help me move because it’s raining.
I have to be out by tomorrow.
Landlords disrespect global warming.
I’m melting.
No face painting at the park today,
Mrs. Bunny went back to bed.
If it’s raining later, we could dye some eggs,
hem your dress.
Friday, March 23, 2012
How about some twitter poems??
Yeah- why not? If NPR cares, why shouldn't I?
Violets devour the lawn, tiny ants climb walls
to an open kitchen window for careless crumbs.
If this isn’t spring it should be.
Let them be for a while.
Butter Pecan ice cream from a local farm.
A picnic in Sabino Canyon
remembered. Letters
tied with red ribbon in a cedar chest.
Each word on my tongue.
Rather than gather characters for a story,
I’m taking long-on-the-page poems,
rendering them to a sudden spontaneous photograph.
Violets devour the lawn, tiny ants climb walls
to an open kitchen window for careless crumbs.
If this isn’t spring it should be.
Let them be for a while.
Butter Pecan ice cream from a local farm.
A picnic in Sabino Canyon
remembered. Letters
tied with red ribbon in a cedar chest.
Each word on my tongue.
Rather than gather characters for a story,
I’m taking long-on-the-page poems,
rendering them to a sudden spontaneous photograph.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
A poem
Where it happened
The sand is not precisely white-
more an expanse of empty, as death
to an atheist, there is no after-
life here has been radiated into null
space: no thriving planets, black holes,
Alamogordo gone nova, if you believe
hype tells the story (it doesn’t)
but you can land the shuttle nearby,
tap dance on the Atari tomb.
When the sun burst through the gap
in the curtains it was so bright
I had to squint to see the red slash
across the bed; no baby, never had been.
It was finished. We could go home.
our fearful trinity undone by nature.
Nothing was as we had expected:
barren land surrounded the motel,
science triumphed, deferred to the sun,
you started your period after all.
We had become wound together
until the world imploded, cast us out,
falling from the epicenter of "us"
rendered into relief, sadness.
Nothing made sense in the moment.
I drove back to Tucson, you slept,
face gaunt from crying, a stranger
who resembled someone I knew.
The view changed: white to brown,
to black as the sun slipped away
changing everything in a blink.
The sand is not precisely white-
more an expanse of empty, as death
to an atheist, there is no after-
life here has been radiated into null
space: no thriving planets, black holes,
Alamogordo gone nova, if you believe
hype tells the story (it doesn’t)
but you can land the shuttle nearby,
tap dance on the Atari tomb.
When the sun burst through the gap
in the curtains it was so bright
I had to squint to see the red slash
across the bed; no baby, never had been.
It was finished. We could go home.
our fearful trinity undone by nature.
Nothing was as we had expected:
barren land surrounded the motel,
science triumphed, deferred to the sun,
you started your period after all.
We had become wound together
until the world imploded, cast us out,
falling from the epicenter of "us"
rendered into relief, sadness.
Nothing made sense in the moment.
I drove back to Tucson, you slept,
face gaunt from crying, a stranger
who resembled someone I knew.
The view changed: white to brown,
to black as the sun slipped away
changing everything in a blink.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
The art of rewrite
Usually rewriting involves culling words- refining. Someone who has a good ear said more was needed in this case, so I rearranged and refitted some thoughts, details. See what you think.
Version one
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
It was a nice day to go the doctor-
the only place she drove anymore,
there and church, and Weingarten’s.
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would drive a Ford"
she’d say but I never knew why.
To me, one ride was good as another.
but no car can help the driver too blind
to notice two-way streets changed
after a lifetime, new signs unreadable
without her glasses, left home deliberately,
her doc being a tall drink of cool water
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
dump trucks don’t leave pretty victims,
Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the lid, too-rouged cheeks, wig,
in a white linen suit she’d loved though
hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This old house"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer,
Tyler was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and orange tiger lilies.
Rewrite
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would ever drive a Ford"
she’d say, leaving the reason dangling.
To a kid, one ride was good as another.
It was a delightful day to be on the road,
she only used the car for appointments,
that and to church, and Weingarten’s.
She was half-blind but eager to see
her new doc, him being an Elvis look-alike
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
What she didn’t know was the month prior
some city-hall hotshot brought in a consultant
who redirected many of the downtown streets.
Where she’d driven a lifetime was now one-way,
right turns she’d made half a century or more
turned directly into oncoming traffic, busses.
Without her glasses, left home deliberately
in a fit of vanity, she failed to see new signs-
the dump truck driver said she never saw him.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
those kind of wrecks don’t leave pretty victims,
though Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the mahogany lid, rouged cheeks, wig,
dressed in a white linen suit she’d loved
though hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This Old House"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer.
Tyler, Texas was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens of bouquets at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and a lot of orange tiger lilies.
Version one
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
It was a nice day to go the doctor-
the only place she drove anymore,
there and church, and Weingarten’s.
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would drive a Ford"
she’d say but I never knew why.
To me, one ride was good as another.
but no car can help the driver too blind
to notice two-way streets changed
after a lifetime, new signs unreadable
without her glasses, left home deliberately,
her doc being a tall drink of cool water
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
dump trucks don’t leave pretty victims,
Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the lid, too-rouged cheeks, wig,
in a white linen suit she’d loved though
hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This old house"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer,
Tyler was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and orange tiger lilies.
Rewrite
Aunt Pearl and the one-way street
Behind the wheel sixty years or more,
she called her cranky old Buick Mildred
after her hated, long dead mother-in-law.
"Nobody decent would ever drive a Ford"
she’d say, leaving the reason dangling.
To a kid, one ride was good as another.
It was a delightful day to be on the road,
she only used the car for appointments,
that and to church, and Weingarten’s.
She was half-blind but eager to see
her new doc, him being an Elvis look-alike
she was sure had a secret crush on her.
What she didn’t know was the month prior
some city-hall hotshot brought in a consultant
who redirected many of the downtown streets.
Where she’d driven a lifetime was now one-way,
right turns she’d made half a century or more
turned directly into oncoming traffic, busses.
Without her glasses, left home deliberately
in a fit of vanity, she failed to see new signs-
the dump truck driver said she never saw him.
It was closed coffin, had to be, of course,
those kind of wrecks don’t leave pretty victims,
though Momma said she wore blue eye shadow
under the mahogany lid, rouged cheeks, wig,
dressed in a white linen suit she’d loved
though hardly ever wore because it wrinkled.
I remember her singing "This Old House"
with Rosemary Clooney, pulling from
a long neck bottle of Lone Star beer.
Tyler, Texas was called the Rose Capitol-
there were dozens of bouquets at her funeral,
mostly yellow, and a lot of orange tiger lilies.
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