I apologize profusely- I had 2 computers out of whack (one for good- my netbook) and the other restored with a complete clean install. I still don't have the printer hooked up or my word processing programs up and running but I HAVE been writing my poems in notebooks- not having a smart phone- I had to wait to send poems - here are poems
eleven thru fifteen - nine and ten are somewhere in another notebook, maybe at work-
So she wins a prize
It’s true, she drops her uterus
like it’s a celebrity, filling the maw
with assorted body parts,
mewling proper names and fluids,
while you, timid sister, stammer
at the mention of pussy ‘n taint
(should I edit, should I?)
ask me again and I’ll tell you
the lips that say love can draw blood,
the sharp-tipped tongue craves
your "demure little asshole"* but
doesn’t linger nearly long enough.
Take you proper nouns and sit
on them, I’ll stay properly discreet.
* from Tony Hoagland
At the party, I re-met memories, people long out of my life, now back in because of a mutual friend’s natal observance. They spun elaborate tales of medical procedures as I nodded (just right) and said "Oh, my!" with proper concern. We all face our decrepitude with brave faces, canes and baggy dresses, woven wraps, and sensible shoes. Some have stopped celebrating their years, others insist you know immediately just how long it took them to get this far, as if they took the long way (and are the better for it) while you zipped down the bypass using family money. They ask about recycling. I want to say, yes, the crab dip is soylent green and you are what we eat but some have forgotten even how to laugh, if they ever did. I drive home alone, my generation on the radio, floating between lanes, singing along as loud as I ever could.
clip art poem
sunrise, with eagle
new daffodils at the botanical garden
volunteers blooming at the fence
school buses red, yellow, black, slow
farmer’s market kale and gingerroot
biscuits from Hardee’s
hardware store for a hammer
lunch from Popeye’s
nap on an eyelet spread
quick load, colors on cold
healthy stir-fry, orange, green
Maxfield Parrish sundown
guitars on the porch
neopolitan ice cream
cotton floral nightgown, long
That cake again
I made you a cake one year
when we were just divorced
red velvet, but it may have been
dump cake, better than it sounds
some recipe your mother gave me
forty-something years ago
I pretended to care a long time
but always made a cake for you.
Twenty years ago I wrote a poem
about the cake, but it was all a lie,
I think it was, the poem was,
after we separated I stopped cooking.
For some reason, I persist in the farce
that there was a cake I delivered
or didn’t, may not have made. I have
made a hundred since, none for you.
She won’t say
what you did, won’t text or call
no indication of the sudden silence-
it may have been something you said
or she could be dead at the landing
from a tumble alone in her big house
blinded by a sudden light from outside.
she could have been hit by a taxi
on her way to the Empire State Building
or taken up in a pre-rapture practice run.
Alien abduction should be considered
though her neighborhood is quiet
and full of frame houses of a certain age.
The twenty-two text messages you sent
may have influenced her invisible state
advised by a girlfriend to "cool it"
she won’t say, you can’t ask
sometimes the best path is to back up,
back off, and go another way home.