sounds cold, no
humor or passion.
Instead, see
precision
as ballet—perfect timing,
gears in pink tutus.
Monthly Archives: April 2013
Mechanical
Casting Spells
In that moment I glanced away, some witch cast a spell on my children. I remember one golden flash of light. I blinked against the dazzle while they grew tall and secretive, lean with a hunger to be Away. Now there are whole days when they are strangers, sweet or surly, prowling this world we shared, looking for a way out.
What else can I do but study every spell I find? With luck and diligence, and so much time now that I’ve worked myself out of this job, each day is patched together with spells I cast myself. They are listed in the book we all received, along with Dr. Spock in his serious dark cover. The other book at every baby shower is Spells For Moms, with teething, tantrums, and chicken pox full of notes in the margin, recipes adjusted to taste. But now I’ve reached the back of the book, with all its untested spells. One marked Acceptance, another called New Chapters Blossom Like Wild Violets. And the last spell, the one I practice every day, titled Good Fortune For Their Roads.
Everyone, Your Homework
is: Loosen your stingy heart
that keeps you strangled
barely breathing
telling your self No
all day long.
Give yourself the big gift of
What you Really Want. Heart’s desire.
It might be something simple
like letting yourself
assign homework to the whole world.
Window shop the whole earth
for the gift that brings
mysterious smiles at two p.m.
and makes you leap
into each morning
eager for more.
You’ll know when you find it, whatever
makes you feel like
these poems feel to me—
Something bountiful and wise
Tugging your brain through
crowded fields of weeks.
And if that’s too big, too generous,
start small. Stop in the middle of the field.
Make believe your heart’s desires are
bright red berries you gather
growing close to the ground
hidden by real leaves.
Assumptions Need No Crossing Guard
Note: Sometimes, life just tosses things at us, an odd little synchronicity like a tiny wrapped gift. Due to some tech glitch, we’ve been without Internet access for a couple of days, so I missed the daily April prompt I’ve been using from Robert Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog. Instead,I wrote a poem prompted by my day. This morning, Internet restored, I checked the prompt I missed. “Write an auto poem.” Automatic? Automobile? Hmmm….here’s the poem I’d already written.
There’s an over-sized pickup truck
ahead of me-red, with lurid art
covering the back window:
Skull and crossbones, flames.
I am idly judging the driver,
thinking my thoughts,
not so much jumping to conclusions
as wandering over to them,
cozy and familiar.
Then he stops
in the middle of the block
to let little kids on bikes cross the street.
There it goes again. Life,
shaking its head,
giving me new thoughts to think.
Weather Report
Don’t escape into dreams
which are cool to the touch
filled as they are with frothy drinks
topped with pink paper umbrellas.
Here, every day is sunny
and you’ve found your sunglasses.
Instead, move forward
into the complex weather of real life.
Storms brewing,
bills to pay, children, cars, cats.
Everything is messy
and has Opinions.
Doldrums and tiny dust devils
and time for a nap and a dance
before the next emergency.
Tornadoes spelling out
This Is Not A Drill
across your sky.
2 Senryu
Some days the world sighs
like a mom sick of questions
I can’t stop asking.
****************************
I count calories
to distract myself from counting
dollars or mistakes.
beyond
At that age, I wondered about
God’s last name
and why swinging high
made your stomach drop
and why that felt so good.
And about the edge of the universe.
If everything has an edge, I reasoned,
Then out there, beyond the moon,
beyond the galaxies,
there must be plywood joists,
propping up the scenery
at the edge of everything.
Beyond that backdrop,
the scent of fresh-cut wood,
plain floor littered with
sawdust and crumpled gum wrappers
and beyond that—
This was how I learned my mind
could feel like swinging high.
Burn
Burn for Now—
All these plans built
With dollars and curtains,
Chicken dinners and sensible cars,
Changing light bulbs, going to a job—
Burn.
The ghosts hidden in old photo
Albums, jewelry boxes, dishes
In your cupboard,
And that invisible future
Painted on the inside of your forehead—
Burn that, too.
Burn the whole house of yourself.
Stand still in the charred doorway
All that’s left of your proud life.
Rubble of all that didn’t work out.
Leave these smoldering ruins
Step forward.
Feel how light
When there’s nothing left to
Burn.
I Am
taller than I pictured
and sudden as the spearmint
growing wild at the edge
of this careful garden.
I am strolling up to the door
of my next life,
the third date with myself,
after
I’ve charmed myself
as best I can,
smiled as I wove my story
kept my baggage
mismatched and colorful.
I’ve tilted my head and studied
my future over candlelit dinners
trying to picture us together
as I describe to myself
the shape of dreams I’ve gathered
herding them back each time they wander
shutting them in the yard till now,
the third date,
the one where I go all the way.
Express Poem
Even in darkness
or hidden by a curve
there are vibrations
before it appears,
barreling towards
me, waiting small
and scared, shivering
in the glare
from the headlights,
wishing for someone
else to save me,
sure I’m not fit for the job.
Here they come–
Headlights of the express
train bearing down on me
here,
where I’ve tied
myself to the tracks.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 