The doors of childhood are closed,
all the monsters dozing.
Inside, each room is full of boxes.
All those boxes, inexpertly packed, half-taped shut,
boxes you won’t open, knowing they are filled
with snoring monsters, big and small
curled together like puppies
in boxes you are bound to carry
wherever you go in the world
never free of the scent of dust and old cardboard.
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Packing Monsters
Pressed For Time
It’s back to the harried life,
the one where I wake the alarm clock each morning,
rouse it with harsh reminders
of All We Have To Do.
I drag us through the day,
haul its ticking body everywhere,
poor little clock.
When it slows or worse,
threatens to stop,
I speak to it sternly.
There is no time for that nonsense, I tell it.
Then I wind it tight and give it a little shake
to squeeze out every captive minute.
Old Woman Who Shops: American Fairy Tale
She passes my house, empty-handed, wearing a kerchief over her gray hair, in a house dress and canvas sneakers, purse in the crook of her elbow.
She’s a little wobbly, teetering as she walks. But in an hour or two, she’ll pass by again, walking in the other direction, laden with bright yellow plastic bags from the dollar store at the edge of town.
I think I know where she lives, a rundown farm a mile east of here. And though we’ve never spoken, I’ve told myself a story about her, an eccentric in-law hanging on at the family farm, sipping tea from chipped mugs, filling time buying plastic trinkets made in China.
But today, for the first time, our eyes meet. I stumble into her as I rise from weeding the garden and she is passing the edge of my yard. Her eyes are bright and laughing. She reaches deep into her yellow bags and hands me one perfect peach.
Plenty more, she says. Enjoy.
And now I’ve written her a new tale, as juice runs down my chin. In this story, she is the guardian of fruit trees. She travels this way each year, lingering like summer, to hand us things that grow and remind us of where we live—this bountiful land full of gifts, not one of them priced at a dollar, not one of them made of plastic.
Personification
The world wakes each day,
rubs its eyes, starts the coffee.
Pictured like this, the world is
gentle as an old aunt who will say
Yes to your every request.
Travel through the news of war and ruin
and when they threaten to
overwhelm, use Personification.
If you picture the world
in its rumpled bathrobe
gathering its thoughts and oceans
while the bread toasts
you may both get through breakfast,
one of each day’s small joys, smiling,
before the news comes on
before the sky grows light enough
for the world to see the mountain
teetering outside its kitchen window.
Drowning In Coffee Foam
But
what a way to Go
says the bee perched
on the rim of my cup of
Cappuccino
His Work In This World: American Fairy Tale
As we punch our alarms, brush our teeth, hurrying,
the old man takes his seat in front of a rusty green trailer on Route 24.
Five days I’ve seen him now, parked on his kitchen chair
at the side of the road, waving to the cars that pass.
He is the main character in this American Fairy Tale,
set exactly here to dispense Safe Travels,
Comfortable Dinners and Sleep Full Of Magical Dreams
to all who wave back.
Don’t wave and there’s trouble ahead—a fender-bender, a burnt roast,
a sleepless night.
Almost no one, of course, ever figures this out.
I wouldn’t have either,
except I stopped my car today,
thinking I was Lost,
and so learned the twist in this tale.
Here, in his story, no horses, no forests,
no travelers who’ve missed their path,
nor displaced royalty searching for
Dragons
Treasure
or Magical Birds
Or at least
none wise or lucky enough to stop their car
and ask directions from an old man.
August
is tart lemonade and a blue plate of sugar cookies sprinkled with colored crystals, eaten on the front porch, frosty glass perched on the wide railing, cookie on a paper napkin crumbs dropped for the ants (all business, as usual) to cart away.
Blackberry Pancakes
This was over breakfast, your homemade pancakes
thick with the blackberries I picked this morning,
still damp with dew when I drove them to your house.
We discussed living alone–
It’s all about angles, I said.
From a spot in the grass,
one tiny frog can take on the aspect
of movie monsters.
Your eyes light up.
Before this descends into a talk about Godzilla,
I make the transition—all about angles,
Point of View. Just so, life.
From a certain angle, lonely.
From another angle, rich
with magic and words.
You frown, puzzled. Then your face
clears, you pour maple syrup over your pancakes
and laugh. Oh, you say,
I thought we were talking about Angels.
Beach People
Early in the morning
the coastline shakes itself awake
and is left with
only the most burr-like humans attached:
Walkers, and contemplatives,
exercise girls, dogs with boys and Frisbees,
moms with cautious or crazy toddlers,
fishermen, content-as-clams ocean watchers,
shell hunters with their tell-tale bend, always looking down,
and my favorites—the people armed at dawn with
coolers,
blankets,
folding chairs,
pop-up tents,
big towels,
mesh bags stuffed with
bright plastic toys,
paperbacks,
boogie boards,
striped umbrellas,
inflatable rafts,
sunscreen,
and sandwiches,
setting up cozy day homes
arranged just so for the angle of sun at midday,
which is long hours from now
but you, Positive Thinkers, are certain that hour will come
and when it does, everyone you love,
or at least everyone you travel with,
will be comfortable.
Whirl #116
Much earlier than my last couple tries, here’s my attempt at a poem using the words above, a prompt from the wonderful site, The Sunday Whirl.
The pressure accumulates of everything that
has ever happened to you or might.
It climbs into bed with you every night, whispering
and smoking. It’s scary, that voice, as it builds its case:
Calamity upon risk, impossible change, disaster. It builds
from an ember to a slow fire that can smolder all night
If fed. This slow, hypnotic voice coaxes, says
Attend to this jumbled order of what could be,
what never was, and what there is no more time to Accomplish.
Oh that voice will keep you company all night long,
If you listen.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 