Monday, April 29, 2013

Last One

"Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around." Stephen King

April didn't shower
though I waited for her to.
I close up my uncloseable
book of poems
and give them to you.

Over My Head

I was driving in the blue black night of 2 or 3. It was just the insomniac mockingbird, you, and me. You were pushing a barbecue grill up the hill. I was at the stoplight, standing still, with the window rolled down, and the bird was singing car alarms. We stared into each others' eyes and dreamed about each others' arms, when with great surprise you whispered I still love Shel Silverstein. You frightened me, your brave coming clean. I frowned and drove away. But rounding the corner I thought of how I once loved you. I almost turned to back to help you load the grill onto the back of my truck bed. Instead, with luck I remembered I'm done driving you around. Instead I realized you were the same alien I had found three years back. You wouldn't have respected me if I had turned back and called, Jack, let me help you load the grill into the back. Alien life understands the sanctuary of the vehicle. Your once alien threecycle I thought was so strange was all you had and loved in this world. Everything else you had left behind in the other, with your Superman comics and your father and mother. Anyway...
I didn't turn back. The mockingbird attacked my windshield, sealed, thankfully, well. I don't understand much. But I always got Mother Goose. And I, too, still love Shel.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Waiting

My rosebush blushes pink rosebuds
The tangerines entice
Tomatoes are turning tomato hued
The rosemary smells nice
Beside it candy apple amaryllis
cups its velvet coated leather soft skin
Our garden isn't much to look at from the street
but rich red from within

Red wing birds shake the habitat
from their feathers and flutter, flying away
I feel shiny like a sequin on this
blue and silver sequin shiny day.
I'm waiting for the liilies now
and their cheery cherry passion faces
to bloom against the frontyard fence
and other wormy, sluggy, slippery places.

I'm waiting for the broom swept bougainvillea papers
fuscia like a sunset
to be pushed in a pile on the pink pavers
My garden is like a fresh wrapped roll of assorted Life Savers.

I'm waiting by the door for spingsummer's sweet views
I'm waiting for my life saver, my cafe latte ginger headed you.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Erasure: New Year's Day Journal Entry

(Erasure is a form where you black out words or blocks of words, either intentionally or at random. It often exposes new thoughts and ideas. I read an article about how the FBI does this often when it leaks files to the media. The purpose of it is to entice the reader! What's missing here? It hypes up the interest in the person as a "bad guy". I ask for your patience in reading mine. I blacked out words at random, sometimes slicing words into fragments. I especially like"...Smokey, remind er in a her resilience.", "..all thos were so wo ful." I hope you like it. I hope you're out there.)

2013 New Year Joul

It's 7:29 this New Morning, and Happy New Year!
watched Beast of the at Cyn ith Kath, Annie, Gulguin,
ri. What a great and all thos were so wo ful. I
see that movie with Smokey, remind er in a
her resilience, her abi
amazing love for her dad, and the dad remind of
ways. One made me sad, like when he did ered with her at
the moment, and I thought of with Daddy and she
wanted me to tie her shoes. wanted them
retied and after five times I and And she was
crying and looking at me through the wi ned aro
there was her brown, tear stained face her awa
came back in she jumped off her aw
I thought of that. And the ot needed to get away, and
saw that from her perspective in the
movie. But the love they had for each other and he loved her
and took best way he could. Afterward, after the movie, I
came went 8 or 8:30. We sat outside
guys and for the new year. Then
we down and it was beautiful.
were round and deep on the know it. So, there
the prayers we said together. Then we the ords and
came. Walt and I had chocolate pudding ced King
of Queens and kissed at midnight. Then we went to was out. he
still is. Happy. It was great. I took down the there is
always a touch of tal sadness in doing that. But having
Christma of the new year. I can go to Pi get a
few cheap in different sizes for
deconstruct would be nice there, or clear
vase of eights. Right now the last mas red is
there, ttia we had on the fireplace. , at 9:30 its sun
salutes s, and then a 12 read before I
don't care. a great time as a friend and
equal and a beautif there was supposed to
be rain. wish them a happy ne
too, Walt to see a movie me tonight.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Erasure: Tejaobindu Upanishad Verses 1-6

----on the shining Self
Changeless, underlying the world of----
and realized in the heart of-----
---- reach is the supreme goal of life
Hard to des------hard to abide in
They alone attain samadhi----
Mastered their senses and----
Free from self will and ----
Without selfish bonds to----
They alone attain samadhi who are
Prepared to face challenge----
In the three stages of meditation.
-----illumined teacher's guidance
-------with the Lord of Love
-------is present everywhere.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Oh April 30, Please Come!

Rosie Good went down the street
to get an ice-cream sandwich
Rosie tripped and cut her lip
and came home with a bandage.

Rosie's husband opened the door
and looked oh so upset
He took poor Rosie in his arms
and said, Don't cry, my pet.

Does it hurt really bad
said Rosie's dad, who immediately rushed over
No,I'm O.K. said Rose O'Day (for that
is what he called her).

Rosie sat down on the couch
and filled her mouth with chocolate
but with every bit she bit her lip
and stained the brand new carpet.

Rosie's husband was quite ilked
with all the new housekeeping
and laundering and bandaging
and cleaning up the bleeding.

He threw a fit, said This is it
and stormed into the bedroom
Rosie's dad was awfully glad
You shouldn't have married that baffoon.

Rosie yelled Dad, he's just mad
and dad yelled right back at her
You should have married that other one
the one that was quite fatter

But I love this one, Rosie said
and I will love him forever
He came out of the room and tripped on the broom
and threw on his cashmere sweater.

I'm going out
Rosie husband shout-
ed and left in a hurry
Rosie's dad thought that's too bad
as he saw her eyes go blury.

As you can tell if you've come this far
our Rosie is quite over
with writing a poem for thirty days
the month is getting slower.

Her lip repaired, her husband home
her father finally leaving
This has all been just a tale-
though a dumb one - she was weaving.

Please April 30, oh please come
Let this challenge be through
I'm completely disheartened
and fully convinced
my poetry days are through.




Wednesday, April 24, 2013

hope





I hope it ends well
this hope, this expectation
better off hopeless

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

The Reading (Thank you, Alice Fulton, for the sky blue flower and the inspiration.)

I keep going back to the poet at the podium
to her black bulbous hair and big bold eyes
and how she smiled when I said it was my birthday.
I held out hope it would be good
no, easy.
Instead it was hard, with clunks of images clunking together and
if the sky is too small for you I'll give you a sky blue flower
No, the sky is too enormous for me.
Sometimes I want to hide from it in the hallway with no windows, no,
the closet in my room so it will not shine on me
I'll take the flower with me, no, I'll leave it at the door.
I keep going back to the days when I would throw my arms open to it -
The cornflower blue crayon swiped across the page. This is day.
This is enough, a swipe, a streak of flower blue line, it indicates more.
You can see that by the way I chose to put it at the top and let it trickle down.
Everyone has a different idea of trickle, and they are all small.
Small is manageable, no, not really, small is frightening because it
gets smaller always, if not bigger, always smaller, and that scares me -
how can you be more less than afraid of a blue flower
I keep going back to the podium alone. Open my mouth. Close it too soon. You do it. I say. Do it for me. It's my birthday.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Day 22 Haiku

my leaf floats past you
wrapped in black ink and white page
Quick now, turn away

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Assemblage

I keep going back to the poem, the prequil, the pre-quill poem
before the blank page comes the full mind
the dumping ground of the subconscious creeping onto the
front lawn of consciousness
a tipping trash can in the night wind
spilling secrets, wads of gunk and loosely wrapped unmentionables
like it don't like it
claim you know nothing of poetry
This is all I know:
I am standing in the center of creation.
I can sift through the gunk, pick up a napkin and paste it to the side of a can
unglue, re, un, re, un, re, un
real finally
carved into a line of black ink
reminding me of something I once knew

Saturday, April 20, 2013

A Weekend Alone

Come in the summer, late July. I'm a block from the ocean and she'd love to see you.
I wouldn't.
Lie to me.
Lie in the sand at sunset, and we'll walk to the cliff and skip some rocks and climb up to the corner store. We'll have chocolate shakes and macaroni salad, their macaroni salad's really good, and then go home. We can toast marshmallows in the yard and read poems, then do some yoga in the living room. We'll watch movies, whatever movies you want.
I wouldn't.
Lie to me.
Say you'll be here. Say you will swim with me in the morning and see the craft fair in the afternoon. It'll be fun, you know.
I wouldn't lie to me.

Friday, April 19, 2013

After the First Couple of Readings of a Poem Over My Head

I keep going back to the poem, to the
blank slate of the poem,
written in black ink, typed firm to the page
I keep going back to the first time you said you loved me,
stamped in my brain
between my name and The Star Spangled Banner.
I memorized the
vibration
of the words, though I don't remember which shirt you wore.
I thought this could be my husband, a thought I usually have
no mind for.
I keep going back to the poem. I find a phrase I don't know - fleshburn brush
Like a scrubbie? An exfoliating puff or a scruffy chin -
She's talking chalkboards,
fields of green
obsolete - ?
like a mind or a field or a big green or black patch
on a wall
All we have now are the those in our mind, your second grade teacher's name neatly printed at the top, if you can find the top through all the
muck and dust
Chalk dust. That was the reson why we changed to whiteboards. Dumb move. Now who will bang the erasers? Now who will sniff the chemical pens -
the fleshburn brushes?
I keep going back to the poem, though for more than this.
But what more is there than this?

Thursday, April 18, 2013

On my Morning Constitutional

I was almost run over by a man with a disregard for the Law of the Lights, but I crossed the street safely nevertheless. The blue bus bench sat upright and cheerily flirted. I nodded. I walked along the park where ducks lined the path like parade goers in feathered hats fluttering hello. The red roses rose and roared my name in celebration. An unleashed Doberman Killer wanted a bite out of me.He lunged and bared his teeth. I screamed and scared him, surprisingly, and he wandered away. I caught my breath and bearings beside the house I could never afford to buy her. All those years we would drive by in wonder -

But something shook me back to 47. Death poked me in the ribs. He insists I pay attention. Sometimes I do. I wasn't run over or devoured because he poked me, caught me, scared the dog. He will always protect me until my last breath. That's his job. He is a friend, a stoic, patient gentleman. He has a dark side, but what friend could be completely accepting of my own? He loves me for who I am. That's why the roses know my name. They see the gentleman at my knees. Roar, roses. I'm 47, and my husband thinks I'm beautiful.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Memoir

This is a memoir.
I was born.
My parents named me RoseAnne.
Then Rosie, then Flower
Fower Pot
Mrs. Potts
Pottamiss
Lottapotta
Potta
Stubborn
Selfish
Stupid
Disappointment
Good Mother
Bad Mother
Good Mother
and Finally Married.
My husband calls me Baby
Roseannie
Filthy
Talented
never, ever Beautiful
My kid calls me Mommy
Mom
Mommy
Momma
Mommy
I call her Thank You.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

grain

The earth is shifting, grain by grain
I cling to what I can of it
But with every exhale I lose ground
My feet fall forward, then catch me, fall forward, then catch me, fall forward, then catch me
From China, my lime tree can be seen upside down
Maybe not. I've never seen it from China
I don't have a lime tree
But I love the world
Rumi said he preferred "the grainy taste" of friendship to heaven
Our rough edges define us, and we are either attracted or repelled by them
Maybe heaven is the lime tree -

Monday, April 15, 2013

Inspired by Sappho Fragment #23

"toward you, lovely ones, my thoughts
never change-" Sappho

toward you
I was drawn
for so long
and you kept pushing
me back

you said I'd take
everything
from you
instead you took
everything
from me
I'm leaving are you coming?

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Meeting A.

I remember holding on too long
for fear of the moment he'd leave me.
His hands, lightening on my back, would pull back
and leave me standing in a blank white page.
One time he didn't end the hug.
I stepped out first.
I had to or I would have died, even though it killed me.
I gave him the page to hold.
Just before he tossed it, the page had turned to gold.

When I met his son
he wrapped his arms around me and didn't let go.
Maybe he had been let go of before, and it killed him.
Maybe there is memory on the surface of our skin
of a light, of a gold light, the last handprint of him.

Safe now, we live on the surface and the layers
the spaces between words spoken and un.
The way forward from holding someone too long
the way to survive their struggle free
I guess is just to let them be.

Maybe he loved you so much
he couldn't bear that from you-
to feel you move away the way
you were always meant to do.

Anyway, A.-
thank you for being so patient.
You smiled, and I didn't cry
even when I studied the curve of your jaw
and saw the lightening in your eye.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Ganesh in a purple frame

purple pudgy Ganesh in his purple frame
stares out the door as he should to keep the path clear
of obstacles things that make me fall-I make myself fall more than anyone else could-
strong glossy grey hide like the wet black back of a seal, Ganesha
squeals with delight at one more knot undone, grant me freedom from granthis, grey glossy pudgy purple one

Friday, April 12, 2013

Here's Where

Here's where he sits in the wake of her leaving
Here's where the happy ending ended like this
Nothing was disturbed but a few empty hangers
where her clothes you to stand next to his.

Here's where they planned to raise all their children
Here's where he'd sit with the kids on his knee
Here's where the dog would rest in the corner
Here's where they'd set the Christmas tree.

Here's where he wouldn't smile at her laughter
Here's where his silence fell like a stone
Here's where she left and he didn't chase after
Here's where he faces alone.

Here's where he listens to the echo of the door
Here's where she couldn't take anymore
but he didn't know what she couldn't take anymore of-
all he had to give her was love.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Day 11: 3 Poems: A Dog, Spring Haiku, Loose Ends



A dog
lunged at me, woke
me from the white
page of meditation
don't doubt
he said
your own truth is
worth reading



Spring Haiku

it's spring and even
in my dreams the kisses are
lingering longer


Loose Ends

Look before you flush
he called over his shoulder
I'm in midlife and should do this because I'm getting older
He speaks from experience. I know what he means
he knows how I hate white lab coats over jeans
Why do I give up on myself?
Why do kisses end quickly?
Is it because I'm too thorny, am I growing too prickly?
dreams are an insult to everyday living
made of tangled vignettes
it's anyone's guess what they're giving
The hug ends too soon
the kids wait for June
and there is nothing new to tell under the moon.The good stuff lies over it, where we all come from and will finally come undone
and become the most brilliant things over the sun
I'm having my fun, my loving, my too-soon-over cuddling
Midlife! I say
as it swirls the rim and flushes away


Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Day 10: Returning

Go holding my hand
Look into his bed
This is were he's laid.

Let her hold you-
the sister you don't know
Don't let each other go.

Walk out with the family
into the winter sun
When you come back they'll be gone.

Plant your life in rich soil
Scoop this in your hand
This is where you stand
This is where he's laid
Come with a pumpkin for his grave.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Day 9: Meeting His Paulina

larger than her given name
larger than nine children
larger than two loves
she sat small in the passenger seat
and took hold of my hand.
She was fragile, breakable, breaking even then
but held tight.
To what-
her mama's boy's future?
Paulina,
I don't know if I can hold him long.
I know his passion for the language you gave him,
and I don't know how to speak it.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Ottava Rima, And Not a Very Good One

White is the space, the outside of myself
Black is the part I fill with my belief
All my writing ends in nothing else
but this purusha and this prakrti.
When asked which of the world's scenes we'd be near
if we could be near any, but one forever,
we choose where food and beauty would always be
We think of purusha and prakrti.

A savannah with a wide river clear
and animals who wander through the day
is where when asked all children everywhere
responded they would most desire to play.
The savannah ensures our span of life
will run as long as we would like to be
and running, spend our days as free as kites
dancing upon the string of prakrti.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Day 6: Bouquet

PICTURE THIS: a big bouquet of white roses and fat red peonies. blown UP, a thing of beauty destroyed. blood and stars are all that's left - our primary ingredients - the first thing men look for in a potential victim is HAIRSTYLE. long hiar, ponytails and buns are easy to GRAB...why do we blow things up, and what is cooler: imploding or exploding? blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall...what? a woman with NO make-up is more likely to be a quiet victim, for they are used to not being heard...the light touch of raining petals on skin...men also look for women who are PREOCCUPIED: searching through their purse or talking on their cellphone...we destroy things of beauty...re can rebuild a city, we can REPLANT seeds, young girls will always grow up to be women, and why wait? why not just destroy them now? BLESSED are you when they tell you the way you dress is asking for it, for you shall grow up with low self esteem and poor posture and be a bigger target so they can say they told you so...if you're ever thrown into the trunk of a car - AND THIS IS IMPORTANT - kick out the tail lights and stick your ARMS through the holes. the driver won't see you, but other drivers will...blessed are the other drivers...the last petal fell...someone will sweep up the mess, probbaly a woman NO one notices... blessed are the men who tell you how to protect yourself from men, for this, TOO, is a violence against women...if you have pepper spray, yell, "I have pepper spray!" If your attacker ( ooh, an attacker of your very own!) has a gun, and you can, run. he'll only hit you 1 out of a hundred times...if you have a gun, pray you can get to it. ost likely you won't...another bouquet is delivered to another beautiful woman, and every time this occurs, another woman is being attacked...how soft the petal against the skin, how terrible the blood and stars...

Friday, April 5, 2013

Day 5: Scenes From a Window

I coast up under the tree by their house, no ligts, no radio. I unwrap the last Luna Bar and peer inside their living room window. She is sitting on the sofa in soft light, doing the crossword puzzle in the paper. He grabs a water out of the refigerator and goes back to playing his guitar. I imagine he's playing something soft, maybe something Spanish. There are flowers on the table, I see the blue glow of the T.V. in the back room. I imagine this luna Bar is instead something more luscious. What did they have for dinner?

-

He can't stop thinking about leaving her. He plays the guitar to keep his mind busy. But he keeps jumping back to that, and how much happier he would be. It's not another woman but the existence of other women, each more glamorous, more sexy, younger than she. More exciting. What happened to his exciting life?

She knows he wants to leave her. He never tells her she's beautiful, and she is not beautiful because of it. She feels deflated. She feels she must sit here and do the crossword so as not to rock the boat. It's a quiet way to pass the time, passing the time of her life, unwanted.

-

She rises and stretches. She is beautiful. Graceful, even glamorous. The paper remains on the sofa. She takes her plate of tangerine peels to the kitchen. She calls out to him she's going to bed. She walks over and kisses his forehead and cradles his head between her breasts. It's a tender scene. He watches her leave the room. Did he call out I'll be in in a minute? The light goes off in the living room. He sets down his guitar and turns toward the T.V. We watch Seinfeld together for a while.

-

He doesn't kiss me anymore. He barely touches my skin, my sleeve. I don't miss it.

She will roll over and snuggle me on a good night. This has the feeling of a cold night. This has the feeling of a long night. There are two Seinfelds on.

-

He turns off the T.V. He closes the blinds and heads to bed. I am warm and I am safe as long as I am near these people, who have everything I long for.

-

She's back.
I know.
I hope she's warm enough.
There's nothing we can do about that.
Where's her family?
I know. I wonder if she has anyone.
Maybe she left her husband. Is it too early to put some food out?
Yeah. I don't want to frighten her.
Yeah. Plus it's awkward.
Yeah.
He wraps her in his arms. She snuggles into his body. There is an I love you. There is a smile. There is small talk, quiet, gentle, that no one will ever hear.
As long as she is outside, they are safe.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Day 4: Gong

"star reliquified...Gong!" Rainer Maria Rilke

A golden splash cuts through my mind
my itching imaginations
terrible voices of all kinds
Telling me all I need to know
I cannot grab a single word
of all the truth there is to tell
"Let us erect three temples here!"
I long to say. I cannot say.
In a subconscious melody
I lay hollow. I become
uplifted from this solid ground.
I become a flying saucer
Yes, a flying saucer, a disk
of gold, a star reliquified.
I am the tangled tangerine
and bougainvilea at the door
I am everything colorful, all
sound, all hum, and I am gone -
Pour me back into my mold, gong.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Mass in Past and Present Tense

April 3
Mass in the Past and Present Tense

The little old guy sang Morning Has Broken
We stood when the priest walked in and spoke when we were spoken to
in mass response, underwhelming monotone.
Then the old guy sang Amazing Grace alone and aced it, and we dropped to our knees on the creaky knee supports. In this moment of miraculous transport we fell short.
People yawned as the bread became flesh and the wine became blood-
Freaky, glorious, misunderstood.
I stood when not spoken to and cried little guy! Little guy! sing of this moment! Wake us up! Ignite us! Refresh our memories! We here on our knees have forgotten why we fell and why morning has broken and why there is any amazing thing in the world to tell. But I didn't stand up. I made that part up.

We stood, now spoken to, and gathered in line, a fashion parade walking down the aisle single file. We know where we're going and who will meet us there, but it's as if we don't care.
Why don't we fall prostrate the moment we get there? Why don't we relate? Why aren't we aware? Is there a single shed tear?
There is. But in useless despair I didn't hear.

Arjuna saw Krishna in all his holy holiness and had to turn away. It was more than he could take. We are privileged to see holy holiness every day. It is more than I can take. I stood, aware and awake, as the priest offered me salvation. All that is said is all that can be said. It is repeated again and again. Amen.
And it is repeated in the aftersilence of letting the Lord in. some return to their knees, some stand, some yawn but silently.
The silence is too big sometimes. Too glory filled. Something has happened here. Some silent Amen becomes too freaky to take.
The priest rises and we rise off the creaky knee supports. It's ending and we're awake.

The little guy sings Jesus Remember Me. I remember these words spoken by the thief on the right. We step into the night. Silence.
But he was not a thief. He was a rebel. Aren't we all.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Unleavened
"...for I shall never know who I am if I am not loved." Edward Dahlberg

He held me in his hands and broke me apart
he ripped me in pieces and gave me away
It hurt to be used, but there was more to do.

I became humble, not the long starving vanity kind
but the ego removing kind
so I could get things done.

I remember your story about dragging the used Christmas tree home
along Pacific Avenue at midnight with your mother and brother
and how you were too young to be ashamed

And now you're old enough. But what are you willing to have in this world?
What of all the wonderful things which are rightfully yours
are you willing to claim?

What about me? I'm yours.
I know at night you sift through me
for the crumb of beauty you know is there.

And even though you were too young to know shame, she wasn't.
And still she dragged that tree home along Pacific Avenue
so you could have a nice Christmas.

I can see the mouths of the men at the table
They were hungry and frightened
and for that moment their stomachs and hearts were full.

That's humble. That's all. A moment of satiety
of taking what you are willing to take
and loving every crumb.
From this place there is no limit to our rising.