Through metal frames
he skimmed the
"Money and Finance" section.
With clean hair,
the children quarreled over
arithmetic problems.
With a brick
book perched on her knee
she sat upright -
"The Big Rich"
letterpressed in gold
down the spine.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
This Is Just To Tell You That You Are Beautiful
If you were
a field of wheat,
I would stand in your golden center,
hypnotized by your swaying with the wind
until I too swayed.
I wouldn't even breathe.
If you were
the ocean at night,
I would dip my toes
into your black waters
that blend into sky
until I too blended.
My chest would
rise and fall
in time with your waves.
If you were
the blessed piece of marble
shaped by Michelangelo
into the Pieta,
my eyes would slowly graze every flawless inch
of your stone surface,
until they welled with tears
at the master work
of divine hands.
a field of wheat,
I would stand in your golden center,
hypnotized by your swaying with the wind
until I too swayed.
I wouldn't even breathe.
If you were
the ocean at night,
I would dip my toes
into your black waters
that blend into sky
until I too blended.
My chest would
rise and fall
in time with your waves.
If you were
the blessed piece of marble
shaped by Michelangelo
into the Pieta,
my eyes would slowly graze every flawless inch
of your stone surface,
until they welled with tears
at the master work
of divine hands.
Ode to Flight
From the time man is born
until he dies
steel cables shoot from
his chest to
the clouds,
barreling upwards,
latching into blue,
positioning his gaze
towards heaven,
coaxing his feet
from the earth.
A desire
he alone could not fulfill.
But then came
the aeroplane, and I,
I was born
with clouds whistling past my cheek,
filling my eye's corners with tears,
filling my chest with beating wings.
I was born grazing shoulders with
man's deep set feathered dream,
born bound to no firmament.
What have I ever done
to deserve this fulfillment?
until he dies
steel cables shoot from
his chest to
the clouds,
barreling upwards,
latching into blue,
positioning his gaze
towards heaven,
coaxing his feet
from the earth.
A desire
he alone could not fulfill.
But then came
the aeroplane, and I,
I was born
with clouds whistling past my cheek,
filling my eye's corners with tears,
filling my chest with beating wings.
I was born grazing shoulders with
man's deep set feathered dream,
born bound to no firmament.
What have I ever done
to deserve this fulfillment?
Frivolous Spending
I want to stay safe
in this house of books
while my friends release hours
like dollar bills
to the wind.
I want to
spend my money
intelligently.
in this house of books
while my friends release hours
like dollar bills
to the wind.
I want to
spend my money
intelligently.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Jenelle
Jenelle,
When we were younger, you wrote haikus. I did too. We put them in a book, and drew colored pencil pictures of alligators and aliens, and all the other characters in our stories.
I thought, “This is good writing – two sets of poems, together in one place.”
When we were teenagers, you wrote a college admissions essay about your accident. I loved the beginning, when you described yourself as a goldfish, but you cut that part, and got right to Friday, September 13, 2002; right to you soaring 20 feet into the air.
I thought, “This is good writing – bold, edited, refined.”
When we were young women, you wrote a poem about yourself and a boy. It was in your journal - I’m sorry, I read it. Your words were ripe with allusions to Shakespeare, Greek mythology. You were a Siren with teal painted fingernails, luring a foolish sailor in to crash on the rocks.
I thought, “This is good writing – mature, honest, self aware.”
When we were younger, you wrote a story about a firebird. You only finished the first half. It was severed at the middle, just as there was trouble in the forest, leaving me painfully curious about what happened next.
I thought, “This is good writing – I wonder what the rest will be.”
When we were younger, you wrote haikus. I did too. We put them in a book, and drew colored pencil pictures of alligators and aliens, and all the other characters in our stories.
I thought, “This is good writing – two sets of poems, together in one place.”
When we were teenagers, you wrote a college admissions essay about your accident. I loved the beginning, when you described yourself as a goldfish, but you cut that part, and got right to Friday, September 13, 2002; right to you soaring 20 feet into the air.
I thought, “This is good writing – bold, edited, refined.”
When we were young women, you wrote a poem about yourself and a boy. It was in your journal - I’m sorry, I read it. Your words were ripe with allusions to Shakespeare, Greek mythology. You were a Siren with teal painted fingernails, luring a foolish sailor in to crash on the rocks.
I thought, “This is good writing – mature, honest, self aware.”
When we were younger, you wrote a story about a firebird. You only finished the first half. It was severed at the middle, just as there was trouble in the forest, leaving me painfully curious about what happened next.
I thought, “This is good writing – I wonder what the rest will be.”
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"For Heart" Revised (three poems)
Pulsing
against
chest wall.
Meaty
flesh layers
muffle
buried rhythm.
Refusing
rest.
Thank you.
-----------
I'm so sorry Professor.
I tried to read the texts you assigned,
but my heart beat.
You must understand how
distracting it can be for organs to
announce themselves
through layers of meaty flesh
with fox-skin drums
pounding out onto an arm
tucked between chest and floor.
How can anyone read like that?
______________
Never take for granted
life's most important rhythm.
against
chest wall.
Meaty
flesh layers
muffle
buried rhythm.
Refusing
rest.
Thank you.
-----------
I'm so sorry Professor.
I tried to read the texts you assigned,
but my heart beat.
You must understand how
distracting it can be for organs to
announce themselves
through layers of meaty flesh
with fox-skin drums
pounding out onto an arm
tucked between chest and floor.
How can anyone read like that?
______________
Never take for granted
life's most important rhythm.
The Giving Tree
Jenelle gives me
Gingerberry Kombucha and
shopping tips.
Coree gives me
poems and
bright little paintings.
Christian brings me
a laughing mouth and
aching heart.
Gingerberry Kombucha and
shopping tips.
Coree gives me
poems and
bright little paintings.
Christian brings me
a laughing mouth and
aching heart.
Taste, Touch
The same thing happens to
my body
when I think about you
that happens to
my tongue
when I think about citrus.
my body
when I think about you
that happens to
my tongue
when I think about citrus.
Rae
Rae quickens her step.
Almost home!
She thinks proudly of her little purchases:
boxes of cereals,
pieces of fruit
swaying in a three cent white plastic bag.
Rae wonders if the boy with long, girly hair
walking in front of her
smokes just because
he likes the smell of
campfires.
She passes by a park table
where some men
huddle around
white pieces of paper
with pencils in their hands
and wonders what they're
talking about.
Almost home!
She thinks proudly of her little purchases:
boxes of cereals,
pieces of fruit
swaying in a three cent white plastic bag.
Rae wonders if the boy with long, girly hair
walking in front of her
smokes just because
he likes the smell of
campfires.
She passes by a park table
where some men
huddle around
white pieces of paper
with pencils in their hands
and wonders what they're
talking about.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Distance
There is a boy that lives in sunshine
and I am so far from him,
buried in machine and brick.
Homework loads,
heavy food,
thick coats
pin my shoulders to the floor.
Where are you summer?
Where are you citrus?
Where are you sunshine?
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