Author Archives: presssendpoetry

Author and editor for Press Send Poetry. Marketing for Barcoding, Inc. #Baltimore #Poet

the chair

Even at 80 mph
I knew what the chair used to be:

green cushions with white buttons
it sat on a patch of astroturf
in a screened-in porch.
Faced a small glass table where
ice tea was served and fresh tomatoes were stored.
And in winter,
its cushions were stored and it sat bare-chested
braving winds that fluttered its
white thick-strapped spine.

Spring cleaning meant
cobwebs were removed
and the chair was bathed on the deck
with soapy water the kids
sprayed on each other.
The cushions were fluffed, tied gently back on for
another lazy season.

Until one strap broke.
The kids moved out, and
when there was a sale at Sears, the chair
was left to face west on I-95, naked
to the elements
and the drivers hurrying home from work.

the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina (as written in my journal)

Not sure why I thought to look up my journal entry around the time of Katrina, but I did (maybe it’s all the reading about the BP oil disaster). And it brought back the fear and the horror and well, I thought maybe it was good if we all took a moment to remember. Tragedy, with time, is very easy to forget for those not involved. Sounds preachy, but true…

journal entry 9/1/05 12:58am

“tonight rumors
that I had lost my job
that gas stations were closed
that bodies were still
swimming in the sewage
overtaking New Orleans….
one of these is
true.”

“this is for sure an unbelievable time the unthinkable is happening – it was really only a matter of time. Katrina– cause of the flooding of a city that always meant good times always meant debauchery, laughter, the lazy life, laid back Southern style. now the streets just sewers of debris and bodies. people are dying. people are losing all sense of right and wrong. that breakdown of society that ID that can no longer be contained and the rest of us… helpless? watching mouths open. we sleep and wake to see more bad news and that gas will hit $4. only a matter of time.

we are so fortunate. so now when it is quiet we can say a silent prayer for the Gulf Coast and a secret sigh of relief that it wasn’t us. blink it could all be gone. right now, is there any other way of thinking? nah. and now i should sleep and get ready for the morning….”

late night city gossip

Here on our Patterson hill
see the lights of downtown
pulsing,

the men with knives and guns
the sporadic sirens
all demanding,
the streetlight orange rowhomes
the white marble stoops
all conspiring.

The hound dog neighbor (Hannah)
wailing,
she’s heard all about me,
these city streets,
their brick cobblestone cement,
whipersing,
the gossip never ends.

[ps: found this little poem in an old journal, circa 2006 or so]

Sticks and Stones

this certainly isn’t the worst day
but it is a spitting Tuesday, dark, gray,
November where the leaves have lost
themselves
and given up and died.
i see them lying in the street wet, glistening
like they’ve been crying.
i see the trees now twigs
perfectly skinny but strong,
and ripe for a hanging.

we all hurt each other daily
with slices and cuts and stabs of words.
the constant sticks and stones
that strike so regularly and steadily
it reminds me of Chinese water torture,
so much so
we don’t even notice anymore,
it’s just the background white noise that is
slowly driving us mad.

it is certainly not the worst,
it just is one of those every days
like the spitting rain,
relentless
drips.

the pacific northwest (and a haiku to Mt Rainier)

i have returned full of Chinook salmon and pictures of mountains…. that Mt Rainier~ captured my imagination like none other (except perhaps Denali, but i don’t think i truly appreciated it then). so happy and can’t wait to return someday….

timber trucks whipser
legends of a mountain top
so serene and blue

capped white she rises
older than my brittle bones
prouder than Tatoosh.