Sending poetry to the world
“it’s just…
you never understand”
she sighing
ever so gently
in that woman’s way of
acceptance.
he says
“God! then help me try”
speech
draped curtains of
exasperation,
face lined
mouth opening wide
on the last word
“just help me try”
under breath, pleading…
door clicks shut
giving up.
have you ever had
a nightmare so real –
you are fighting him off
but he grabs your leg
… you jump awake
your own hand
there on your knee.
it would have been my late grandfather Chuck Burrows’ birthday. he loved his birthday – so the date is imprinted in my mind almost more than my own. i miss him terribly, and don’t feel much like writing anything new; but i will link to a few:
Age 92
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/03/age-92.html
Science Fair Project (How to anodize aluminum)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/science-fair-project-how-to-anodize.html
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/my-grandfathers-amazing-life.html
From my great-grandmother’s poetry book, Where Children Live (1958). By Alice B. Johnson (and with it I learn we have a shared love of antiques!!)
Antique Shop
I shall pretend that I have come to buy
A walnut highboy from New England way–
An alabaster trinket box in which
To tuck my precious jewelry away.
A ruby goblet or a Spode tureen–
A lovely fragile Dreseden figure or
A silver coffee pot, a Sheffield tray–
Perhaps a shiny knocker for my door.
Which shall it be? I can’t make up my mind
Until another time (so I’ll pretend),
And none will know, but I, that in my purse
There’s just one silver dollar I may spend.
outside greenlawn flowers brightly call sun to
come sit
be still
watch boats careen lazy, criss cross this way
to that
your chair,
a modern present nod to its creator.
http://www.hermanmiller.com/discover/herman-millers-home-marigold-lodge/
fly —
wing lights
straight towards the north star
and the lingering space of light
left from the annihilation of day
drive —
roads winding
past office parks generic concrete
then more dark trees slumbering
beneath stars slowly extinguished by fog
outside he blames
cold snowy weather
clinging to evergreens,
white fingers so close,
those white hands
struggling to find a way,
gentle soft falling down
to rest on frozen ground
outside he waits
waits till seasons change
yet evergreens persist
they make him angry
those ghost white hands,
pine needles, red bleeding,
spring leading summer
but evergreens remember
he walks
wishes time away
his beard grows long
he sings by heart the song
of pines rustling in the wind
outside he sits
buttoned for another
a long hibernation
like a gnarled old bear
his New Year knows all
none can change this
only steadfast everygreens–
they never let him sleep.
[author note: circa the “degas ‘three dancers’ journal 2003” – an admitted total break from my usual style]
your voice crashes
over me like waves
it roars and collapses
and recedes leaves me
parched, thirsty.
it pulls with the tides
it glistens in the moonlight
a rip tide it pulls me out
further and further.
[circa the “zen” journal 2005]
at the stop sign
look left
to corn fields
drenched white from
spilt milk of the moon
and tip tops of
sweet corn rolling
row upon row, past
one farm house
lonely but for
three canopy trees
and that long driveway
cutting
a twisted brown scar — i am
only gazing,
gazing,
we discovered
the game “d” —
one patch of crab grass
and one special phrase
–to the next world!
but don’t tell those
younger ones
waiting on the porch–
it is so secret
you have to whisper.
Press Send Poetry 