Sending poetry to the world
Paul Simon
says he has poetry
to protect him
I have these
fingers that must
press a pen
must tenderly pour
over a page
or a keyboard and
the poetry treats me
like a patient
bled dry by leeches
no no Paul, these words
offer no relief
they just keep sucking
me dry until
slight respite
from a day wrought
with surprise, I
believe this silence
punctuated with breaths
this alone on the floor
time to think is
an exceptional rarity
to be cherished
held carefully in quiet
long hands
with tiny spots of age.
[biographical note: I have just, in the space of one week’s time, found and moved into a new place, received news of my sister’s engagement, been offered multiple jobs, and been told the date of my half-sister’s wedding. I also eagerly await news of my cousin’s new baby and am dealing with the realization that I will be 30 this month… among other things! This follows 4 months of relatively static stale nothing after my life fell spectacularly apart in Jan. As you can imagine this quiet time is welcome today!]
hey blog readers! i’m moving this weekend so the poetry might have to be put on hold for just a few days….so don’t forget about me come Monday. and pls, take this opportunity to check out my past work and leave me some comments. i wonder, do you like when i preface the pieces or do you prefer to draw your own conclusions? that is the question for today!
Moving
back aches and a dream
surrounding boxes of my
life wait patiently.
just when your
guard goes down
when you know that
incredible happiness
the sun looks
brighter
your laugh more
contagious, when
fellas smack your
back and say
“brother,
you are untouchable”
that’s when
a careless mistake
an invisible vapor
drifts undetected
into your lungs
and that tender life
constricts with awareness
and your ground
is actually air
and when you look down
it’s over
to pay attention is
the lesson my brother
pay attention.
currently watching antiques roadshow (love it) over a nice lunch, thinking about what i should post on a day like today. here i am, celebrating that i will be moving to my own apartment and yet thinking about a friend who is coming back to life after a sudden collapse. all of this stews together in my brain…. and, when all else fails, a cup of coffee usually does the trick, hence the following…
The Scent of Coffee
that familiar earthy vapor
compelled by something larger
[by the principle that states hot air
must move on and up]
gently steams my pores.
spindrifts of hazelnut waft closer
with a memory of my mother
telling me of her mother
who would, in early morning car trips,
open a canister of coffee.
oh how it would fill the car
how it would fill them with excitement
those children conditioned to know
that the scent of coffee then meant
a trip to the beach.
slightly cooler, my coffee takes
a shape much like a ghost who,
against its will, is caught on film.
the scene feels just within reach
then quickly vanishes
playful, wistful, gone
rich aroma lingering.
my toes are painted
in shades that proclaim “im not
really a waitress!”
just home from DC, event at the National Press Club (very cool) and a great lunch with a publishing friend. pleasant day to be sure! listened to lots of Alexi Murdoch in the car and was hit by this… scribbled it while my knee did the driving (sorry drivers around me!!) and here it is (song link is below)~
to Alexi Murdoch (breathe)
sitting cross-legged
Siddhartha I am
in that ancient form
practicing
letting all in my cells
escape in a steady
stream, imagining your voice
deep and beautiful
in that ancient chant
letting the sound of the song
sink me completely down
until you compel my face
to break above
and my eyes open wide
as the fresh air
rushes in.
She ran away from home
off from the one brown bench and making friends
with the blue heron with silver wings.
Her sticky fingers
ran skipping through raw and naked waves
during hurricane Floyd’s slip and slide.
Sliced air in spirals swirling
while smoking opium in a
red wig and rainbow Mardi Gras dress
with her new friends,
and the Allman brothers.
Again and again, she licked and
returned for seconds,
loving that manic dancing frantic excitement
almost as much as
the crushing low.
you never went to visit or
say goodbye.
instead you were walking alone amidst white birch
that looked silhouette black as the sun was setting
and your teeth were chattering. you were blind when you fell.
was it the memories or the premonitions that burned
your corneas and left your eye sockets full of ash?
you feel the dirt piling up under your fingernails
as you dig a place to lay to rest.
the girl snuffed ink
freshly printed and pressed from every
corner paper and fliers and stickers
on lampposts and street signs.
she stumbled Eastern in a haze
ink sinking into the grooves
of her fingerprints and pupils
and never looking
fell to her knees while her nose
smelled deep the black asphalt.
in floral housedress
an old woman watched
while one wrinkled hand
patted lightly grey hair
matted on that one same side.
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