Sending poetry to the world
full moon, we shall have no w o r d s
tonight, all inhibitions obfuscated by your
veiled threats of rain
don’t brush them off
keep certain eyes off long legs clicking on heels down the cracked city
sidewalk, look past
all these unforgivable glances
between us shadowy figures swapping sips behind the
loading dock, us strangers
stretching by a brick wall
new hands tingling under a cloak of
hazed obscurity
Now that I have a window
I age faster.
I am a family member who
is already dead.
Sun sets: I watch the drop
to dirt grow faster every day.
I imagine it is me. I am the sun,
scorching orange fingernails
scratching at a dusky sky
trying to remain relevant and
sinking.
[What if, this time, there is no morning?]
Blushing hints of light. I am my great aunt reborn.
I am a promise that
the universe crackles at its tips
into yet another big bang.
Look at the man walking, cold breath rising.
Look at the trees bare to their necks.
It is winter…
but only for now.
I slide low down into my chair.
Looking at the phone Looking at the phone Looking at the phone …
Out my window, rain drops jump the asphalt alive, rain
Pours so hard my world greys into one large cloud
Shimmer and sliding freely. Trees shake and shudder.
Phone lies so still. I am
Waiting on the call Waiting on the call Waiting on the call Waiting on the call Waiting
sidewalks buckle, this
beginning is not an end,
circles, set us free.
My new years’ resolutions are like blue painted plates my grandmother
used to collect with a scene in white and the year in large swooping font,
some (the favorites) hung across the top of the kitchen for display, others
stacked in the cabinets, laden with intentions of one day making it out.
When she died, we came in to clean the house and each took a plate,
mine, 1966, now sits growing dusty on a bookshelf.
I clean it every January 2.
Christmas waits like gift wrap glowing warm beneath welcoming arms
of pine needles hanging heavy –
inside, table set waits by candlelight, and each flame preens
in the eyes of orange and blue Dala horses.
Soon, with guided hands, we set the course of helgdad frukt soppa.
Like cinnamon and cardamom from the svenske kringlor in the oven,
knotted just how our grandmother taught us, we breathe.
{poem from last year, slightly revised … Merry Christmas poet friends!!}
Finally~
you say as night settles
for the progress of the day.
as soon as you’re born
all the blood of daily pin pricks pile like so many dried leaves
tossed by a breezy blood orange moon with eyes like a wise old owl.
Finally, you say.
Wipe a finger
across a dusty bookshelf full of old photographs
to feel the only truth
known to owls, and moons.
Merry Christmas week to those who celebrate it — this poem is from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson (from her book Where Children Live (1958))
Christmas 1945
This is the day, the Christmas day,
The world has waited for —
This is the dream men dreamed of home
For four long years and more.
This is the dream that brought them through
Bastogne and Bougainville —
Through jungle heat and frozen waste,
Beyond each numbered hill.
Hang up the holly, mistletoe,
And light the Christmas tree,
And dream tonight of Bethlehem —
Think not of Calvary.
Think not of crosses in a row
Or comrades resting there —
They sleep above the stars tonight,
Safe in a Father’s care.
It is a time to come together. Watch as the lights, even the littlest, show us how to shine –
hug your children, feel smoothness of such skin still without regret, disappointment, and
Know: the world will eventually end, yet we can hold hands with love in a moment
that will shine on and on as surely as moist breath and tears return to heaven as rain.
*for all those lost today in CT. our thoughts and love are with you.
like the empty hollow
growl of a stomach hungry, i lean into the sound of arms wrapping around me
oh i love how shallow
these men can be when confronted by such shiny darkened opportunities
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