baby eyes
peekaboo
white clear
intensely blue
peering over
the seat in
front, all eyes
searching,
finding mine
plunged into a
bluest sky
floating oh so
casually by.
Category Archives: poetry
what it feels to write
mine is the underbelly
soft
vulnerable
i can rake
my broken fingernails
light at first
then…
strike a line
clear across and
spill
those guts.
earthquake: the end is near
what if there is
no human around
to see the
glasses shake
right off their
neglected shelves
no one
living to
witness the walls
shiver up
from their drunken legs
what if there is
only the quietest
sounds
of destruction
–
is the end the end
if no one
notices?
nomads
if love
means
taking a pause
still in the arms
quiet with another
nomads
like us
will surely
suffer
a poem called spontaneity
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/spontaneity.html
Spontaneity — def worth re-sharing tonight….
the pressure of a modern girl’s life
prick a finger
watch the blood flow
everywhere but there
oh treacherous game
fall swift into a liminal
state: here or not?
oh the pressure of
a modern girl’s life
the vixen, the vulpine,
lick your bloody paw
absently
till a virgin weeps –
none can know
till they wake.
untitled (fifty years go by)
the quiet takes form,
slips by unannounced, settles,
fifty years go by.
complex jazz notes
why does
the wood here smell
of urine
two dancers find their
own
rhythm while an old lady
walks out
with her dog
straining
to leave
all the while
the upright bass
competes violently
against
the trumpet
and the man on my side
says, with whiskey
breath,
i hate myself this
much.
my grandmother’s hand
willow branches with
graceful touch, you are, with wind,
my grandmother’s hand.
awakened house (Alice B. Johnson)
The house was strangely still —
Forgotten for so long —
Until we gave it laughter
And a child’s gay song.
Tall weeds grew in the yard;
We dug them all away
And, bathed in summer sun,
Roses bloomed today.
How nice it must have seemed
For rooms to come awake
And smell, instead of dust,
A baking angel cake.
Had we not passed this way,
We never would have known
The way a house can smile
With folks to call its own.
[Taken from “Where Children Live” by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson, 1958]
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