“I’m a womaaaann” (yeah, yeah)
she stout,
poured into black pants
and a spotlight.
Small stage, growing smaller,
“I’m a womannnnn” (yeah yeah)
and the last syllable
has the same timbre,
of her hair toss
and her thighs still shaking
after a stomp.
Category Archives: poetry
certain types of looks (fire)
Greedily exhausting
all oxygen, the room
no longer breathing, I
feel those flames
leap from organ to organ,
saving the heart for last.
vignette from my grandmother
she remembers still
dressing impeccably,
regally in matching shoes and
handbag with fringe,
remembers twirling nervously
on the way to the city,
to the theater,
where the horror movie picture played.
Cowards (in case you don’t read comments) – guest post by Bobby Ty
Guest post tonight by author Bobby Ty. He treats us with a piece left in the comments section of this blog. It (along with some of his other comments in the past) deserves recognition. Enjoy and leave him your thoughts below… Thank you Bobby Ty! Looking forward to more from you. If any of you other readers are interested in guest blogging, please let me know….
Cowards
We get to say
Those things we can’t say
Out loud
We cowards
We poets
We don’t say it
Bluster and
Bravado we “just wrote it that way”
Only
We mean it; can’t say it
Aloud…
Cowards…
there is this cat on the walk
There is this cat on the walk
And when I shuffle on by,
She swishes her tail, she
Stops to say hi.
There is this cat on the walk,
I swear she knows me,
She looks up with pause,
She rubs legs with a cause.
And before she runs off
This cat seems to say
“You think it ain’t true
But I’m one you once knew….”
we’re never ready (i went to the piano)
When they told me
she had died,
I went to the piano.
Mazurka
by Chopin –
in the pained
stutter of
one who doesn’t
practice much.
Again, and again,
low D to high, hit the
trill,
bass chords steady,
decrescendo leading to a…
false note.
Again.
All the while thinking,
I should have practiced more.
I should have…
the smell of a brand new book (haiku)
creak the casebound open
bury nose deep, inhale more
tradition old, rich
pages, each begging
like American beauties
perfuming the yard.
oh chicago
aside from some miserable treatment at the W Chicago Lakeshore (don’t stay there), what a beautiful city! even in clouds. reminds me of almost three years ago…
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/sky-cannot-know-ground.html
new poetry will return soon. still working on my submission for the Ruth Lily scholarship! until then, enjoy….
head of the table
mother and father
sit at the head
of the table
one day I suppose
they will come
to my house instead
and I will
take their place.
wrapping paper (tsunami in 2004)
I … just … don’t know what to say about Japan. Heart-breaking. I cannot write about it right now, but I did want to share a piece written back in 2004 during the “Christmas tsumani” in Thailand… I’m still not sure about this, so please leave your comments.
Wrapping Paper (2004):
There is wrapping paper at my door. In black, the headlines:
A tsunami in Thailand and a hundred
thousand lost souls.
In red are the ads, the last great sale at Sears.
I crumple the paper to wrap
red swirl
martini glasses I’m giving this Christmas;
We tear the paper, litter the carpet–
the piles of red and black wrappings, they
begin to lay like bodies.
Oh God, the bodies!
“and the earth quaked mightily and shook down the houses,
wrapped them in dust.
and the sea rose and wrapped its mouth round the children,
swallowed them whole.”
Flotsam litters the carpet. There is nothing left to do here
but pick up the pieces. But there,
there –
God be with the people in Japan, and all those still dealing with the effects of natural disasters from someone who literally cannot imagine it.
Press Send Poetry 