Sending poetry to the world
I don’t want to be the ant!
Crawling my way to and from the ant hill
Traffic snarled in little ant paths all snaked
Through the world we can’t see from our
Small ant eyes. We see only the backs
of the other ants.
We know only our objective.
Walk straight, find food, pile it on your back,
Walk straight back.
Work, and work, and work. One after another
ants working long after you are gone.
Please, no!
Let me have a will to say,
“No, I will not be the ant!”
I will be
the bird above.
stretch’d flat on my back
sunshine on my face, bay breeze,
a perfect lunch break….
watch how the light slants
across the garden and lights red
the empty old vines
across the yard from the back
farm woods fields, the mysterious “back”
and notice,
the jungle gym no longer has swings…
when were they taken down?
years ago.
lifetimes ago.
feel the light grow brighter, hot
on your cheek through the glass door
like a warm hand
remember your grandparents waving goodbye
from their door on Charmuth
and your parents
top of the hill
low lingering light
silhouettes waving.
I slip in the shower, face to the tiles,
and think,
God I don’t want to be found
dead like this.
After I practice
holding my head up, shoulders back,
as if good posture
can somehow stop the inevitable.
After, pillow in
my lonely arms I
wait for ghostly whispers
but there is only darkness,
and quiet places,
street light illuminating
small spaces here and there.
Those spaces
are small glimmers
in a grand scheme.
I wish I knew
how to tell your story.
I wish you could know the sum
of all
these secrets.
Looking down the hall
is the same as peering
down a deep dark grave.
Simple truth is
we continue to bury those we love
unless we go first.
I have:
my father’s penchant
for “thinking man” classical
and my mamma’s love
of a sexy singer.
[quick note that i can’t help but share (sorry ma): my mom preferred Herman’s Hermits over the Beatles because she said they were “cuter”! HA]
Even at 80 mph
I knew what the chair used to be:
green cushions with white buttons
it sat on a patch of astroturf
in a screened-in porch.
Faced a small glass table where
ice tea was served and fresh tomatoes were stored.
And in winter,
its cushions were stored and it sat bare-chested
braving winds that fluttered its
white thick-strapped spine.
Spring cleaning meant
cobwebs were removed
and the chair was bathed on the deck
with soapy water the kids
sprayed on each other.
The cushions were fluffed, tied gently back on for
another lazy season.
Until one strap broke.
The kids moved out, and
when there was a sale at Sears, the chair
was left to face west on I-95, naked
to the elements
and the drivers hurrying home from work.
i did not choose this path
the path chose me
the dirt chose my
black barefoot feet
to cling to
i had no choice but to
dig in
and when the river rose
with a muddy swirling torrent
i had no choice
but to go.
girl says:
“don’t worry!!!”
emphatic, confident,
exasperated.
girl knows!
she is grown.
parents know
these assurances
are trouble.
high heel shoes
scattered across my floor,
I used to hate that height
but now I buy them
taller taller…
I like the feeling of
a head held high
I am who you imagine
on this new road
you see me
walking tall,
hips swaying,
lips glossy,
yet it fades when I return
empty the suitcase, scatter
heels across the floor…
Here on our Patterson hill
see the lights of downtown
pulsing,
the men with knives and guns
the sporadic sirens
all demanding,
the streetlight orange rowhomes
the white marble stoops
all conspiring.
The hound dog neighbor (Hannah)
wailing,
she’s heard all about me,
these city streets,
their brick cobblestone cement,
whipersing,
the gossip never ends.
[ps: found this little poem in an old journal, circa 2006 or so]
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