Category Archives: poetry

Crocus (Near Easter)

All winter, I was curled tight in my bed
so that my legs had become part of my torso
and my arms wrapped around the whole bundle
as to let nothing out,
or in.

In the early equinox morning,
the sun rose up over the row-homes that
stretched into a scraped horizon.
I could see it with one half-shut eye,
through one slice of blinds but I did
not move from my bulb.

Soon, soon, the glow blinded
it pierced into my drowsy eyelids and ever so gently
peeled away my fingers, prodded my arms out, then,
carefully pushed my legs straight.

I stretched across the sheets.
I stood gently, unaware.
The sun enveloped the whole of the city and room.
I was unsure of my steps,
but I stretched up and
drank in the light…blooming.

The Firehouse Coffee Company

Day after day, I have these cheap wood
Tables and chairs,
The constant chatter of
Two women, both wearing the same
Grey of the winter sky
And the one man
Sitting curled in a brown leather arm chair
In the very back, under a brightly lit
“Firehouse Coffee Co.” sign.

I don’t imagine that he is waiting for
A simple letter like I am.
Too intense, he is more like the stares of
Those painted black eyes of the Blues Brothers
Who sit and greet all us caffeine addicts. Or the
Strangely blank face of the firefighter on the pole
Who is forever a stationary decoration to this house.

He never looks up, which makes his features
Resemble now the bleak abstract
Paintings of the great Baltimore fire, smoke
Ash, soot, and still he never
Looks up at me; he does, however, take a small sip.

No, no, forget my previous thoughts,
This man in the corner is not any of these,
He is a government spy,
A landscaper,
A dock worker at the Canton port,
A philosopher and student of Keats.

He is a muse to all of us waiting on a letter.

Psychic Ability is Inherited

alone, she
watched the impending
clouds. grey thick and heavy
with waiting.

her father had
warned of such moments
and her mother
spoke quietly, “then,
you must listen”

it was just that their faces
had lit with excitement
despite her “you should
not be here”

they were waiting
as they always had.

and inside she felt
expectant. outside the grey
sky whispered, “yes, you already know
it will rain.”

In honor of post 101 ~ A Small Girl in the Rain by Alice B. Johnson

I’ve made it to post 101! Incredible! It’s a heavy day, grey clouds thick with rain, sidewalks still wet. Perfect day in a quiet coffee shop (except for the reggae!) to write. Think, write. All this alone time in my head is starting to effect my mental state…. thinking all about generations and families and “free will.” I have just finished a Taylor Caldwell book as well (not sure if anyone here would be familiar with her work). Clearly, I could continue to ramble but I think I’ll save it and maybe put these cluttered thoughts to better use later. Here, now, is poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson that I felt fitting for the day:

Small Girl in the Rain

The small girl, with her face uplifted to
The gentle summer rain, stands very still,
Her hands outstretched to catch each lovely drop
That falls in pattering enchantment till
She feels its mystic touch. She opens wide
Her laughing mouth, as if to quench her thirst
With dancing drops that struggle to elude
The questing tongue, stuck out to catch them first.

Her small heart quivers with her love of life,
With windswept rain and each small living thing…
Drawn to bright loveliness of bird and bloom,
And to the lowly earthworm’s tunneling
Beneach her feet. Small goddess of the earth,
With arms upraised, she strives as if to capture
Earth…sky…the magic of the wind and the rain,
And keep the treasure of this new-found rapture.

She feels the vibrant urgency above…below…
Not knowing what it is that stirs her so.

Deflagration

Here.
Storm outside howls
Inside flames burn
and lick the foundations
There is thunder in my veins, in my ears,
Oh God
must be

Rocking.
I roll ever so slightly, to
press my face down,
press my hips
in heated sheets smelling of
cologne and

Man.
your fingers pound rhythm of
rain-soaked windows—
outside drips wet
Inside fingers pressing
hot back

Bare.
palms chase sweaty skin
I roll ever so slightly, sizzling
Hips find air
pressure drops down fast and
roars.

stoop sittin (a Baltimore tradition)

stoop sittin in sunshine
sloppy around the corner
book imprints my legs
burning with the last rays
of a day long in leisure
fantasy of characters
creaking shuffles of people
with no cares for me or my blues
so I’d rather stoop sit
glancing occasionally to see
a puff of luck caught in a sidewalk
a piece of trash gleaming
the cool marble on my hands
when I lean back to stretch,
glancing occasionally to see
a car, and then you, your braids,
your brown skin, your turn
to take another street.

Poet to Anne Sexton

When the poet discovered Anne,
he had a razor blade
draped delicately over the blue
rivers running back to his heart
in steady
P ul se s.

Anne is not just words,
but perspicacious ideas
thoughts he thought were his, the details
sketched in
early morning dreams that
he believed were singular and unique.

He sits with her in the dark
just a glimmer of steel and those whispers
of déjà vu.
He thinks perhaps she is
his sister.

Cast away

he spoke to himself
with a soft slur like sand in the mouth.
his eyes rolled around in his head
like waves lapping the shore.

he tries to remember, but her face becomes the rings
around the hot island moon predicting the rains.
he pictures her lost on the horizon.
he punches the palm tree till his hands start to bleed.

for years alone, he knows only the coconut rum.
it stains his lips brown as his skin tans to leather.

he passes out
in the hot island sun. he snores
while dreaming of nothing.