three great loves
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/03/three-great-loves-haiku.html
phish
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/06/phish-haiku.html
upon reading Nabokov’s “invitation to a beheading”
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/upon-reading-nabokovs-invitation-to.html
first i lose the feeling in my toes
and they become as gnarled and ancient as fossilized wood.
then i lose the ability to stand
and fall over to the ground with a soft sudden thud.
next, the ability to speak, that
most human trait, takes its disingenuous leave
the brain goes last; it’s electrons snap
off like a tired parent finding her child finally asleep.
on certain days that circle twice and curl up
like a cat (or the corners of your peculiar smile)
i believe i’m the only one who sees how ducks
take naps at 3pm, or how the hairs on your arms
taunt the breeze of a trepidatious day.
on certain days that lay over like ferns in a
softly wooded cashmere forest i believe
the world can have magnetic poles capable of
keeping us straight and narrow, but only if we choose
to ignore the way the auroras confound the sky.
the first thing to go –
an Orioles picture to a man who
played for the Brooklyn Dodgers
who would, later, give it to his son;
and a couple of porcelain cats
already cherished
in the small hands of a mentally
strained woman;
the printing press and its letters
to a young artist,
and books to budding chefs –
the bedding went to Hispanics, lacking,
and I took an elephant necklace, molded carefully in gold
with tiny bells on each shoe.
memories leave their objects
and barter now
for the flecks of color in the irises of our eyes.
she carries a dull reminder
the way thin shoulders begrudgingly
hold a shirt-
the bruises hurt less than the head
and the floor is
overly joyous to see her, again.
nothing is clear but the ache –
promises broken, slinking away,
just as light skirts certain corners
of the apartment, hours passing.
let us go then
under a desert sky
taut as leather hide, stretched
to the empty hall
where in younger days
our heels would have clicked with rhythm
my body used to hold
the shape of a stiletto,
now it wilts and bends
ah the men, they come and go
and how the sky changes knowing
volatile lessons, lost.
maybe i should
drop a rope for younger women
who don’t know
yet.
all vapor and vinegar, we,
insistent and cold, tug like a child
at your sweater –
you feel us when your skin crawls
and bubbles over
and when you look down,
as the Shenandoah burns,
you get a small taste of our view.
today, the cemeteries dress formal,
give a hand
as to one stepping
out from a carriage,
and wait.
here’s a Halloween poem for the upcoming holiday! enjoy –
Hanging in Calvert Hall Ghost Story
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/10/hanging-in-calvert-hall-ghost-story.html
Here in Texas the city shines on below
like a thousand studded jewels thrown off a
jacket and strewn across a dance floor.
spin your girl, and watch her go
Like a spinning top of legs in jeans and cowboy
boots. Watch the gentlemen with their quiet way
chew gracefully under shadded Stetsons.
Poetry by JC Snyder 