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]
going back to the beginning
poems for my new readers who may not have ventured back to the first several posts…. enjoy!
Short and Sweet (Norwegian Wood)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/short-and-sweet.html
Edits
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/edits.html
Song of March (2003)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/song-of-march-2003.html
January (Outside My Parent’s House)
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/january-outside-my-parents-house.html
Rows of No Smoking Lights
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/rows-of-no-smoking-lights.html
apocalyptic clouds
who am i to tell you to
cheer up?
outside apocalyptic clouds
gather for a Socratic meeting
debate a prophetic vision
in fluff
when butter melts
on sidewalks
it’s a harbinger for__________
who am i say?
battlefield glory orange
oh! how my heavy bones
trudge the hall
with the defeat of
an apparition
who, in death, has
accepted a weary
soldier’s march
at 3:39 a.m. the
house instead
settles down to
a definitive rest
and basks in the
battlefield glory orange
of streetlights
yes or no? (haiku)
when you know most con-
sider it wrong; when you can’t
help yourself… choose now.
when memories are scraps
scraps of our life together
scattered on the floor
tossed repeatedly
when our life becomes
junk hoarded
each crystal figurine
seems to, in a dusty coat,
frown
and shake a finger
each newspaper, one
on another,
screams a headline of
war
when the dog sniffs out
an old banana peel
drags it along
thinking, one day, this will be
useful.
this is what is on my mind
this poem is what is on my mind tonight (again). in case you missed it.
Gardenias in New Orleans
we labor
up the medium
with a speed befitting
Spanish moss
languishing
in the steam of a summer
day dripping with
Gardenia
if i should
succumb to the
scent —
some parade might
saunter by
toss beads
round my skull
round the bend
drifting
as slow as
eddies on the great
Mississippi
Press Send Poetry 