i tell you my story
hands flying excited
and we share a laugh
dripping with water, below
laced by lane ropes and
striped like a tiger is
now- silent, calm
we don’t notice the
chills or chlorine,
like restless touches
and i think about
moving through water
graceful but fast
ripples from fingertips
like casting a spell
so that air becomes charged
with unspoken words –
tense muscles
ready to burst off the block.
silent as a winter night
we
smolder into ash and dust
where we used to sit beneath maples
lips on neck
the pressure of a pulse extinguished
means:
a fresh start
a clean slate
a party dress
some high heels
mascara scrunches smiles
panty hose snags and runs
drinks igniting two dance a time
drinks draining down measured time
heels off
lips ready
a champagne kiss
a fresh start
a clean slate.
Rosie the bird gives
a shrill whistled dare
as I creak up the steps.
The old sit littered
in every hallway, every landing,
they sit and stare, even
my grandfather’s eyes
betray him.
I’ve had enough of the bird
who calls my bluff,
his bloodshot blue eyes
try only so hard —
realize they’re tired and
admit: “I’m just
another body in the hall.”
in this story
the woman
speckled grey
doesn’t at first
realize that
fingers all the way
to shoulder are
changed to rock
doesn’t pray
for marbling to
end, feels not
blood like clay
hardening in the kiln:
and slowly it goes
till mica replaces eyes
till protolith
becomes crystalline.
I’ve made it over 300!!! WOW!
I almost hate to post a re-run but it’s the holidays and I’m just not ready to post anything new right now. Plus I’ve started getting ready for NYE but thinking about all that’s changed in a year. With that in mind:
Skyline Relief in a Passing Train
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/02/skyline-relief-in-passing-train.html
Christmas Eve is a special tradition in my house – we have a “Scandinavian” meal in honor of my mom’s mom’s family. Today, I think a lot about my family, our traditions, what the end of the year means… To honor those who’ve gone before, I’d like to feature one of my great-grandmother’s poems (once again –Where Children Live 1958). She wrote a lot about the holiday (including some greeting cards), and I think it’s nice to spotlight her today. This is one most can relate to – and if you’re feeling like this now, good luck! And Merry Christmas!
The Week Before Christmas
Christmas comes but once a year …
If you ask me, that’s enough!
One week more in which to shop
And is the going rough …
One week more in which to bake,
To wash and iron and clean …
To make out lists I promptly lose,
On which I’ve learned to lean.
Christmas cards still to address,
Packages to send …
Through a long post-office line
My weary way I’ll wend.
Telephone orders to exchange,
This one is worth a laugh …
Size sixteen shirts? My husband wears
A fourteen and a half.
A napkin ring engraved this week?
The clerk seems sort of hazy
And looks at me as if to say,
“Lady! Are you crazy?”
Mentally I’m checking lists …
Order mistletoe,
Bayberry candles, icicles,
And artificial snow.
Check the light bulbs for the tree
And don’t forget the tree …
Are there ornaments enough?
Oh dear, I’d better see.
Order turkey, cranberries,
And mixed nuts from the store …
Have I forgotten something?
The wreath for the front door!
One week more for all the tasks
I’ve set myself to do …
One week of rushing here and there,
But happy through and through.
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it — this poem is from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson (from her book Where Children Live (1958))
This is the day, the Christmas day,
The world has waited for —
This is the dream men dreamed of home
For four long years and more.
This is the dream that brought them through
Bastogne and Bougainville —
Through jungle heat and frozen waste,
Beyond each numbered hill.
Hang up the holly, mistletoe,
And light the Christmas tree,
And dream tonight of Bethlehem —
Think not of Calvary.
Think not of crosses in a row
Or comrades resting there —
They sleep above the stars tonight,
Safe in a Father’s care.
like eggshells
how they crack apart
except in here
over and over
like a blink, the white light walls
split into a slide show:
remember, lil sis,
using egg whites
to glaze the raw
sugar cookie Christmas dough…
blink.
remember our lil hands
tearing bread to top
“the egg dish” that
delicious Christmas morning food…
blink
the white light walls
frame a white utility van
at the tunnel’s end,
its tailights steady — oh
i think i’m moving
but it never gets any closer.
i think it’s James Taylor
and three or so quiet men
drinking whiskey, and the
bartender
quietly
plugs in
the lights.
Poetry by JC Snyder 