BLACK FRIDAY
ten Mourning Doves flurry across
the flagstones, dust-speckled wings,
something god-like in their descent.
A grey squirrel scratches the top crust
of a potted plant, pecan in mouth;
its body nimble as electricity.
Oyster white tiles and the waft of lint,
familiar Tide in the air, the clutter
and warmth of the laundry room.
A forgotten can of cranberry sauce,
a single lemon, the remains of French
Cut Green Bean Casserole.
Skin bright Clementines shine
an invitation from their rustic box;
orange silence at hearthside.
4AM clamor at Kohls -
imagined wealth, mock war,
elbows and adrenalin.
That second cup of coffee,
sweet as syrup while red-bulbed
shrimp plants burst like fiery pokers.
In a quiet alcove, a woman
is haunted by the deadly thing
stirring under her arms.
She surveys the ads, subtracts
the ordinary from the onslaught:
lymphoma, MD Anderson, memory.
She questions the day, the dip
in temperature, the possibility
that teases, stirring like a vine.
An oak tree splits asunder,
reeds attached to its hide.
Symbiosis fights suffocation.
An oceanic hush now as light
wind tilts the browning leaves.
One Blue Jay sings through silence.
Friday, November 23, 2007
NaPoWriMo Week Three
Monday, November 5, 2007
NaPoWriMo Week Two
Nov. 5, 2007
Natural Surrounding
The shrimp plant outside my window is a forest
to the ants circling below, driven
by innate regimen to survive.
A noose circumscribes the neck
of a neighboring oak,
sticky vines in their relentless march:
symbiosis or suffocation.
This warm animal glances
from behind a viscuous wall,
believes she can rake in the scent
of Fall as it singes the blood
of gentle tallow, breaks the neck
of the fern and empties
the husk of the wasp, reverting
to its former life as bamboo chime.
She claims some bond - green in the veins
or bayonet hands, perhaps a lack of warmth,
the inclination to thrive on borrowed seed,
sipping from a flower pot, black
with fungus, no matter, it's wet.
She tightens her grip on the elements,
weaves a dry nest of shallow breath,
thinks she can endure.
Friday, November 2, 2007
NaPoWriMo Starts
Starting the month with a haiku:
Nov.2, 2007
Restless needle -
thought winding in and out,
a bee without honey.
Uniform Days
When we went Downtown, officious
trips to the busied structures
fronting Laura and Bay streets,
Mom held me by the wrist at each
street crossing, her face pained
and straight, her posture perfect.
Bills with deadlines brought us there
but once, we entered the glittered
realm of May Cohens, entering a side
door, hand in hand, her grip
inescapable, while amazed eyes
captured the width of column,
marbled ballustrade, ornate
elevators with bronzed frontispiece.
She held my wrist as we approached
an opening, a gulf in the floor,
stone steps and shiny railings
led down to the Basement,
where the Sales were hidden.
It was late August, outside,
the sun was steep and mosquitos
visited nightly, a blitzkrieg among
sweet grass and fireflies.
The basement held racks of white
blouses, short-sleeved and plain,
pocket-ready for the parochial
school badge. There were navy blue
beenies and navy blue jumpers,
a clean panoply of uniforms.
This was the beginning of my
uniform days, Mom's exact gaze
searching and finding necessary
items, my hand in hers, silent,
while all around, the world
opened in color and curiosity
unveiled itself, like a sticky web.
Sleep Walk
The needle of nightmare pricks
and guides like a wand of dense symphony
luring eyes open, relief from the staccato
of stuck tongue, dark glue of immobility.
For two nights now, it's brought
me to the quick release, feet fumbling
for the carpeted floor, the soft
groove of solid ground, the golden grass
of artificial turf to settle me.
Then the Buddhists sing their "Oms"
amid a background of synthetic
waterfall and moog music,
my morning coffee with U-Tube.
In three hours these eyes, ears
mouth, back will adhere to another
pastiche - the hum of bleak work song,
computer screen and red blinks,
false logic and prayers surrounding me.
This is no nightmare but a premonition.
Grasping at the edge of a hole,
swinging my hips upward, making good grasp
of tumbling weeds and dirt, while
below me, the emptiness of free fall.
In the distance, a lullabye,
its faint echo like Circe, calls
me back to sleep another day.
Monday, October 29, 2007
NaPoWriMo?
well it sounds hokey even to me but when November rolls around, I recall the unfinished mss ("The Cottage") that I started a few years back during the NaNoWriMo and then as my focus narrowed, the NaPoWriMo that I dared the following year.
November will be exceedingly busy for me (international education poetry reading & launch of a student journal) but I've got to get in some poetry writing - even if it's unrestrained lines spewed at the end of a day. NaPoWriMo - the concept of writing one poem a day for the month - gives me a challenge that can be fulfilled without the censor of perfection tightening my throat.
Daily poems will be posted here - with small regard to their content, messiness, drivel, C-status - and with the goal of just eking them out, my one-a-day vitamin during this month. They'll fall under the columns of prelude and practice and to hell with publish-ability.
