November Poems

November Challenge (begun November 1, 2012)

Day 1

Post Mortem

Just like that, a stone
in the sand against my toe,
and I knew your heart was here beating 
like a pulse in the bruise I felt 
after we laid you down forever.

Day 2


For Carol’s Old Book

There is room on the shelf
squeezed in between Shadow
Architect and Shadow Shadows.
It’s a small space, ready for something solid 
like a heart needing mending, a hand
to tug its spine gently for another reading.
The old book is signed again for me, signed 
before for an unnamed fan, wants to be held 
and safe. It’s had its day of glory. It won a prize.

Nearing 92, the poet is cheered by our visit, 
remembers days when he sat down to dinner
with his wife, when his children raced around the yard. 
He still forms words and stanzas in such a way
as to dazzle me. His hand, steady, inscribes
for Carol’s old book. My shaking hand takes it home.
  
                        — for Richard Wilbur

Day 3 


Bowl

Yellow, like a sunburst on my desk,
place for dropping an earring or a paperclip.
It’s of no consequence, really just a lump of fired 
clay formed by hands I never shook, covered in slip. 
Yellow not my best color.
I’m no fan of sunrise or buttercups,
still I see this pop of jaune, this tiny bee of a bowl, 
and I smile on the darkest day, when no words
will come. I see this yellow dish
and rise like the sun itself to find a poem waiting.

Day 4


In the Ardennes, Zwei

Raus raus! And there he went
marched to Zwickau to wait out the war. 
Schnell, schnell! And off he went,
feet frozen in too-thin boots,
marching to he knew not what fate.
In war there are only three kinds
of soldier: wounded, captured, dead. 
Daddy, wounded and captured, 
returned home safe, while the boy
he once was lay dead in the Ardennes.

Day 5 


On

My heart not what it was before, 
its beats and tide upon my shore 
go out, return with newer dreams 
than I have ever dreamt before.

Why then when all seems truly lost 
to even this faint pulse I’m tossed 
about. I try and rouse myself
to row and row hard across.

My heart, will it still beat on? On 
now that my love is done, is gone?
            
              — after Edna St Vincent Millay (Alms)

Day 6


Polis Polis, Alleluia

It’s a political world, rejoice!
People are the gophers in the holes,
all over everyone’s yards at night.
And everything is broken by morning. 
What do you people think you’re doing?

Solace is in the digging that’s been done.
Go ring the bells for what’s left for us
to do, blessed work or what’s the good
of me and you, digging? What’s use of dancing 
in the chill of stars, shooting ideas into the light?

Is it all temporary? Is apathy eating our entrails 
while we’re still alive? Nothin’ to do but rejoice 
when the lines fill up with rage, and polis rises up 
again in spite of the pleasure beast’s appetite.
I say you people are doing alright.

Women and men get yourselves going;
be sure that no more time is wasted, no more
control by the besotting, the vain. Stay watchful
as you creep along the fence. The false believer 
approaches with a snake. Cut off its head with a picket.

It’s a political world, my friends, rejoice! 
Gophers dig; the fix is out. Line the streets
and take everything in hand. Line your pockets 
with stones and run at the fence, shouting
We people are doing what fucking needs doing!

Day 7

Who or What or....

They say “the cloud” is somewhere in North Carolina, 
in a secret city where my words migrate
at the click of a mouse, but do flies go there
in winter to escape the cold?
I lost my purple pen but someone may have found 
that the ink flows over their heads
when it is used to write “hate” in the margins
of the city where the cloud resides.
If there is really a Heaven, the ink
there is red with the blood of plagiarists.
Red ink is about the blood of revolutionaries 
standing arm-in-arm with poets. Is there
really there or is it here wearing beautiful clothes 
and ruby red slippers? Who hides in between
the lines of this poem, sneering and laughing
and calling me an elitist with good metaphors?

Day 8 

Mea Culpa

I smell salt as it shakes the trees, 
blown up from the harbor, the beach. 
If this wind carries salt, I do
too, my tears running down the pane. 
There are birds homeless since we cut 
the cedar and pine from the yard.
We try to feed them, but we fail
to understand that all they need
is shelter from this horrid wind,
the cold that veers in from the sea.

I smell the salt and feel my tears 
and down on my knees in the rain 
I ask to be forgiven.

Day 9 

Not Significant, But Happy

Poetry, dear, is not significant.
Not a hard rubric of intelligence,
its place in the world a place of joy.
For poetry is happiness and I
am happy it inhabits me, gives me
what I need when love fails. It is happy
that I seek when day recedes, not a day
that falls like a hammer but like the tide
with its slight laps and hisses, its bright joy 
against my ankles. Poetry is not
a matter of great import, but a page
of bird tracks in the snow when winter comes,
a trail of crumbs left by fairies, by girls
lost in the woods. Poetry is no dream
of wolves with fangs, of drowning in deep ponds 
when the ice gives way. It is everything
and more than everything.

Day 10 




Love Works Like This

Sometimes you just have to breathe in deeply
the scent of your beloved’s face, his neck —
get lost in him, travel to your first days
when all seemed bright, when there was nothing else 
but a restless road waiting for you two.

Once in a while you have to stop, stand
perfectly still, hold on to his arm
or tuck your head against his soft shirt.
He is there on all your best and worst days.
Stop and watch night come, watch out for shadows.

Shadows always surprise. They come in sunlight, 
seeming to lengthen you. But it’s a fake,
an abracadabra, a nasty trick.
Too soon, too soon the shadow will shiver
at your ankles ‘til it takes one of you.

Day 11


Nubble Lighthouse Parking Lot

Watching the beam sweep its red eye, 
feeling the tide pulled by a moon
that is new and invisible,
licking beads of fog from her lips, 
the girl stands on the edge.

In the Nubble parking lot, just shy
of midnight, she looks at the phosphorous hands 
of her watch, wonders where all her loves
are. Watching TV with wives and children, 
sleeping the damp sleep of after-love?

She’s thought of this before, of wading across
to the lighthouse at low tide, mucky bottom 
sucking her feet. She’d go around to the ocean side 
where no one would catch her, know
the end was coming with the going tide.

Is it true, she wonders, that all love is temporary? 
Is it true that we live and die alone?
She takes off her flats and folds up her coat, 
leaves them where they won’t wash away. 
Hitching up her skirt, she wades in.

Day 12 


Beverage

He drank
always a six pack in the car, 
always an open Bud
between his legs as he drove.

Now he looks like the old sot 
he worked so hard to be: 
reindeer nose, veiny cheeks, 
words that slur off thick tongue.

I like a glass of wine, a rusty nail
or a black Russian. Half full
my glass as I leave it somewhere
to make a ring on somewhere’s table.

He drank. He loved it more
than he loved me. He drinks now 
leaves himself somewhere, a ring 
on somewhere’s broken table.

Day 13 

Moet and Chandon

She’s a killer, queen
of every situation, like a bee 
hovering so close to the males 
they vibrate with her winged 
attention. She needs nothing 
more than their lives, and nectar 
to make her fat and fecund.
It’s Moet and Chandon, snappy 
choice in her crystal flute, held 
with manicured hands, fine rings 
on fingers just slim enough to fit 
through the belt loops
of the handsome men who court her. 
She’s the Marie Antoinette of her day,
a thousand mirrors catch her every move,
but not so close as to show her flaws: 
she’s a killer queen, a femme fatale,
a spider webbed widow with a plan.

               — written while listening to Killer Queen, by Queen

Day 14



Pig!

You make me grind my teeth at night
with your snide remarks, your leering 
attention. If I walk a swinging walk
on Main Street, move my hips to music I hear 
in my head, it is mine to do. I know no
use for your grotesque jeering sounds.
I sing no loud jingle for your knobby junk 
that would be appropriate in the town square. 
You think you can make jest of me.

You, Pig, think your own sausage is just grand 
and my parts are yours for filling: objects 
d’art not, just objects for the making. Pig!

Day 15 



The Argument

It always goes wrong at the end, 
the conversation turns brutal
and one of us slams the door.
One of us is driving away too fast, 
one of us is crying for hours.
The chair is broken to bits
The dog won’t stop moaning in our bedroom. 
The dog won’t stop moaning. In our bedroom 
the chair is broken to bits.
One of us is crying. For hours
one of is driving way too fast.
One of us slams the door.
The conversation turned brutal,
it always goes wrong at the end.

Day 16 




Off We Go, Oh No!

Black Friday and the stores are dark still 
save for an eerie light in the parking lot. 
Its the light of hundreds of iPhones
in the hands of a horde of crazy shoppers. 
They’re texting their locations, their lists, 
their plan for lunch after, or a warm
Irish Coffee at a local pub. It’s madness 
shopping, no sane person would do.
It’s reason to be committed to the local
looney bin. Certifiable I say to shoppers
waiting in line for their favorite bargain toy store 
to let in the masses. Black Friday will find
the saner folk like me at home and still in bed.
No thoughts of wrestling another woman to the floor 
for the winning grab at a pink iPod
or an Elmo that has convulsions.
No mad shopping trips for me I say —
scanning the papers for the deals.

Day 17 

Midas

was king of it all, his job
to lord it over everyone, to rule
his way into history. But it got hard
to relish his fame, hard and cold as gold. 
His job got miserable, harder
than he’d planned. Things
turned out badly. When he tapped
his fingers on a chair, it turned 
uncomfortable, cups of gold fine
but the wine hardened between his lips. 
He might well die of a growing thirst 
for normal. He wanted to make love
to his wife, but one touch to her thigh 
hardened her against him. Unmoved
by his affection, she became silent.
I’m your father, come sit on my lap.
he begged his children. Two
seated figures without warmth. Just 
what his arrogance had created.

Midas hates his job now. Hates being king
and being alone. He ought to have
gotten a real job, maybe putting mufflers on cars.

Day 18 


Bundle Up In It

It is today today,
but not far off is tomorrow,
and I wonder if the next yesterday 
will feel like today.

Time a gong
reverbing along the nerves
and echoing against the sky.
But when you die, it is like
a blanket that covered you
in your crib, a scarf that wrapped
your neck against the cold wind.
It is memory returning again and again 
and all you have to do is bundle up in it.

Day 19


Green as the Sky

One day the sky
won’t be blue,
green and gaseous
or sickly yellow
or blackened in the char
we made while we argued 
about climate and ocean temps 
and plastics. One day
won’t be day at all, but eternal 
fiery night. Then it will matter 
not at all. Nothing will survive, 
not even the memory of green.

Day 20 

Thanks, But No Thanks

Thanks for your call, the first
in a year. We’ve been sisters
the whole time, but now you call
to tell me to be happy
on the official day of it. I am thankful
of course, not that you’d know why.
You’ve been busy you say, doing good
for others. Church and neighbors
all the beneficiaries of your goodness, kindness. 
Busy is good and we are all good in that way. 
But no thanks to you for any part
of what makes my life happy, what makes
me give thanks officially or otherwise.

Day 21


Lemon Cake

First you need great bowls
and a big spoon. Measuring
is easier with Nana’s teacups 
the ones graduated
to your kitchen after her funeral. 
It was all you wanted.

She used no recipe for lemon cake, 
taught you to measure the heft
of flour in your palm, to see
how much lemon juice fills
the teacups, to know a pinch 
from a smidgeon just by feel.

A pinch of cardamom, one
of nutmeg, a dusting of poppy seeds 
over the wet mixture. She mixed 
clockwise, said the sun travels
that way and helps the mixture
to rise just so to the rim of the pans.

For frosting, a package
of softened cream cheese, a splash 
of vanilla and one of lemon juice. 
Whip in half a hand of sugar
with the egg beater she got
as a wedding present in 1926.

Later, sit in your chair by the window, 
listening to the rain come in gasps, 
you will know her love is in the recipe 
she never wrote out, the one pressed 
into your hands, and in the teacup
you use tonight for tea.


Smell the lemons, smell her verbena.

Day 22


Family Soldier

Wishbone drying on the windowsill 
wishes waiting in the doorway
the phone silent, still.

My blood has caught a certain chill 
waiting for your call as always; 
wishbone drying on the windowsill.

Thanksgiving Day has lost its old thrill. 
You're grown, gone to fight far away. 
The phone silent. Still

we hope for something magical 
news of peace from far away, 
wishbone drying on the windowsill.

No family celebration, you have to kill 
the enemy if he points his weapon today. 
The phone silent, still ...

I’m off to bed; worrisome time to fill. 
Tomorrow may be a safer day, 
wishbone drying on the windowsill 
the phone silent, still.

Day 23


Dust Bunnies at Thanksgiving

You’d think it was Easter
the way the bunnies hop
around from beneath the beds
and into the corners of each room. 
Haven’t the heart to scurry
them away with a broom, capture them
in a dustpan and toss them out into the yard.

It’s the day after turkey, tired time
for me and the rabbits. We’ll have a peace 
today, no hunting them down and scooting 
them off to the bin. I love bunnies
and yet they are my sworn enemies
when they reproduce and clutter up the place. 
Enough, I say.

Tomorrow, I will take up the broom
again and begin the battle. Bunnies beware.

Day 24


Story Board

Once upon a time
is how it goes,
but I choose
twice upon a time,
a do-over, get out of jail
card, a refund. Fairies
with broken wings,
mermaids who disobeyed
their fathers, hands caught
in cookie jars, girls who smoke 
behind the house. The doomed. 
Can there be a first chance 
without a second? Twice
upon a time? What about thrice? 
Ask this question of the oncologist.

Day 25 


All of This

This earth I rise
from; this tree I step
from, this sky I fall
from, all hold me still.
This womb that sent
me out and down, this world 
that calls me daughter,
all of this is home. This home 
I walk through, these rooms
I sleep in, these plates
I smash to the floors I sweep; this window I lift
to let in the air breathed
by the sea; this man I hold
all night as the storm comes; 
Fire between us.
All of this is all there is.

Day 26 



Slingshot

I am drawn back, held
in taut position, flung
forward and soaring. Arms
pressed agains my sides, hair 
slicked against my head
by the rushing wind, I skirm
the clouds looking down
at the earth, seeing all the writers 
at their desks, bent over paper
their hair on fire. I want a pencil
to draw this Icarian moment, wings 
melting like sealing wax
on a love letter, the only letter
I ever needed to write.
I taste ink on my tongue
and fly into the sun.

Day 27 

Today’s horoscope reading for Capricorn:
Your opinions might be the topic of conversation all day, Capricorn. 
You have a very strong will and you aren't afraid to express it. Today 
you will get that chance. Feel free to enlighten others with your tremendous 
wealth of knowledge. Take control of the conversation and accept
 the mental challenge of trying to win other people over to your side. 
Whether you're successful or not, you will have fun trying.



Capricorn

Be deep and green all day,
surging and dark. Show
your full belly of words, full sky
of words. Full and fearless,
let words spill like stars
out of your mouth.
Be a little dangerous, risk.
Say poems aloud in the grocery store. 
No one minds your mind
being there for all to see. Let them 
talk about you in the street
or in bed tonight with the lights out, 
covers tight against their chins.

Day 28


It’s no place I really know,
or it’s every place I’ve ever known

I wait for inspiration at the rest area, 
swallow my pride and pray for a poem. 
At the next table, a German couple 
asks directions to “someplace pretty.”
I answer auf Deutsch, point
to the islands far out to sea.
Seeing my pen and notebook, the ask,
Sind Sie ein berümter Schrieber? * I look
at the empty page, utter a wish, answer:
Ich bin nicht berümpt, aber ich glaube an Gott.**

Poems are combustible, fire in the fingers 
that wrap around the pen, beautiful 
instrument waiting, watching
for the oncoming image, for a flight
of words overhead. Maybe
an invisible air will drop one or two
onto the picnic table overlooking the bay,
 the islands, or flood something in on the lap 
of tide in the cove. This magical place;
it;s no place I really know
and every place I’ve ever known.
It’s you and no one. It’s vacant; it’s full.


* Are you a famous writer?
* * I’m not famous, but I believe in God

Day 29 



Ricardo

Round and round he chased
the pain in his head until he flopped down, 
too exhausted to stand. He chased death
& it caught up & he fell to the floor.

As a child, Erin preferred made-up words 
like willn’t (for will not),
said that a person
had tripped over the dog
because it was too hard to say died.

              When she had to put Ricardo
              down, she said he tripped over the person, 
               but I never thought he’d trip over me.

Round and round in her head
he is still chasing. She tries
to keep him from tripping. I say 
give up, sweet girl, it willn’t work.

Day 30 t


C’est finis

This ghost is in a hurry
to fade from the house she walked
in her other life. It is no more
a place of light. It is quieted
to a whiff of song, a melody
almost no one remembers now.
Call up your own ghostly place —
start with chairs, unsat for years,
no cozy reading days with tea
and a biscuit as snow falls
beyond the sash and pane. Look
at the table, cups broken,
scattered petals of her corsage close
to fossil by now. In the corner,
a broom sunken down on its straw legs, 
dried to near extinction. Call
on the spirit of endings, finish this.

           — after Blue Train by Linda Ronstadt