April Poetry, Week 5

Final Poems of April

Day 27

The Last Sister

Lura waits on the stars,

sat in her chair by the window

night after night, calling for Vic

to stroll down from the Milky Way

and ask her to dance. They didn’t dance

much in their younger years. Too much

to do: the barber shop to run, kids

to raise, cooking and sewing and all

that parents do. She listened to the radio,

music wafting up from his shop

downstairs as she made the noon meal.

Her sister was a dancer, a real vaudeville

gal with suitors who brought her roses

after every performance. When she died,

white roses arrived, sprays like tears 

over the coffin, bouquets stood like dance partners

in the corners of the funeral parlor, blankets of them

covered her grave. Lura, the last sister, 

kept one rose, pressed its petals 

into the songbook from Mae’s piano bench.

Now she sits, waits for Vic to dance down

with a rose in his hand, the other stretched

out to take hers. Oh How We Danced

On the Night That We Met plays in her head,

she, the last sister, looks to the window and smiles.

Day 28

A Philosophy

The philosophers of Old Greece

hid out as poets

until poetry devour’d them.

The philosophers of Old France

devoured by wine

fell down, full drunk with poetry.

The philosophers of Old Spain

ran and raged as bulls

until poetry gored their sides.

It’s futile to try to resist.

Accept what gores you, devours

you, causes you to fall down drunk.

Day 29

Resisting

There it is again, that damn voice

coming up the stairs, the bitch

voice that drags me out of bed,

that makes me want to scream

& hit something ‘til it smashes.

She doesn’t get me, won’t let me

do anything I want. Too late,

too soon, too much, blah blah blah. 

I’m never doing this to my kid;

she get to do what she wants. Smoke,

stay out all night, date that Tony guy

over there, the one with the tattoo

on his neck. I won’t hold her back.

Mr. S says it’s a teen’s job, resisting.

We gotta learn somehow. Mistakes:

how can we learn from them

if we don’t make them? Mom ain’t buyin’

it. She takes on that face, that hard face,

and I end up grounded, one toke

and I’m in jail in my room: no tunes

no phone, no boyfriend for a month.

How’m I gonna learn anything 

like this? Mr. S, she says, ain’t got kids.

Mr. S, she says, don’t know his ass from ...

All I know is a whole lotta nuthin’

and how much I want to smash something.

NOTE: this is a persona poem, in the voice of a teenaged girl 

Day 30

Parasite

not ‘shroom, engulfing 

& obliterating its host, red

 spindle-shaped, and dimpled, 

the Lobster Mushroom

lives by insane attack on the real

thing: Russula or Lactarius.

Still, in a lovely cream sauce

bubbled with onion, lemon, & garlic,

drizzled over penne or rotini,

it makes a fine meal. Alone

or gregariously prolific, 

the woodsy conqueror deserves

careful watching. It may be 

catalyst of the next 

  zombie apocalypse. 

Or dinner.

April Poetry, Week 4

NOTE:

I have put 5 days here as week 4, and will post the remaining 4 as week 5, simply for a little balance in numbers.

Day 22

Dream Job in Maine

Simple, you think, to sit

all day and take people’s money,

allow them to drive onward,

to visit the places they’ve only dreamed

of seeing up close. Onward 

to Khatadin, Baxter State Park,

Down East to Eastport with its tides

rising 32 feet, boats on long leashes,

up and down with the moon’s pull.

Simple, you think, to clock 

in and sit. It’s my dream job

I tell people who laugh out loud

until they get that I am serious.

Oh no, not that I want to sit,

or to collect coins, make change

for a twenty, or suck in fumes

from traffic. It’s a way of seeing

that I want, a way to be more.

I want to see people, relaxed 

or stressed, angry or in love, all

driving somewhere, maybe escaping

from lives they’ve sunk to over time.

I want to be able to watch

them eating their sandwiches, slurping

coffee, putting on lipstick, hear music

that keeps them awake as they drive. 

I want to see parents quieting kid uprisings,

or changing diapers leaned over

back seats as they whizz through my gate.

Poet-in-Residence at Exit 7, I’ll write

this microcosm of driving and living.

I’ll make you understand

how all of us are driving somewhere,

all of us have to pay the toll.

Day 23

Flags

Red, white, and blue, waving 

at every ball game or parade.

We stand, hands over hearts, tears 

streaming like the banner itself.

But what of the humble purple flag

flower that grows in the garden, 

raising itself to the sky

without a single hand over a single heart?

How short the life it lives, how much

it depends upon the passion of bees

to carry itself forward another generation, 

how it lives in the shadow of broader blooms

with more impressive leaves. Is the flag

it waves, each petal it presents to the sun,

less important than a patriotic thrill,

a political review? I venture outside today

to drop a tear on it, to water it well

with my admiration, to see it’s brief day

as something blessèd. This is my patriotism. 

Day 24

Night Music, circa 1973

When the quiet hours that wait 

beyond the day...

music plays on the stereo

and in my head, burning from too much 

of too much. The songs try to settle me,

but rain storms my memories, 

making sleep unlikely. I shut off the light, 

try to banish visions

I can’t control, the shade of you 

in the corner that won’t leave me alone tonight. 

I curse you and pray for quiet sleep. 

Love steals my dignity. I watch the fools’ circus 

play on and on. Here’s to the songs 

we used to sing, the times we used to know. 

I hear it. I hear it. 

Your breathing fills the house.

Amazing grace is all I need, 

what I am denied tonight.

There is such a lot of world, so many

lovers, but all I see, all I hear

are ghosts and clowns as the past

floats in through the window, keeps me

awake, falling into nightmare.

NOTE: italicized phrases come from Neil Diamond’s lyrics in If You Know What I Mean

Day 25

Notes on Notes

I am Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, play

past bedtime and into moonrise,

my notes on notes that cleave time

and leave me dangling on twine

above the bed, like a dreamcatcher

with spider weaving mad music

to keep all of us safe in darkness,

to filter carnival dreams from nightmares.

I am strains of melody, running

under stars dead already — beyond

the 186,000 miles it took them

to get their light here for us to admire.

If you make note of my notes, play

them again in daylight, they have flattened

or grown too sharp for your palate,

for the smell of bacon frying

or the splash of juice in the jelly jar

your mother calls “glasses.”

I am fine-honed music, or jazz or rap,

but always playing at night, in shadow.

I am not a brass band on the street

or a booming car stereo. I am steady

bars, glissando or lente. No fortissimo

will do for my score. Eine Kleine Nacht

a little bit of note on notes, a little musik

to make it worth opening your eyes, singing.

Day 26

How To Do It

When you wake up lonely, feel yourself in quicksand

or a bowl of stars a few light years away

from midnight, grab the last thread of the last dream

you remember, hold on and swing down 

into a pond or the edge of a still pool, where trout

can fill in the blanks, hold up a mirror

to show you where you’ve been and the way home.

When you fall asleep lonely, feel a sucking sensation

in your feet, or a sudden lift of your body

onto the lip of the universe, grab the first hot beam

of light that goes shooting by, hold on tight.

Think hard, recall the names of all your lost loves,

say them aloud as you begin to rise and go.

Keep your eyes open as long as the clock chimes.

Losing all senses one at a time, 

finding them again in reverse order —

A dance or a kiss, a wrench or a bullet. 

A rolled out blanket of stars.

April Poetry, Week 3

Day 15  (I have veered from today’s proscribed plan for a poem to write about the horrible event that took place today in Boston)

Marathon

Birds of spring swoop in low and land.

Runners gasping, sucking for breath

don’t think they’re in a race with death,

know nothing of the evil plan

of someone on this festive day.

Boston town, where patriots stood

their ground for freedom’s cause of good,

bloodied, cleft by terror’s sway.

Birds of prey, of metal pieces,

spew death and mayhem in the crowd

as two sharp blasts report out loud.

Helpers run straight into the fracus.

They give quick aid to everyone,

risking all to aid the dying,

staunching wounds, comforting crying

kids looking for their dads or moms.

Guardian angels overhead

watch with woe o’er the grisly scene.

With haloed heads bent low, they keen

a dirge for all the newly dead.

Heaven opens reluctant gates

to welcome those newly arrived.

Those whose bodies did not survive

an act of terror and of hate.

As darkness falls to darkest night

the city birds forget their flight

but perch the tops of wrecked remains,

a cordoned street of blood and brains

spilled out in such a gruesome deed,

its evil such an awful breed

which glories in its brutal ways

on such a happy peaceful day.

Day 16

To poets considering

suicide, this is the ultimate 

in not knowing how to end a poem. 

You might 

work harder on meter, listen to music 

(something light-hearted, not Wagner)

and go on with the stanzas relentlessly. 

Write until you fall asleep at your desks, 

until the sun comes up and goes down twice. 

Watch the river from your grimy window

until the salmon go up to make life, 

come floating down dead. Then ask how 

you are unlike a salmon, even if the struggle is the same.

Ask if you are more like the moon, hidden

behind dark clouds but more beautiful

for being masked by darkness. 

If you can’t rhyme then set your words free 

to find themselves. If your images are flat, 

then write secret lines

in the margins of other poets’ books, bought

in quiet stores or read in the stacks.

Your poems will have their publicity, if that is all you want.

Or give yourself a chance to fail on every page,

a chance to step on your own hem and fall

down the stairs in the station. 

Be absurd or wise for absurdity or wisdom’s sakes. 

But suicide not. Surely you won’t want to hear 

the accursèd raven say of you: nevermore.

Day 17

The Archaeologist Weaves a Web 

of lies, all he knows. Crimes 

against indigenous graves

are his transgression. Digging

to sate his gluttony for artifacts, 

the facts made up

based on modernity. He won’t stop

unearthing, robbing the dead

of their rest. He’s written an important book,

complete with photographs

and charts. All I can do is seethe.

$29.95 

takes one out of circulation.

He is speaking

in that white man way 

of dominance over a culture far superior to his,

thinks the Red Paint People gone,

but in truth they have shifted

to a plane he cannot see. 

Dog bones

in graves, bones bundled together

to confuse. 

Lies are his currency, printed and spent

for his fame, his important scholarship.

I ask if he has any remorse for what he does.

His pale smug answer 

makes me want to shift

into another shape, a raven or a spider.

I might fly off to where his grandparents lie

buried, scratch and dig there,

pluck something shiny from their holes

or weave a dreamcatcher over their stones.

Lies excite him. See the line of spittle

at the corner of his mouth as he speaks? 

Or is that a track left by my cousin 

the snail as she mapped

the way to his village, his cemetery?

Day 18

Vacay

what it’s called now, among other words

that got slanged in to the vocab, like staycation

for when you can’t afford to go

somewhere and sit around the yard

waiting for something interesting to happen

that you can put in your photo stream,

which is slangchat for photos that remain

on your iPhone or iPad, ready to share

at a meeting or on your coffee break. 

Cruising also a new word-phenom, 

multi-thousand-passenger ships 

with unending meals, live entertainment, 

balcony cabins, chocolates on the pillow, 

at sea four days, gambling 

on a safe passage home. Watch the news 

for the latest break-down,

passengers emerging with free cruise tickets

in apology for days afloat without working toilets. 

Cruising used to happen 

in convertibles

or souped-up roadsters, boys and girls

playing a game of  look at me, I’m so cool

while slow drivin’ down the street to the drive-in. 

Go on, pack

an overnight bag and head to the car,

or put on a pair of shorts and sunglasses

for a lazy recline in the yard with a cold one.

Vacay. Get away —

in a hotel or a B & B 

five blocks from your house. 

Day 19

The Poor Door

Not low enough yet to steal

or roust scraps from bins, a simple mother 

with four mouths to feed. 

I stand at the back of the Adventist Church, 

wait during the message, the warning

that our Sunday-Keeper ways

are cause for the hunger we know

that visits our cupboards, our table.

I am ashamed, but not of what you think

I should be. I am ashamed of the man

I married who would starve his children

to starve me. I am smart enough

to learn how a five pound block of surplus

bologna will feed us for a week, mixed

with powdered eggs or macaroni, 

how SPAM's jelly adds flavor we just can't afford.

I stand at this poor door, hope for greens

or a bag of flour, maybe today oranges.

Far away, in warehouses I cannot break 

open, cheese which melts to its rot, bags of wheat

gone to weevils instead of bread. What breaks 

open here are hearts, mothers' hearts. We shuffle

forward, hand over the pieces in payment

for cans of soup, jars of mayonnaise, dates expired.

Day 20

April Cometh

It’s officially time to stand 

the porch chairs in their row, put away 

the shovel for the rake, open windows.

No matter that the temp keeps dipping

below happy, or that there has not been sun

all week. Stubborn leaves from last fall

are blowing around, didn’t decompose

properly under the snow. Mulch appears 

in great hulking bags at Home Depot

and I buy enough to cover what 

I refused to rake up in November.

Wax from the Christmas candle 

shows itself when I change the centerpiece

on the dining room table, stacks

of holiday cards linger in the red basket

in the front hall. The pointsettia is down

to curled up fronds and stick-arms. 

Seasons are just not what they used to be, 

crisply organized in fact and in calendar —

Like sports which will soon blob together 

into one ginormous season. Eventually 

the Celtics will have a playoff against the Sox,

the day after the Bruins and the Pats

face off for a banner they can claim.

April cometh, and goeth. Hard to tell which.

Day 21

Voyeur

On drives home, my sister asleep,

Mom & Dad talking up front,

I became a peeper, watched 

yellow squares of light pass as darkness took over.

Fascinating window theater, scenes

from other people’s lives played 

out as a flickering collage. Not yet old

enough to understand, I watched 

one man slap his son, another

shove his wife to the floor, still another

lift a brown bottle to his lips, toss

it against a wall. I saw children at table,

hands folded, heads bowed, babies

rocked and walked across my bright screen.

I could barely focus for the whiz of traffic,

but saw it all. No shades were pulled.

You shouldn’t look in other people’s houses

my mother said when I told her 

what I did on our drives home 

from Sunday dinners with my grandparents.

But there was one night when I looked 

in, stopped at a light, and a girl my own age

looked out, saw me looking at her. 

I will never forget that her shoulders shook, 

will never forget the bruise I saw 

blooming like an orchid on her cheek. 

April Poetry, Week 2

Day 8

Free

See how far you can go 

free from birdsong, from

the kinds of tunes they sing,

melodies that stay all day.

Bee buzz too gets in and stays.

Tree whooshes swing and sway,

harmonies to the birds’ 

glee at being alive, awake — 

free yourself to hear it all,

free yourself to let it rain down.

Day 9

Rig Ride

From the bed

of the ambulance, flickers 

of lights, shreds of siren, trees

whizzing by in the wrong direction,

medic with a frowning try

at the IV, and snow blowing

around. Unseasonable incident

of a-fib, nothing poetic

going on, heart cannot recall

its own meter. Left turn

seems like right, right is more

left than when I’m driving;

breath running along side the rig

trying to catch up, BP off the charts.

In my head pictures of my babies

held up wet and squalling, Christmas lights,

Halloween masks, wedding music. 

Is it the same in this ambulance

as the moment when my hearing

went in the left ear, never to return?

Snow keeps tumbling, heart racing hard

to figure out how many stanzas are left.

Day 10

Algebra

Formulas and factoring,

a letter done unto by other letters

equals a number. Values and sines

and other gobbledy-gook 

no one could make me feel

with passion.  Mr Davenport,

you said algebra was like poetry,

that it was pure and beautiful.

2 feet = stressed, unstressed x 2.

I doubt Wordsworth factored algebraic

lines by candle lamp or on a bridge. 

Algebra is the stuff of boredom, 

not a recipe for love or madness.

Day 11

Visiting My High School English Teacher,

Durgin Pines Nursing Home, Kittery Maine

She taught me everything I know

about language and how it works,

but now her tongue keeps stopping her

from sharing what she’d like to say.

Electric sheep are in her brain

short-circuiting her thoughts. 

She remembers me, 

then I’m gone a bit, then back,

then could be anyone who’s come

for tea. I dare not stay too long

or I will break in half over this 

mannered, brilliant teacher, 

dying here memory by memory.

Mrs P, I’ll speak for you now, 

let others know to do their best

to keep their prepositions tucked

in properly, and not to split

infinitives at all. I’ll show 

them how to diagram a line

and find the verb, dependent clause,

or make an essay lyrical.

I dreamed all night her speech returned;

we walked the halls where we had been

teacher and pupil long ago. I woke before 

the light, knew it wasn’t true at all.

Your work is done 

now, you should get a little rest.

Day 12

Snow Shoes

I wanted to make a sonnet, 

something springly fresh, bright poem

replete with blowing buds and bees.

I wanted to make a poem

to celebrate that winter’s done,

write no more despisèd weather 

fronts coming in to dump the cold

even Canada doesn’t want. 

But today, wearing pretty shoes

and a thin sweater, I duck hail,

brace against a wind that wounds me 

like a gutted fish. I shiver 

against it, rage the icy sky 

with a raised fist, and curse Nature

her venomous proclivities.

Four short hours ago I stood

barefoot, wading up to my knees

in the Atlantic, sun steaming

the surf that rolled against my legs.

Not for me I ask for ceasing 

snow, drier ground; it’s for my shoes,

pretty ballerina slippers

unfit for hail or slushy ground

or the snow that just keeps falling,

piling up. Wind circles its dark

intention upon my sweet shoes

without a sign of its retreat.

Will these poor feet soon be dry?

Or will winter wreak its horrid

temper, ever long and brutal

against these innocent shoes worn

today to celebrate a spring

that’s not yet strong enough to come?

Day 13

Chicken Picnic

When weather in the barnyard turns

away from sleet and snow and hail

our early rise is filled with sun

and eggs are dyed and basketed

for eager children’s frivolous

Sunday play, thoughts turn to picnic

time. Mother works the night before,

packs the hamper chuck-a-block 

with sandwiches and chicken

freshly fried. The smells of kitchen

preparation wake us from sleep,

call us into play clothes, sandals

on our feet, every face happy

for a day off with our neighbors.

I think however bright the mood,

the chickens cannot be happy

to become our Easter picnic fare.

Indeed I think their day is grim.

I wonder what might have become

of Penny Sue, my favorite hen.

I  could not eat my little pet

grown fat in winter from my care.

Maybe I’ll just eat potato 

salad and skip the fried chicken.

Day 14 

Liaison (a villanelle)

I notice his stare; 

his eyes are like flame.

Something dark forms in the air

over us, a dangerous thing and rare.

It’s something I can’t name.

I notice his stare,

a warning like a rocket’s blare,

a spark, a sizzle. It’s that I blame.

Something dark forms in the air.

His eyes burn through me, pare

me to the bone. It’s nothing tame.

I notice his stare.

The game is on then, dear,

a quietly dangerous game.

Something dark is in the air. 

His glance meets mine: come here.

We go deep into the game.

I return his stare.

Sorry darling, it’s just that his stare

makes me forget your name.

I’m lost entirely in his stare.

Something dark is in the air.