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.

April Poetry, Week 1

Day 1

Fools

come down to the water,

step out on the ice

forget the signs

of spring.

come onto the rocks,

wear your Sunday shoes

ignore the seaweed

wet there

come on over to my side

in perfect agreement

no matter what

you know

fools and foolish ways

no way to stop them.

Day 2

Going Walden

                Solitude exposes the nerve,

            Raises up ghosts.    May Sarton

You decide to go it alone,

pack only three days of supplies,

think going Walden a sensible plan.

Inner voices warn your city side

grasp what you can’t know:

Jangled nerves, raw meat on the bone.

Dark nights without moon.

A fall of will overtakes romance

as every nasty ghost comes knocking.

There’s no joy in your pencil tonight,

every blank page raises nightmares.

These woods are not ready for your visit,

haven’t cleaned out their dark winter

deeds. The trees groan all night

in fierce repentance. What folly

you commit to interrupt

when it from darkness alters, is reborn.

Blow out the lamp and be sensible.

Rattle your beads as a talisman, wait

for the shapeshifting wood

to become whole, to open leafy arms

and welcome strangers.

Day 3

Sunshine Super Girl

In some circles, or in the air

where magic lives and flies and sings,

where Sunshine Super Girl was born,

and all the angels grew their wings,

legends grow tall like stately elms.

And in our sleep while ere we dream

of fairy dust and witches' brews

and hatch our foolish plans and schemes.

But mortal men and women, we

can only half achieve our ends,

for we are poor and limited.

So what’s the remedy to mend

the dangers, strife and worldly woes?

It’s the music and the poetry

of Sunshine Super Girl we need

to save us from calamity.

So sing along, and make some rhymes

and smell the flowers on your way,

ask only for some simple verse

to brighten up your darkest day.

Tyger, Tyger burns in the night,

Raven keeps saying never more.

We hear the fly buzz on the wall;

We hear the rap upon the door.

We wonder where the wild things are

that lurk the edges of our sleep,

that fright us out of peaceful realms

and frazzle us while counting sheep.

Fear not the shadows of the dark

or monsters lurking in the park,

for Sunshine Super Girl’s nearby

to wake you safe when morning’s nigh.

Day 4 

The End of Rain

If it never rains again

if water never gushes

the banks of river, or washes

up on the shore at high tide, and tides

stop rushing at all, and fish

start dying for lack of, will we give

some of ourselves,  a fraction of our 70%

to make the ocean whole? If not we,

then who will tend and save

the sea from its slow burning? If rain

cannot come down, or will not come,

and all of us forget our tears

are made of sea water, who will cry?

Day 5

Affectionately known as Hooker’s Lips, Psychotria elata with it’s colorful red flowers attracts many pollinators including butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds.  Also known in some circles as Mick Jagger’s lips, or as the Hot Lips Plant. The plant looks just like a pair of bright red lips.

Psychotria Elata

Whose lips I’ve kissed and where and when

perhaps it’s just the garden lips I crave

to set upon the hearth or sill

in vases or in bowls,

to brighten up a dreary day of nothing

but dim and gray and gloom.

Ask the tiny hummingbird, the butterfly

looking for a kiss of pollen to survive

if these red lips are to be banned

for their bold & sassy presentation.

On Mick’s songster face, we love the lips

from whence his songs derive,

but mock the female on the street

whose kiss might come on a bit too full.

Once red lips were all the rage

on those dramatic women

of the stage and screen, but now

it’s make-up free we crave, and judge

some colors too extreme. For me,

I’m hanging with the bees, see bright

red lips not a blight, but attraction

                                                            — for survival. 

Carmine. Scarlet. Blood red.

Day 6

Just So

I make the rules. You’d better

follow just so, or off with some body part

(your head, an arm or two, your left eyeball?)

This new rule: no sitting in my chair,

is not capricious; it’s a matter of respect I say.

The dent in the cushion I worked

to make, to fit just so at the end

of the day when my body’s done

its part to benefit society or make a dent

in the family chores, or (sigh)

to sag into when the weight of day —

just too much to bear. So do not sit

where I desire to be and break this rule,

or there’ll be no end to the rebuke.

I make the rules, so let it be known just so:

This is my chair, get out, be gone, scram!

Day 7 

(take a prior poem and randomly cut out text, leaving the white space... see what new poem emerges; to read the original and compare, go to March poems, Day 15...week 2)

Malevolent

           

            did Bentley see

in his lens?       the lacy flakes

            he froze them

                        for winter, a pretty

                                     grumbling over shoveling

                           

                         alike he said,

                                     

                                                Conceived

                        Nature’s killer queen

colorless brutal             falls

            we        suspect

her malevolence. 39 million

                        atomic bombs.

She’s a clever

like a prism

                         

                                    white and soft,

            freezing

                                     fire, snuggle

watch destruction fall                         .

March, Week 5

Here are the final March poems. They range from something pseudo-traditonal ( a response to Shakespeare's sonnet #88) to fanciful experiments such as the nothing poem and the riff on "flow"

Enjoy.

Day 27

The Bard’s Sonnet # 088 (excerpted)

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light... For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to my self I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.

My #88 (formatted in a nonce form)

If you think I’m taking all the blame,

despite my love for you, my fascinated

glance on you day long, night long,

think about the injuries suffered to my name

if I admit to what you’ve wrought as wrong.

I cannot help but wound myself for you

though others say I ought to run.

Perhaps I see you clearer than they see

the crimes that you so blithely do

and so unlovingly heap on me.

Shall I be now disposed to see the truth

when all around shout you’re no good for me?

Shall I now gather strength to cut and fly?

Or will I  be ruined for your lack of ruth,

thinking without you I might die.

If you think I’m taking all the blame

because I am weakened by your love,

it’s been true. But so help me, God,

I’m done this time. I hope.

Day 28

Maple Sunday

Drive into the woods, agog

with buckets and lines leading 

back in a crisscross to the sugar 

shack. Enter at your own risk,

steam rising in maple haze

might straighten the hair you curled

this morning, or open the pores

you closed with astringent last night.

Beware of cold ice cream

with sweet syrup, just boiled off.

Maple Sunday is the most dangerous

of days in Maine... calories galore.

But then, when else does loyalty

to industry taste so good?

Day 29

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast-
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.     Excerpt from "For Annie" by EA Poe

for Bill

The light is out, we are abed

in the quiet space so splendid

where nightly we rest, 

where all that’s ill is softly mended

‘til all that’s left is heavenly breath.

From time to time we up from sleep

to watch the other’s sleeping face,

touch so gently a sleeping cheek.

It is the gift we’re pleased to tend,

love we’ve planted and grown over time

A love we pray will never end,

a pure and blessed state, divine.

The light is out, we are abed.

Day 30  

Nothing Poem

If this is a poem, 

fuzz is too. Gathering lint 

that sticks to the navel 

    (how?)

or words that gather on paper

words that never knew each other

(before, somehow)

get all tangled up and written;

they make no sense at all 

(except)

they came flooding from the pen

today, and washed up on the shore 

(seaweed)

wrapped around driftwood like ribbons

(therefore, thus, and so forth)

nothing I can do will stop them

nothing I can do but pick them

like lint from the belly button (fuzz)

and flick them to the ground

or into the wind.  Nothing. I say. Nothing

(more than) I ever wanted to happen

(other than) this:

Poems and Fuzz. Nothing is more special.

Day 31

Flow Chart

Water, heat

air, tears

steam from the surface of the sea

goosebumps

temper

feelings of being lost

feelings of being found

scientific principle

chart of activity

time of the month

or something out there in the universe

what comes over me

what goes by me

ruining the ceiling

what, interrupted, gets angry.

streaming, move along, discharge, catamenia

flood on, tsunami over, 

rise up and smother.

March week 4

March has an uneven number of days/week  for posting. I chose to post 6 days this week, 4 in week five. 

Enjoy and stay tuned for April's poems, coming up shortly.

Day 22

Bad Words

Don’t say those words.

Back then it was hell, shit, damn;

now those words seem benign

when every time the news

flashes on there is another

shooting, someone’s parents

on TV weeping and begging

for justice. Hell, that’s it,

the place these parents live now.

Pick up a newspaper

and some idiot is calling rape

God's plan. Some other fool

bemoaning government

out of control, the deficit, voting

fraud that isn’t at all. Shit like this

makes us unable to sleep at night.

Listen to the radio, try an oldies station

for a change of pace, remember

the days when people smiled

at one another on the street. Pick

a face out of the crowd, don’t 

give a damn who it is... just smile

like you are the sun and he is a plant

needing to grow and you're feeding the hungry.

Hell, shit, damn. Oh yeah.

Day 23

Boogie, Twist, Disco

Spring is time

for dancing, time past

for sitting by fires crackling

like winter bones. Spring

leapt up today, a rocker

doing the twist like we did last summer.

The Sharks and the Jets discoing the night

away with every girl dressed for it.

Glitter ball sun 

in the eastern sky lights

the floor and we dance like dervishes

out into the yard we’ve dreamt

of since December. Electric slide

to the porch for lemonade

coming soon enough. Get down

and boogie with your best love.

Truth is, we danced

all winter too, heard the music

in our heads, sent our doppelganger

selves out in poodle skirts, white bucs,

saddle shoes, hair slicked back in DAs

and ponytails to take the night,

take the seeds of darkness, grow them 

one step at a time, waiting for today.

Today it is spring

and I am dancing. I slide

and spin, twist and boogie,

thinking of you — how my cheek fit

right into your neck when the DJ

played Deep Purple or Ooh, Girl. 

It’s pure poetry, how swing and sway

can bring back what once was easy.

Day 24 

Here lies

Ezra, man of distinction in his day.

Here he is with his wife, Amelia

together forever under this stand

of birch, he on the left, she on the right

as they lay in their four-poster

fifty years. Are they happy now

that no plowing needs doing, no dishes

to wash by hand in cold water? Children

three plots east and west of them,

all but four never saw sunlight, gone 

too quick for names. Here’s Junior

dead at 22 in the war, Eliza his twin

of heartbreak a month after him. Maryann

gone to influenza at 18 months, pretty red hair

damp against her pale face as she coughed

her last, Mama, Papa. Jacob at 15, drowned

in the pond out back of the house. You 

told him not to dive. No one knows

the solitary meals you shared, holding 

on to each other for fear of going crazy.

Here you both lie, sorrows like ghosts

over this place. Here you are. Hello.

Day 25  

Lament (of Pencil)

I am a sharpened pencil,

add figures to paper

like smoke, lead receding one

entry at a time. My pink tip

is smudged, worn down, uneven 

and slanted. I long for clean 

notebooks, no lines —

just wide wide open space

where words rule the landscape,

metaphor teases every stanza.

Poets have given up on me, prefer

fancy pens or keyboards. I sit

in math class, hang around with the cross

word puzzle crowd, wanting more 

than formulas or guesses. I am sharp

and witty and true. My stiff back 

can take it all. Square root of 141? 

I prefer something a little more iambic.

Day 26   

Breathe

Lungs are not like two plastic bags to fill

with air, balloons that keep you afloat,

not like clusters of grapes, not at all.

Not like inert sponges absorbing air,

squeezing it to other parts that flourish

on oxygen. These lobes are promises,

landscapes of surprise, fair clouds 

on the horizon of the diaphragm.

They move in rhythm when you laugh, 

make room for blood to come 

coursing like a river, wetting

the whole space with magic paint.

They are you singing, you crying,

you bending to pick up your child.

They are you, only better.

Lungs will get revenge if you force 

them to accept chemicals, will slow you,

make you cringe with every step. They

are unforgiving, refuse to yield 

to your abuse. They stalk the edges 

of everything dear to you, take it all away.

Breathe now. Feel them open and close

like doors to the future. Breathe.