2023 writes poems
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Unexpected Visitor
happened this morning,
the third day
since the beginning of
the spring monsoon.
I was sipping hot tea,
lost in thought,
watching the rain
weep from the sky.
A female mallard
sauntered up my circle drive,
her handsome friend
waited in the wings.
She waddled determinedly,
as though she had something
to speak to me about,
maybe to borrow
a cup of birdseed or
invite me to book club,
although it might be unlikely
we shared the same taste
in literature.
Perhaps it was to complain
about the noiseness of my hens,
or to protest their spreading gossip.
I imagined, as she swung her
tail feathers purposefully
en route to my front stoop,
that she was sporting
a stylish handbag
tucked under her wing,
a flashy pair of all weather boots
keeping her webbed feet dry.
As I cracked open the front door,
I fully expected her to say,
"Good day, Mrs. Hill.
May I join you for tea?"
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
April 27
Not a stick of lip
but for lip
not a stick of night
but for skull
a certain disincentive
to resist.
***
Not a stick of slap
but laugh
not a stick of chop
but mouth
certainly leans in for
a bite.
And then
a long length of bread,
inches to make a yard,
and a grip to make, oh yes,
make joy.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Spring, where art thou?
It falls,
it falls,
still falling.
The heaviness of
the gloom wears
on me,
it's grayness,
like a waterlogged
life jacket,
pulling me under,
with no end in sight.
April 24 Poem
Frogs hop in, and the rain falls
where my daughter sleeps in rooms
full of jungle, beneath a mosquito net
and the sound of roosters.
In the north I tap the pond’s ice
with my foot, breaking it into plates
so thin I know this is spring,
its weak start
and somewhere down in the muck
the frogs have wintered. Raking, I pull
leaves back from the cold toads,
then bury them again,
both of us surprised: me by such round
white bellies, suddenly, them
by the air and bright light of April.
Soon enough all the amphibians
will sing summer bright and warm,
sing rains down. And soon enough the girl
will come home. Not soon enough.
But eventually.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Like Nothing Else
After a menacing Minnesota winter.
As refreshing as an ice cold drink,
On the hottest of summer days, when it's too hot to step outside.
As beautiful as your most precious moment,
Unforgettable, bringing forth a smile each time you reminisce.
As admirable as a soldier,
Who's been there and back.
And it's unique in it's own way,
It's truth,
And it'll always set you free
Thursday, April 21, 2011
I Just Want To Matter
Hurt reached inside of me,
And grabbed my heart
Tears stung the backs of my eyes,
Threatening to fall
My thoughts froze,
Unable to process anything other than his image
My eyes move to the word
Incarcerated.
I’m elated,
At least he isn’t dead
And this means I still have a chance.
To find out who the hell he is
Since I am a part of him
I see, ironically
It was sale of a controlled substance
I ask whoever is listening,
Although my apartment is empty,
How do you sale the very same substance you use?
The one that ruined your life,
Turned you into a fiend
The very same substance you are a prisoner of
And not surprisingly I,
Or anyone else listening,
Couldn’t fathom an answer
And silence embodies me,
As it all comes back to me,
Every promise he ever made and broke,
The tears I shed,
Missing and wanting him near,
The absence always years at a time,
His presence never longer than a month in time
And the hurt that grabbed my heart,
Grabbed tighter,
The tears that threatened to fall,
Burst from my eyes like water bursting through a weak dam,
The thoughts,
A mixture of memories, and anger
Raced
Breath escapes me,
Barely
Because my world has paused for just a second
My entire life,
I didn’t matter to him,
All the while wanting to.
And still I would rather live a life with him,
Than without.
"No one wants to be invisible,
Everyone just wants to be seen."--Jazmine Sullivan 'Famous'
april 21
My long day’s doctor’s doctored me:
gin; a slice of orange; warm soup.
Still, my sadness goes traipsing after
the milkman, won’t come home to roost.
If we could call it home, or sadness,
the medicinal ice shivering in the glass;
if we could mistake, once and for all,
bird for eye, silence for a lack
of disaster. The banker will call anyway,
the mortgage dropping its coins
into his satchel. In black and white days
he was the villain, but now no one
minds his Mercedes.
You must pay! But I can’t pay! You
must/I can’t, etc. Thus the gin
and a sort of rattle near my spleen,
yellow dog curled at my feet.