Unexpected Visitor

So the oddest thing

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?"

April 27

Stickiness

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.

Spring, where art thou?

The rain.

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.

Like Nothing Else

As lovely as the first real sign of spring,
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

I Just Want To Matter

When I saw him,
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.

GONE

My dear, dear mother disappeared
one day,
and where she went
I cannot say.

Looking for happiness,
to not be alone,
she ran away-
so far from home.
"Things do change....
move on," she said.
Some days it feels as if
she's dead.

Happiness for one
brings pain to the rest.
This change of heart
puts love to the test.

Please come back
dear mom, I say.
I miss you,
oh don't drift away.

To Speak Profoundly

I want to say

something profound,

something that will

blowyour mind away,

but the most profound thing

that I can think of right now

is a large, pepperoni pizza,

coated in a greasy

film of delight, with a few

cinnastix on the side.

And now, I'll ask,

"Is it lunchtime yet?"

Way to be profound.

Overheard in Minneapolis

“One time I went really high to buy my dad a birthday present and ended up getting him a really sweet toilet seat.”

***

Being a dad can suck.

Eventually you’re going to be running around in shorts and white socks and tennis shoes, cheap sunglasses and some sort of tool in your hand.

You will have to wear baseball caps that say “World’s Greatest Dad” from your kids, or “Eat at Hyman’s” from your father-in-law (don’t ask),

and your khakis will have pleats down the front, as if they draw attention

away from your mysteriously rounding belly.

And all those years you live with teenagers who think your white socks are as hilarious as your sparse hair and rules about the car,

who come downstairs at noon on your birthday, hungover, and smirk a little guiltily

when they hand you the toilet seat they bought for you.

47 fucking years old and you have a toilet seat there, white and padded,

like the big joke middle age proves to be: the ridiculously not young time

before you’re old. You remember the time your mom ate the pot brownies

you left on the counter—how happy she was that night—and you remember

this kid as a newborn, all head and wail, how much promise you saw that morning.

He can’t decide if he feels bad about the toilet seat or not. Your wife glares at him.

You hold it to the light, admire the padding, and then sit down on it,

right in the middle of the living room floor. Pretty comfy, you say. Yeah,

a guy could get spoiled.

Lock Box April 18

There must be a metaphor in this box of locks,

box of combinations, their heavy cinch on themselves,

but I don’ t know what it is as the man at the Y

hands me the whole collection and says,

“be my guest.”

They all say Master ,

most are black, and if I twist the combination

perfectly, maybe one will open, declare itself

mine. What do they do with them all?

What’s the half-life of the wrong

combination? When do they set the little

locks free? A hundred, at least, in this box.

I howl. Silently. Then, after picking up

a dozen locks and weighing them in my hand

as if their metal works’ clank could give me a signal,

I spin a few dials. I put them back.

I’m not sure I even know the numbers anymore.

I just slide the box

across the counter to the man and say, “thanks,”

and he nods, unsurprised.

The Battle

I hate how much it hurts to give

Unsure if I hate how much it hurts to live, more

Both equally draining

Mind, body, and soul

Optimism, patience, and sanity,

Steady tick away as the hands of time do

Self for me is non-existing, a result of selflessness,

And this is where I lose it.

Hero

It is you, it is in you,

it is what you are;

it is your destiny.

It was always you and

it will always be you.

So please,

do not turn your back on us,

but take pity,

take pride,

and save us.

Show Me LOVE.

Erotic beats seize me, shake me,

CRASHING through my veins,

wave after wave!

Grabbing my limbs,

forcing me to move, to dive,

DEEPER!

to throw myself over that

fiery horizon,

until I can no longer tell,

no longer care, until

it's too much for this delicate human body

to take, until I go

CRAZY.

A poem I love, not a poem I wrote

The PARDON by Richard Wilbur

My dog lay dead five days without a grave
In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
And a jungle of grass and honey-suckle vine.
I who had loved him while he kept alive

Went only close enough to where he was
To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell
Twined with another odor heavier still
And hear the flies' intolerable buzz.

Well, I was ten and very much afraid.
In my kind world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man. My father took the spade

And buried him. Last night I saw the grass
Slowly divide (it was the same scene
But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
And saw the dog emerging. I confess

I felt afraid again, but still he came
In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies,
And death was breeding in his lively eyes.
I started in to cry and call his name,

Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
..I dreamt the past was never past redeeming:
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.

April 13

Five Minute Poem

The poison sugar pulls me in,

whispers don’t worry you are thin

enough for one more cookie one

more caramel sticky bun.

I turn my face and eat a plum

I run around the block again

but I get back and there’s the hum

of homemade pear tartin

calling from the counter, eat!
I’m so delicious, so damned sweet!

You won’t regret one little bite

even if your jeans are tight.

I take a bite, and then another,

and then I’m at the peanut butter,

dropping on it chocolate chips,

and then some cool whip, just for kicks.

(set the timer for a 5 minute poem—this is where I ran out of time)

April 13

I'm a wife, a mother,

a poetry lover,

these things are most certainly true.

I've tried and I've failed,

made mistakes and derailed,

yet here I stand, living proof.

There's no quick fix,

no one perfect mix,

for how to live life

and to prove,

that life is worth living,

a journey worth giving,

the very best

deep down in you.

Time is now

There must be, something in me
I sit down to write, but it is a fight.
Carry me off into the land of my dreams.

Where life is magic, and strange
where a man I once loved has turned to an ape
his body and mind is uncontrollable.
Carry me away, so I may write
magic and strange
I know it's in me.

Butterfly

You dance, dance,

like a Gypsy, fluttering!

your colorful fans.

Wildly giving your body

to the currents of the earth:

Twisting! Turning! Throwing!

your breast to the sun.

A shining beacon!

You're a prick of light.

you become the symbol of freedom,

in climax, as your dance

realizes: eternal ecstasy!

A cry of "Summer Forever!"

at least for a while.

Alive through your sweetened blood,

We become

alive in your sweetened blood.

Tired

My thoughts are scattered,

as I see visions of fluffy farm animals

and rainbow colored dreams.

My eyes swerve wildly,

trying to focus on the right words

as my fingers trip across the keyboard.

My mind is slowing down

crawling at such a pace

as to create a disconnect

within my understanding.

My heart beats out a steady rythm,

my muscles relax,

my eyelids flutter

once, twice,

shut.

I Give

A fool
Is the only way to describe me,
At this moment in time.
Naïve enough to believe,
That what was shared between us,
Was the opposite,
Of counterfeit.

This is what I was afraid of,
My time, feelings, and thoughts,
Ending up like unwanted food on a child’s plate.
Pushed around,
In a desolate manner.
Unwanted,
And ultimately wasted.

We didn’t have to go this far,
Bring my heart into the game,
That you obviously played.
And I unknowingly participated in.
But since I’m aware now,
I’m throwing in the towel,
You win.

April 12

My Ennui

Oh, weatherman, full of disclaimers,

as if we could blame you for any of this.

***

And dog, you are not at fault,

nor you, bad coffee in the chipped cup.

***

Nor drooping tulip on the table:

a platter of orange, yellow pollen fallen

***

on the wood. No, not furnace still on

in April, not lilac buds smaller than

***

new Scarlett’s fingernail, no. None

of this accounts, does it, for the dream

***

in which my face was suddenly older

and I stood before the mirror saying

***

“it’s ok, it’s ok, I’m still the same

on the inside”

***

because the exceptional is not so

and the ordinary face is so

***

and my beloved wonderment at each

day is just the stopwatch counting

***

as years spin past, and really.

Grateful

Last night I dreamt

you left me.


You were growing weary

of the way I was,

or wasn't.


You didn't look back,

you didn't mourn,

you just moved on

with your life,

as though I never existed.


I awoke, heartbroken,

until your familiar body

cupped mine.

And I was grateful.

It's a sobering thought once you realize,

you're not only getting older in years

but your body is slowing down as well.


Things which once seemed effortless

now require much effort.

Body parts you called your friend

have now parted ways, tired of the pace.


You might feel youthful inside

but your reflection cries otherwise.

Gone are the days of drawing glances,

unless you put your shirt on backwards.


Everything requires alittle extra push,

which you may or may not give.


But before I go too far over the hill

as my body passes it's prime,

I still have so much to do,

now it will just take more time.

April 11

April 11

Wendy’s gone but now it’s classical week,

and the stars are rhinestone studded—

those Russians with their spray-on tans,

***

their paso dobles,

and bare chests run over the violinist’s

good hair and sex appeal—

***

while at home we sit watching,

in our p.j.’s, beer in one hand,

cookie in another, wondering

***

why we don’t glitter in the light like that,

what we might do to get one of those Russians

to take us for a spin.

Bittersweet Day

The show goes on.

Lupe said it,

Made me believe it.

Because I can’t change the fate,

Of the young girl.

Who carries another life inside of her,

But still sits on her own mother’s lap.

A child,

Soon to have one of her own.

This is too much for me,

I’m unable to swallow this truth.

And it kills me,

Every time I look her way.

But today is her day,

This day,

14 years ago she was born.

For that,

Sadness embodies me.

But

The show must go on.

April 10

April 10

Outside the YMCA plastic bags

blow in loops through the parking lot

and some guys have salsa music turned up loud

while they grill behind their apartment.

South of here tornadoes, north of here

snow. But right now in South Minneapolis

is spring, cans of Bud Light, and a man

waving a spatula at me, a tiny celebration.

The early break of dawn,
another day.
Endless possibilities.

~Today~

Help me Lord
to embrace the now,
and reach out
for this brand new day.

April 9

In the morning of the morning

that one part

where the light’s light, finally—

not just an idea of the cardinal’s

song--and the commute

ahead, the bread broken,

***

the moment when we say

again and mean it

with relief, that’s when

the windows ripple with age

and I turn to you, across

the table, your reading glasses

***

on, your head mostly bald,

all the years of this time of day

we’ve spent together.

I mean to say thank you.

Again.

Ok, guys, don't leave me hanging out here all alone. Post! Post! Post!

April 8 no April 6

April 6

this is what the eagle do: sit

does sits

something beneath her breathes there

breathe something

do river go

(Mississippi) goes breeze

fine white feathers from her nape

lifts mom eye, eagle eye

the feathered

comfort : nest

(on second thought, I replaced the poem I just wrote with this weird one I wrote on Wednesday; today's poem seemed a bit inappropriate. sorry!)

That's Where My Stash At

Another one found, how did they all fit? So many bags. Old dirty clothes, where did she come from? So many bruises. He picks her up, who would go back to him? So many reasons. I must ask, "Why bail her out?" He says, "Good brain, that's where my stash at."

Happiness

Happiness is like a butterfly,

many times it flits on by.

Always flying just ahead,

out of reach, overhead.


But then one day it lands on you

and you don't know quite what to do.

You try to grab it, hold on tight,

and just that quickly it's out of sight.


Perhaps you might sit back and say,

if happiness lands again one day,

I will gently hold it in my hand,

enjoy the moment, life is grand.

Far and Away

April 8th Poem 1 When far away, we see little. When up close, we see portions. Quick to ascertaine, before facts determined. Quick to judge, what's the point. What is the value, of evaluating. What is worthless, of being different. Who has rights, to make rules. Who has knowledge, for the reason of being. Anger arises... through failed expectations. Anger arises, as if those angered are perfect. Disappointment exists. is that not punishment? Disappointment exists; yet they need more. They become outraged! over words spoken. They become outraged! if they smell ignorance. Maybe they should stop; to think before announce Maybe they will realize, that critics are wrong too.