4.2.14

Handheld

The sweet smoke of burnt offerings

is centuries gone.  No bundled reeds float

out to sea, the saltwater licking up wine and honey.

Our hands would not be that dirty, curled

parchment maps too inefficient.  The old gods

are too much effort, demand too much.  Now-a-days

things are shinier.  More compact.  Cleaned up.

We keep our gods in our pockets and purses.

We spring into action when they chime.

We perch them on our dashboards to guide us

down empty highways scraped of landmarks.

They whisper in our ears: “Turn left in 2.4 miles.”

“Merge.”  We have merged thoroughly

with our handheld gods, we have become

master of the earth and sky, simplified

everything to lines and gridwork,

put our eyes in orbit

to keep track of where we are.  Our hands

are soft and white, our screens as smooth as ice.

The new gods buzz in our pockets, always anxious

to be heard, already our masters.

4.1.14

And so it begins...I am again doing a photo project in conjunction with my poetry project in April, so enjoy the visual images that accompanies each poem this month too!  Sometimes the poem will be inspired by the photo, sometimes it will be the other way around, and sometimes the connection will be more subtle (at least that's how it was last year).

All right, so without further ado, here's my first poem!  My prompt word for today was "fool."  Appropriate for any number of reasons...

Fool’s  Journey

How many curbs must I trip over , looking for the stars—
how many shadows shall I wander into, confusing
moonlight with city light?  I am cocky with the sureness
of the idiot, the gutters flowing with plans,
the street dropping off into sparkling night air. 

We sing as we walk, not watching our feet, not watching
the sharp-toothed details that nip at our ankles.  Our high heels click

along the sidewalk like chariots.  We throw rose petals

over our footprints, delighted to lose ourselves
in neon nights, whiskeyswirl, the fuzzy joy of
alley shadows in July, the spin of headlights
across our summer skirts. The stars are swallowed
in neon moonlight, their guidebook hidden.  We stumble
along, stitching mistakes together as we go.  

The nights grow darker and colder.  My pack grows heavier,

swinging against by back.  Far from the city, I stop

to build a fire.  You don't understand

it is neither good nor bad, it just is: the stumbling,
the petals drying and flying away,
the way of things as our stories are written.

It begins...

NaPoWriMo 2014 starts tomorrow!  Let the madness begin!

4.30.13

It's the last one!  A return to "normal" life (as "normal" as my life ever gets, anyway).  My poem for today bids farewell to NaPoWriMo (for now).

Thanks for visiting!

Breaking It Off with Poetry (Again)

So I guess this is it. You knew
this couldn’t last, right? You knew
I can’t commit to something
this serious, something that takes
this much time and energy. I can’t
do this every day. I’ve got
responsibilities, other things
I need to be doing. I need to wash
my hair, weed the garden, change
the oil, change the furnace filter,
clean the fridge, and after all that,
I’ll probably need to wash my hair again.
I don’t really have time for this, you know—
these long rendezvous in the evenings
where we drink wine and stare
into each other’s eyes. Or the coffee dates—
the five-dollar mochas and the frantic
scribbling, the ones that made me late
back to work from lunch break. You know
I can’t lead this double life: I have a husband,
for God’s sake, and two kids. This can’t
be my life, all this sneaking around
WRITING in the wee hours, stealing
moments when I should be doing something
responsible, useful—shelving all the stuff
I get paid to do and meeting up with YOU instead.
If we keep this up, it’ll destroy me.
You know I love you—you know I’d do anything
for you—except this. I just can’t. I just
can’t.

I’m glad you understand—
we’ll both move on from this.
We’ll be strong. This will help us grow. Really,
we can still be friends, right? I mean,
there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe
meet for coffee a couple times of month.
Or maybe we could email each other? I’d like that.
You know, I heard about an open mic for poets
downtown next Wednesady. Maybe we should
team up for that? A professional relationship,
mind you, not this passionate mess
we’ve gotten ourselves into.

You want to? I’ll plan on it then.
Pick you up at seven.

4.29.13

Siberian Squill

Early April, grass
just greening , gray sky curling
down to the horizon. Then,
punch of sun—carpet
of exploding azure stars.

4.28.13

Nothing Rhymes with Orange

In school they taught us, “Nothing rhymes with orange,”
and other absolutes: geometry,
the nine planets, and the length of an inch.
Back then, fact was fact. But now I'm thirty-three

and Pluto’s not a planet. Facts can change.
What they told you might not be set in stone.
And changing the inflection of your “orange”
can slant the sounds and play tricks with the tones.

Depending how you say it, the word “orange”
could rhyme “arrange,” and “mange” and “lozenge” too.
Pluto hasn’t jumped its frozen orbit
just because NASA named it something new.

Sounds and planets are always what you make them.
Only learn the rules so you can break them.

4.27.13

Why Roses are Overrated

Well, now—if it’s not the prom queen
of flowers, all dressed up for forever love
in flashy mylar-paper wrapping,
thorns clipped harmless, fresh from the florist,
petals soft as promises and smooth
as white picket fences: beating you
with picture-perfect symbolism,
making you love it, making you believe it.
A flawless dozen offered on a snapshot night
could hang around for years, mummified
upside down or encased in a glass bubble.
How can you plan a life around a dozen roses,
around a clean pre-packaged ending?
Love is too big and messy, showing up unbidden,
spilling apple juice on your shoes, lowering
your standards, and riding its bike
through the front garden at midnight, drunk.

You want to be symbolic? You want to show me love?
Pick me fourteen dandelions. Stick them in a tinfoil hat.