My Household

Not a poem today, just a description of my household. Come to my house, and you will notice first the dog, always the dog. She watches me all day long, and it must be her job. She lays down where she has line of sight, and if I move, her eyes follow me. At my feet is the old cat, waiting for leftover cereal milk. If I don't let her have it, she becomes more strident, and on the most impatient days, she boxes at my ankles with her paws. No claws, thank you very much. It is more a warning shot of what she COULD do, were she bigger and say, tiger-sized. The other cats are in deep hiding. By this I mean they are sleeping somewhere, and I am too lazy to go look for them. One is probably on my sons bed, a favorite spot to be, and the half wild cat that spends most of her time outside has probably gotten in the closet, a favorite place on a rainy morning like today. Other than the animals, I could tell you all the wrong things I see (too much clutter and way too much dust) but I won't. Instead, I will say, the house is cozy and I have a pot of coffee to drink, so life is good. I can look out in the back yard and admire how green it is with the preposterous amount of rain we have had. If I cared to, I could step out and smell the lilacs, which are in full bloom, but I don't care to. Instead, I will drink more coffee and maybe, just maybe, catch up on reading the book. That is actually a misnomer. There is nothing to catch up on. I simply am reading the book because I want to read it. I have no deadline nor expectation of when to finish it. Except for the due date. It is, after all a library book, and pesky due dates are the trade off for not having to buy every book I want to read. For not having to store them and worry about them, except when they are in my keeping for the three weeks (renew twice sometimes!). And I can do anything for three weeks...even keep track of a book.

Revival

Just who says hellfire and damnation
In this day and age?
I always picture some earnest young
Reverend with his dark hair
(It is always dark hair!)
Slicked back with old-fashioned Bryl-Cream.
He is in the revival-tent
Which is always down by the river.
And in some seedy way he speaks
To the faith and gullibility of the masses.
He is too nice as he sucks in old ladies,
And the lame and stupid.
There is something they lack
They think they find it in him.
I wonder if he really believes?
Probably not, he may sit in his trailer
Counting the money, racking up souls.
Drowning his sorrows in whiskey,
Maybe once he believed,
And became dragged down,
In some form of hellfire and damnation
That is the life of a travelling
Revival preacher.

Small Satisfactions

I took just a moment today to be happy
About the orderly way the dishes lined up
Marching across the rack of the dishwasher,
Placed there by me.
And then I was completely content to knit,
Repetitive stitches going across,
Forming an open pattern that looks
Like a fishing net, but prettier.
This satisfaction culminated in realizing
As I cooked dinner that it was ok
To be relaxed and happy
As the noodles boiled and the steam rose.

Spider

I want to slide down the
Filament of my mind
Deeply into the murky
Depths of my thoughts,
Trapped in a web
Designed by me
Held gently in iron threads.
Stuck like the fly
In the center of a web
Of lies I tell myself,
And present to others,
Never realizing for an instant
What I have wrought.
I move on instinct,
Like a spider does,
Making a perfect circle
Or canopy of thought that
Protects me and ultimately,
Traps me in this prison
I have devised,
Later, I do become aware,
I am the architect of my own web,
And as such, I can move freely
About on it, agile and swift,
Not mired in sticky strands,
I can choose to leave
Any time I wish.

Rainy Morning

My town at 5:30 in the morning is strange to me,
(I am not a "morning person")
It is even stranger when streaked with the watercolor
effect of a rain storm.
It is a sort of dark place, with a line of traffic,
Tail lights washing down the pavement like
Exhaust bleeding from the vehicles.
I can tell you how my town is in the middle of the day,
Sort of small, sort of the same from day to day,
I can even say that by 11 at night,
Our traffic signals are set so that green, red, yellow
Become flashing red and yellow, in the right spots,
So hopefully the speeding car won't blast through
And take out the other car which might reach
that intersection at the same time.
Getting back to it,
(I am so distractible, not a "morning person")
This early in the morning brings yet another
Endless train heading through town,
Causing a line of traffic to form in the turn lane,
And I discover this is the time for the shift change
At the prison.
And I wonder if the men in there are looking at the rain,
Silently waiting for dawn, or if it even really matters
When one is locked up and no way out.

Would It?

Would it make it easier
Or cleaner somehow,
If instead of saying
I popped that bitch
I said, I hit her.
Would it be easier
For her mother or brother
To hear
She got beat down
Or that she had lacerations?
How much easier to hear
Blunt force trauma
As opposed to I
Whacked that whore
Right up side her head?
Maybe abrasions appeal more
Than dumb ass got rug burns
Because she too stupid to walk.
I don't think it cleans it up
Or makes it pretty
To officially say
She is the deceased,
Rather than she is
Dead as hell,
Hopeless.

Missing Days

My internet has been gone since Monday night. So I haven't posted. I didn't write on Monday, I guess I was too busy cursing my router, when really a main line to my internet service provider was severed.

River rush
Silty water
High on the bank
Tearing away trees,
Pushing soil
Tossing debris
Cresting rapids.
Spring storms
Manifest between
Carved banks.

A Dog

His adventures are legendary,
That day I got a call asking,
What do you do when the dog ate a plastic bag?
Well...is he in distress?
No, not that I can tell, see he had this bag,
And I came up to take it from him,
Which made him go all Hoover on it.
Bang, it was gone!
Seriously? I asked my brother.
This is the dog that eats your socks,
To the tune of a package a month.
I am pretty sure a plastic bag will come through
Easier than the whole foot of a mens sock!
Just keep an eye on him, watch what comes out
And if you don't see bag coming out in a day or two,
Take him to the vet.
I guess the bag came through,
The dog is still riding shotgun in my brothers truck,
And just yesterday, he was at another plastic bag.

Whatever

Whatever comes to mind,
I will write down,
That tall skinny, rail thin girl,
The color of a daffodil
My cat with the vole,
Holy cow, he ate it in three minutes.
I contemplate every day things,
Like how the dishes can multiply
And the kitchen seems bigger
Simply by putting the trash can away.
I wish I hadn't spilled coffee in the car this morning
I am thankful I drink it black.
The couch is falling apart,
Front door is trying to swell,
The neighbor scolded his dog the other day,
I don't know why.
I think I hear baby birds in the tree out front,
I know I hear finches at dusk.
The chorus I heard tonight
Fantastic, and how many people I knew attending.
It was a fine night.
I feel tired, and ready to sleep.
I am thinking mostly about the new novel I am going to start
Reading, not writing, God no, not writing
And hoping I don't kick the cat when I get in bed.
She is old, and has taken to sleeping by my legs.
I let her, because I have learned to treasure the time we have.
And fifteen is old for a cat.
We could have one year or five, or three months or days.
Who knows?
And it is ok.

Party

It was an average Friday night, or Saturday,
I am not too precise on the actual day.
I just know it was one of those endless
College nights with the core group of us,
And someone brought him along.
We sat around doing what we do,
Talking about life and "solving the worlds problems"
And pairing off, and leaving and coming back.
It was no big deal, the lights were bright,
They shone down on us, and we lived.
We lived the self-absorbed life of a student.
After all, we were in college, and weren't we
The brightest of the bright? The best of the best?
We could hold our own in esoteric conversation,
And come up with solutions that by God,
If anyone would just LISTEN would fix the world.
It was a comfortable tension in the group,
We spent our nights doing this. Talking.
Whether drinking at Dan's or out at the
Twenty-four hour coffee shop, jazzed up.
On this night, someone had brought Jake.
And Jake was darkly handsome, and tense.
He could hold his own, he was a breed apart though.
Not a college student, he was a truck driver,
And a few years older, but he took us seriously.
At least it seemed that way to me.
In amongst the pairing off, and leaving,
And comings and goings, Jake took the time
To take me seriously, and talk to me.
And maybe that was my first mistake,
To even allow myself to be flattered by his attention.
But, no, he said all the right things,
How mature I was compared to the others.
That I really had extraordinary insight to the world.
And its problems, and couldn't we change it,
We could be a force, by God, together.
The apartment emptied out, others left,
Trickled away, and it was still me and Jake, talking.
I remember locking the door, a silent invitation.
Would you like to stay over?
In the kitchen, I cleaned up the cups and debris,
And he was behind me.
Whispering things, leaning back into him,
I stopped to listen, and did not like what I heard.
His hot breath on my neck whispered nothing loving.
I was being branded slut, and whore, and stupid.
This was NOT what I signed up for,
I tried to turn, still not understanding.
Thinking I could evict him and no harm, no foul.
My brilliance was being broken down in to parts,
And laughed at, which really hurt the most.
Little girl, playing grown up games he said.
Stark realization that under the lights,
There was a blade held to my throat.
His whisper to me that this won't hurt you a bit.
Silence for a moment, then the low laughter.
More importantly, yes, most important,
This won't hurt ME a bit.

Of All Things

I was ok hearing about the lump,
Surely it was nothing, a shadow on the film.
The idea of a biopsy was ok too,
That would surely come up clear.
Of course, hearing the "C" word
Yes, that was hard.
Surgery was ok, lumpectomy
Was a possibility.
And so you came out of that
Down one breast and fighting,
But, I was still sure they got it all.
No such luck, something about migration.
Into the lymph node.
So, dear sister, you started chemo.
And I thought none of that would happen.
So, this was still ok in my head.
Who would have predicted that what
Finally sent me over the edge
It really choked me up
Was you telling me
My hair, it came out in clumps this morning
So I shaved it off.
I am not ok with that.
Screw you cancer.

You

You showed up looking all
I don't know really
But it was well, you looked
Yeah, like THAT.
You had no business
Being there at that time
And being all like that,
Yeah, just like THAT.
It was unexpected,
You were not even aware,
I wanted you not to be there,
Most especially not being
Just like THAT!

Butterfly Dance

She spins and stomps,
Timing steps with the drumbeats.
The drums echo in my whole body,
I feel the conncection.
Her shawl is white with red roses,
Stomping, spinning, fluttering.
I see that precise moment when
She forgets the watching people
And becomes one with the beat.

Slow

It is slow and ponderous
An elephant among leprechauns
Not pretty, not amorphous.
I would say its day has come and gone
Would I be half right?
I don't think I would be wrong
To say this, yet I feel bad.
It isn't totally useless,
Just because it is old.
It is the mechanism of printing
Out the things I need,
Patterns, poetry, random stuff.
I can hear the hard drive struggling along,
And the light telling me just
How busy it is remains a constant.
He (or she) cannot load some things,
Yet, I feel vaguely guilty for plotting
The assassination of the old computer.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare last night that there were only ever eight stories we lived, and further, that I had figured out which one it was I was living. I was softly horrified to realize there was nothing I could do it was already written, the lead up and the grand crescendo, and even the end. That really wasn't the horrifying part, the part that made my heart pound and break was that I would spend the rest of my life trying to prove this wrong. And wouldn't it already be written? And predicted? It was awful to realize the only solution would be to take myself out of the game, but then, that was already written. Which would be my worst nightmare. I hate being told what to do, worse is being told when to do it.

Untitled

Sparkles flash off the edge of a glass,
The top of a soda can reflects like a mirror,
Yellow blossoms shine brighter,
I see last years petunias have reseeded,
Daffodils are up next door,
Coy breezes play with my hair,
And the heat of the sun soaks
Right into my black pant legs.

Storms

Shadows fall across the land,
Footsteps of the Old Gods
Stride across the skyline,
Thor's hammer strikes,
Odin is afoot,
In the corner of my eye
Maybe there is Loki
I don't really know.
Still, the darkest of clouds
Hang in the heavens
One thing I do know,
Time has not forgotten
The shadow of the
Old Gods.

Destruction

I loved it,that red hat
So bright and pretty
And fun, just different.
It was cool, and fine,
And all mine.
I saw you look at it
With that slyness
And knew without
A shadow of a doubt
That you were going to take it
And wreck it.
Between the yelling,
And the stylized moves,
You lunge, I step nimbly away
Soon it was obvious you would
Get the hat,
And tear it into a million little bits.
I decided in a primal place
To beat you to the punch.
The hat was tossed to the floor,
And stomped flat.
It was worth it, nearly
To see the shock on your face.
And later, telling my friend,
She asked why, and all I could
Say was
You don't understand! There it was!
Looking so damned RED!
And we laughed,
Until it hurt,
And then we laughed,
Until it didn't hurt.

Crabs

I love to watch the crabs
On the beach
Skittering along with dainty steps.
Running along the edge of tide
When the water rushes in
They flee
Like old-fashioned ladies
Holding their skirts
Out of the mud.

It is

It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day
A little gray and melancholy
Even trees and flowers blotting the landscape
Like treasures
Don't change the fact that
It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.
I would be that dragon,
In a shadowed cave, snoozing for millennia,
Days without number,
Interrupted occasionally by the hero.
His strong, dwarven-hammered shield
Becoming one with the pile of treasure.
Then back to the timeless sleep,
Curled around hard golden coins,
Chin resting on rubies and emeralds
The size of eggs.
There is no pleasure to be had in this
On a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.

Untitled

As I ponder the beauty
Emerging.
It isn't just the tree
In bloom.
Or the grass greening
On the hillside.
No, that doesn't
Completely describe it.
The changeable light
Must come into play.
And I can hear
The tiny birds above.
It is obvious that
Spring has sprung.

Still Not Inspired

I think it has to do with staying up too late reading The Death Cure. Nearly 3 is late for me. Happily I finished it today...so tonight ought to be a lesser night...unless I get into the next book. I have been reading a lot. In search of inspiration, I pulled out The Interrogative Mood by Padgett Powell. It is all in the form of questions. That should inspire me. "If you were laying siege to a walled town and could lob in a ton of something, what would you lob in? If you were in the town, what would you most not want to see come flying in? Should the answers to the two previous questions be the same?"
OK...I find it amusing...but not inspiring. I posted twice yesterday...maybe I will do the same tomorrow. I have some time. I think it is lights out for me. I may be dreaming of lobbing cows over walls, a la Monte Python, or perhaps be on the receiving end of something vile....

Silence

That nothing sound
At the end of the day
Outside noises have gone away
The only things heard are the
Electric hum of appliances.
I am not under a constant assault
Of talking and needing and wanting
I can relax now and savor
The tick of the clock
And the soft snore of the dog.
Yes, I love the silence.

Grrrr

You are not convenient
Nor are you easy to operate
I really hate the fact I can't
Sign in to my account!
I dutifully type my username
In all caps, like I signed up
I see you have slyly added
The not case dependent clause.
I move on to the password
Which I know deviates
In about three ways from
Something I can remember.
Then some evil code monkey
Has added one more thing
Please type the letters in the box
So I do.
And they don't,
No matter how carefully I match
Keystrokes to letters.
Eventually, the site becomes obscene
(Can a computer be condescending?)
And apologizes that I am having
Trouble with my account.
I had no trouble until they decided
To put one more layer of protection in.
It is like the super-condom of websites.
Up yours...you get no money today!

Not Inspired

I am totally not inspired to write a poem tonight. There isn't anything in my head clamoring to get out. I did finish a good book today, called "The Art of Being Lost". It was a good read, and now I anticipate picking out another good book to read out of the stack on the table.
I think I am avoiding the shawl I am knitting. I only have to cast off, yet I haven't touched it today, despite it sitting right next to me, sending out accusing yarny vibes. Sigh. I will finish it tomorrow.
OK...I do have a bit in me after all...

Empty promise
Said in haste
To get you away.
You ask a favor
I am uncomfortable
I say yes.
Hesitating.
Hoping you will
Forget and let it go.
Will I be lucky?
Who knows?

Ha!!! There it is. I am on a run...one a day for the month of April. No matter how crappy.
Yay me.

Do You Remember

That sunny day walking on the beach,
The sound of rain on the tin roof at night,
The smell of the jungle encroaching,
Screeching noises in the night
(later identified as geckos)
How we could hear the ocean
Across the road, slapping and hushing,
Do you remember that day,
You lay down for a nap,
Then sat bolt upright in bed,
Slashing your arm across your chest.
It was a tiny crab that came in the house.
Or that time we came home to kids
Dropping out of the orange tree.
The day we realized we had been burgled.
Those glass slatted windows weren't that secure!
I don't think I could ever forget the time
We caught an eel on our fishing line.
The look we exchanged, first on seeing him,
Smiles of relief when he became
"the one that got away"
All these things,
Do you remember?

Ashes

It's a hand full of ash
Just some ash in a bag
Gray, grainy, not very pretty.

No, it is ash from the eruption
Mount St. Helens
Carefully gathered and sent to me
By an old family friend.

It could be found in any ashtray
Yes, that is what it looks like
Cigarette ashes in a baggy.

Not to me, you see
I was young and it came in the mail
And I was in awe of it.

What a silly thing to say
You were in awe of a bag
Of dirty ash.

Well,  this family friend had sent it
She gathered it herself
And wrote of how it piled up
On the porch!

And what makes that anything?
A minute of time?
The scooping?

No, you are missing the point,
It wasn't the gathering,
Or even what the stuff looks like.

Get to the point already,
I am already tired of talking about this
Besides, the bag is empty.

It was a connection, to the friend
But also to the place.
I thought it would be the coolest thing
To have that ash pile on my porch.

And now, it is just dust in the bottom
Of that box there.
Just as worthless as ever.

I really think you are just jealous.
You didn't have a friend that cared
Enough to gather ash and send you
A small part of their life.
Just because they cared about you.

Ha! You are out of things to say now,
Aren't you?
Well...I'll tell you....
I would send you ashes from
Mount St. Helens,
In a little bag,
Just for you.

Unfocussed

Just bear with me
As my thoughts run away
From the buds on the Oregon grape
To the fresh-killed vole the cat got
Away on a run to the store
And back again
Pick up the mail
Shut the door
Open the refrigerator
Close the peanut butter jar
Fill the dishwasher
Dump the trash
Let the dog out
Invite the cats in
Sit down with a cold drink
Read a book
Knit a row
Settle down
Mind empty
Body relaxed.

Waves

I watched the man sitting
Mesmerized as much as he was,
He by whatever his farseeing eyes
were watching,
Me by the way his arms slowly
travelled back and forth.
Long strands of kelp rocked
by the primal ocean.
He was in his own world,
I could safely observe.
It called forth some obscure echo,
ancient beings rocked gently,
Something from the depths of
time itself.
Pulling me down into
A muted world of green shadows
Always moving, silently surging
Never abruptly.
Coming back to myself
In the light of day,
Wondering where the man
With the seaweed arms
Had gone.

Untitled

It used to be that you could cut me
Deep with an invisible knife
To the bone, and the sly twist at the end
I would struggle for breath
All tears and shame
And my emotions would surge
Over your wrist and arm
In great gouts, like blood
On a murder scene.
I became harder for a while
And the shell seemed to work
It didn't hurt so bad to
Be flayed open by a casual word
Or gesture
Of course, I couldn't maintain that,
So I fell apart in a spectacular rush.
In putting myself back together,
I became softer and less wounded
It doesn't seem to matter as much
One way or the other if your arms
Are stained with emotions,
I have plenty more
Where those came from.

                                                         Post, the First!

OK, so my niece let me know that April is National Poetry Month, a fact that escaped my notice. Or mostly did. I recognized the poster after looking it up as the same one used in the display at the local library for (wait for it) National Poetry Month. She suggested writing a poem a day in April, as I had been whining about not being very creative and not writing. In this spirit, here I go....

I can't help but think of you
Each time I cross the tracks.
Was it frightening making that decision?
Or, was it a relief to have finally done it?
Which was worse, deciding to do it,
Or the follow through?
I imagine it like this:
The culmination of weeks of thinking,
Appearing totally impulsive to anyone watching.
The young man staggering down the tracks,
Ultimately sitting down between the rails.
(I heard your wine bottle was between your knees)
Laying back, maybe in a stupor,
And staying there.
The train behind you becoming louder,
The frantic whistle blown repeatedly.
On a side note, trains aren't supposed to
blow them here in town.
I understand it takes some distance
for a mile long train to stop.
And so I find myself thinking of you
Each time I cross the tracks.
I hope it was painless.
I wish it hadn't happened.
Mostly, I wish I understood.