Poetry

New Day Born

Sage-covered desert awakens, pink lamp above its
tabled edge,
Freshness of morning, dew upon my blue-sneakered
toes,
Overhead soaring the hawk screams, boasting;
She’s satisfied--mouse in claws,
Wind circles between green cactus,
Seems gravity has pulled its water out, now
Dew upon the wind
Tickles my face;
I breathe.

She Embodies Christmas

I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day; yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked, yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret.
I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.

A Friday of Blue

Blue danced across the ballroom,
sky blue feathered boa around her neck,
…she tilted her head back, eyes closed and seemed to
drift into the night’s breeze. Face with no emotions; a body
made to dance.

Yet, soon blue became the shoe that rubbed your ankle raw;
emotions tethered to the balloon, the rock skidding on the pavement,
Blue was like the hard gum stuck to the underside of a desk
…forgotten
lumped and chewed, now hardened beneath the surface
wedged on wood. The feathers drift on the floor, Blue’s body
slumped in a chair. Too tired to continue.

Muscles sore from movement,
Memories made, now digital
Friday comes and the routine of the week screams drudgery, but
she’s too tired for fun. Grab the boa and get on with it! you say,
Blue am I, grey clouds have rolled in, she replies;
Face with no emotions; a body made to dance…
will have to wait ‘til Saturday.

Stoning Washed Clean

Darkness surrounds me I wonder where I am:
Energy at first seems static, but as my eyes adjust I feel its history—
Tumbling in the Mississippi, thrown upon its shores,
Used for scrubbing pains inflicted, seeped upon one’s sleeve,
This stone I’m in has a history to tell
and seems to be in motion as it sits upon my hand.

Lashing stings my soul;
I wish to feel it on my skin, this rock won’t let me know its pain,
Too painful, too deep, too real.
250 years ago tumbled and tossed aside, yet not forgotten,
Returned to, her flesh beaten upon its skin, why her? why?
it wondered and still does.

The questions inside make my head spin, reel, and I fall dizzy
full of emotions rotten I feel.
Darkness suffocates me I can’t get out,
the walls are closer and I push.
Nothing…
Again I push, the cold slick surface seems to snicker,
Evil finds a home everywhere.

Light blinds me and my eyes sting now from the white,
I see circles of yellow and white,
Blinking to focus, yet
Nothing.

Lungs suck in the air finally there,
the rock didn’t spare any breath for me and I can’t breathe in fast enough.

Eyes adjust and I am rubbing my hands together.
Smooth like the surface, yet warm and familiar,
clean and free.

Guiltily, I roll the rock between fingers
and feel the need to bathe.

Shallow Roots Can Be Seen

“You can eat your BMW’s and Polo clothes!” muttering under his breath,
he zips his Hemp backpack with dancing Dead bears and Rusted Root patch,
$120 Northface coat, somewhat hidden by dreadlocks,
Walking irony—no war slogan on t-shirt waving finger at soccer mom’s in minivans,
He parties—
drops $100 easy without a thought of homeless, gang wars, or his gas hog SUV parked outside. I’d hate to be so naïve, locked into beliefs that were shallow,
incapable of seeing the reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t like my hair?” he questions as I obviously stared too long.

“Don’t like mine?” I fling my rebuttal running my fingers through my $120 highlighting.
I catch my reflection only seeing that I need an appointment soon.
I note it in my Palm.
Black roots, the devil, I think.
My nemesis for unraveling: schedules, meetings, social events—
nothing matters if I have roots. The less apparent they are, the better.
I watch him leave, lighting up a cigarette;
I stand in line for my 2nd Starbucks shaking my head as he leaves:
What a lost generation, I think.

Storm

In the forest---
Shadows… Mischief…
Rocking, the trees sway,
Life undone, unruly.
The wind whips the soldiers’ barren branches,
Cracking, one limb breaks.
Mischief? I ask…
Nature unleashed?
Anarchy…
Shadows… In the forest.


All the world is a Happy Meal

The bag encompasses your world, beliefs that hold your thoughts,
Happy moments salted and sprinkled throughout life—the fries
that accompany your meal,
Relationships met within boxed places, these chicken nuggets
Create the meaty moments—friendships to share with others.
Nourishment flowing oranges squeezed to quench life’s burdens.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled, hungry for more—yet remembering in his hand the toy that can entertain for at
least a moment.

All the world is a Happy Meal
Holding in life, logic, and love
Throwing away moments unnoticed I move through life in a fast-food lane.
Relationships remind me that without ketchup on my fries, my life is nothing. The salt and sweet of life dunks me in living.
Creativity stacked on the table, my fries salted and structured as a skyscraper,
I wonder why I can easily knock them down.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled; hungry for more—yet remembering in my hand the toy that can entertain for at least a moment.


Odor of Death ~ Customs die with a Saxon

Shadowed, gray eyes
Heart heavy knowing dead leaves are falling to bury him,
Tracks of a wolf circle in his head,
Black mud is his dreams—
He sleeps and humbly seeks death.
New stone, secret laws he doesn’t understand,
Roman coins—the visual for the face of Woden dying within him,
Bells toll for the end of the pagan rites.
Divine horror he feels holding the crude, wooden idol,
Still warm from its recent whittle,
He too, will die,
The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon has died.


Money, Gone, Lost

He comes in the mail demanding for it—
You got it?
Avoiding the phone, he asks?
Where is it?
I won’t fix that window or the warm fridge, he says,
Because I need it, to fix it.

Why daddy not goin’ to work, mamma?
Why you not answering the phone?
Why are we hiding in the closet?
Is it a monster? Is it a ghost?

No, baby,
it’s just the devil dressed in green
He’s slipped out the back door hiding in our new cars, new house, and lovely things.
We used to have him around, but no more.
No more.


Poetry Collector

Bagged in black, white, or blue,
The ol’ adage applies: one person’s trash is another’s treasure.
Burly arms bulge as he heaves the
Hefty wondering what’s inside.
Tin cans not recycled and papers unread,
Old food uneaten smushed onto milk cartons pressed against bills and notices never opened. The objects he can guess by a shake or a feel,
He watches and listens, collecting and trashing
The things we don’t want—something wasted he knows.
Some days he rips a small hole, digging for cool bottles or interesting letters that spark his pen, Shapes and colors hidden beneath plastic wishing to be found, washed, and written about.
This is what he does.
Trash and recover, then write.
Don’t you wonder what you’ve thrown away that may end up on his kitchen table?


Dead Vine… Grows
(Character metaphor for Billi Jo from Out of the Dust)

Sweet and tart—Billi Jo Speckled face like a polka-dotted strawberry,
Heart-shaped sorrow,
Billi Jo wishes for her chubby fingers—fruit gone from winter’s first frost,
Wilting under summer’s heat-----
Growing still the same.
Creates life and bittersweet for her dad,
Like the small leaves on the top, this strawberry-like girl ripens.


Homeless on 15th

Newspaper stretched, blanket on the dirt of streets,
Shoes black, worn, no laces, tips of the tops no longer black,
Asleep he lies as if in the Hyatt comfortable with no troubles, his
wares neatly lay out on his “dresser.”
Steps instead make up this man’s boudoir 2 blocks from the Capitol.

Poetic justice some think, he’s not been a good citizen—no job, boozed too much a
I’m sure, they say,
Justice is in stately columns with courtrooms close by, but for one Chinese man,
America’s Jury and Judge are blind like their sister Justice holding her scales—empty,
yet tipped in favor, not his.

Two black duffles—the contents—would answer our questions:
Jim Beam, Smirnoff, Boones Farm, and a Colt 45?
Or pictures of a family smiling behind a birthday cake, the clothes speak of
decades lapsed,

For now, I walk by and wonder. I throw a $5 bill and it lands next to the umbrella.
I hope no one steals it; I hope it will buy him a hot meal.


Butterfly

Go inside a butterfly,
warm inside, darkness blankets it.
Feeding its growing body
emerging, she eats its way out,
unafraid.

Starts her journey looking for food,
wormlike body moving smooshes together
like a bendy straw, and then lengthens
like the child zippers the straw long,
This catepillar eats and eats
making it strong.

Does it collect its food by colors to spray
upon its wings?
Spinning another cocoon the caterpillar
surrounds itself.
"Costume change," it says with a wink,
"I'll see you this spring."

Sassy she opens her wings
brilliant orange, black and red,
A siren's song to our eyes.

Two wings gently flap: does she know where
she's headed?

Soulful actor I know; she flew past me twice,
landed on my paper just to remind me:
She has arrived.