Category: poem

• untitled (my parents)

  My parents
  In their quiet moments
  Are two tall trees
  Grown close together
  Arms entwined
  In a green canopy
  Shading their saplings.

  April 5, 2010

  ---

• my sister’s curly hair

  When the light is right
  her pretty curly hair looks red
  like the darkest melted color of a sunset
  or twined tree branches, free and wild,
  growing down her shoulders dark
  like chocolate cherry ivy.

  We go places together
  slip into hazes of Thursday night bars
  with loud old bands
  dance in the changing lights and
  her curls bounce and twirl in time.

  When she shakes her head at me
  with a small smile
  the curls fall quietly down
  like waves of rain breaking
  from a heavy cloudy sky

  and when we swim laughing
  in blue oceans of Carolina
  the curls surround her like seaweed
  dissolving
  into salty reflections of sun
  quietly fashioning night.

  April 2, 2010

  ---

• Even Memories Fade

  Written late in the night many years ago. Found it in a handwritten book of notes. I have no idea, on a beautiful day like this one, why I felt like posting it.

  Even Memories Fade

  you, disappearing slowly,
  a mist
  a past a past life
  crawling away from here like your life
  depended upon it
  but you really didn’t care that much about life
  anyway
  you, disappearing slowly,
  and I
  sit sit still watching
  not concerned like I thought I would be
  I thought I’d feel
  an emptiness for the loss
  but instead only numb
  nothing.

  April 1, 2010

  ---

• Crocus (Near Easter)

  All winter, I was curled tight in my bed
  so that my legs had become part of my torso
  and my arms wrapped around the whole bundle
  as to let nothing out,
  or in.

  In the early equinox morning,
  the sun rose up over the row-homes that
  stretched into a scraped horizon.
  I could see it with one half-shut eye,
  through one slice of blinds but I did
  not move from my bulb.

  Soon, soon, the glow blinded
  it pierced into my drowsy eyelids and ever so gently
  peeled away my fingers, prodded my arms out, then,
  carefully pushed my legs straight.

  I stretched across the sheets.
  I stood gently, unaware.
  The sun enveloped the whole of the city and room.
  I was unsure of my steps,
  but I stretched up and
  drank in the light…blooming.

  March 31, 2010

  ---

• The Firehouse Coffee Company

  Day after day, I have these cheap wood
  Tables and chairs,
  The constant chatter of
  Two women, both wearing the same
  Grey of the winter sky
  And the one man
  Sitting curled in a brown leather arm chair
  In the very back, under a brightly lit
  “Firehouse Coffee Co.” sign.

  I don’t imagine that he is waiting for
  A simple letter like I am.
  Too intense, he is more like the stares of
  Those painted black eyes of the Blues Brothers
  Who sit and greet all us caffeine addicts. Or the
  Strangely blank face of the firefighter on the pole
  Who is forever a stationary decoration to this house.

  He never looks up, which makes his features
  Resemble now the bleak abstract
  Paintings of the great Baltimore fire, smoke
  Ash, soot, and still he never
  Looks up at me; he does, however, take a small sip.

  No, no, forget my previous thoughts,
  This man in the corner is not any of these,
  He is a government spy,
  A landscaper,
  A dock worker at the Canton port,
  A philosopher and student of Keats.

  He is a muse to all of us waiting on a letter.

  March 30, 2010

  ---

• Psychic Ability is Inherited

  alone, she
  watched the impending
  clouds. grey thick and heavy
  with waiting.

  her father had
  warned of such moments
  and her mother
  spoke quietly, “then,
  you must listen”

  it was just that their faces
  had lit with excitement
  despite her “you should
  not be here”

  they were waiting
  as they always had.

  and inside she felt
  expectant. outside the grey
  sky whispered, “yes, you already know
  it will rain.”

  March 29, 2010

  ---

• In honor of post 101 ~ A Small Girl in the Rain by Alice B. Johnson

  I’ve made it to post 101! Incredible! It’s a heavy day, grey clouds thick with rain, sidewalks still wet. Perfect day in a quiet coffee shop (except for the reggae!) to write. Think, write. All this alone time in my head is starting to effect my mental state…. thinking all about generations and families and “free will.” I have just finished a Taylor Caldwell book as well (not sure if anyone here would be familiar with her work). Clearly, I could continue to ramble but I think I’ll save it and maybe put these cluttered thoughts to better use later. Here, now, is poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson that I felt fitting for the day:

  Small Girl in the Rain

  The small girl, with her face uplifted to
  The gentle summer rain, stands very still,
  Her hands outstretched to catch each lovely drop
  That falls in pattering enchantment till
  She feels its mystic touch. She opens wide
  Her laughing mouth, as if to quench her thirst
  With dancing drops that struggle to elude
  The questing tongue, stuck out to catch them first.

  Her small heart quivers with her love of life,
  With windswept rain and each small living thing…
  Drawn to bright loveliness of bird and bloom,
  And to the lowly earthworm’s tunneling
  Beneach her feet. Small goddess of the earth,
  With arms upraised, she strives as if to capture
  Earth…sky…the magic of the wind and the rain,
  And keep the treasure of this new-found rapture.

  She feels the vibrant urgency above…below…
  Not knowing what it is that stirs her so.

  March 29, 2010

  ---

• untitled (dreaming of a novel)

  it was all
  so clear that night
  the plan
  my skin tight and ready

  only a few hours of
  time that doesn’t exist….

  but I slept
  I did. Head crooked awkward
  on a pillow with a black cover
  and a bed
  of scientifically formulated sleep foam.

  and the colors
  and the ideas

  they came and they went.

  March 28, 2010

  ---

• The Man in Patterson Park

  The man’s gnarled hands
  fingered his coat collar absentmindedly
  and pulled it close to block
  the relentless cold March wind
  his back curled over slightly
  and what had been immaculate posture
  fell to gravity and weight of years.

  Secrets loves wars won and lost
  the battles that were never his to
  fight and die for. He, without regret, considered
  himself dead since his return
  thirty-seven years ago.

  The park bench dug into his jeans
  with splinters. The man dug his hands
  into a snack bag of Cheetos, lightly
  devouring and sucking off the cheese
  from his fingers. Across the way
  a squirrel tenaciously nibbled a nut
  and the whole of the park groaned beneath
  another gust of March wind.

  Satisfied momentarily, he lifted his head, back
  still bent. Dogs, babies, people all
  were walking by, trees heavy with blossoms
  drooped towards the ground, and
  ducks circled aimlessly in the man-made pond.

  Above them all on Hamstead Hill
  the pagoda glimmered with a light that
  seemed to shine from the inside. With
  respect, Union ghosts let the man
  disappear into the park bench with
  a contented sigh.

  March 27, 2010

  ---

• Deflagration

  Here.
  Storm outside howls
  Inside flames burn
  and lick the foundations
  There is thunder in my veins, in my ears,
  Oh God
  must be

  Rocking.
  I roll ever so slightly, to
  press my face down,
  press my hips
  in heated sheets smelling of
  cologne and

  Man.
  your fingers pound rhythm of
  rain-soaked windows—
  outside drips wet
  Inside fingers pressing
  hot back

  Bare.
  palms chase sweaty skin
  I roll ever so slightly, sizzling
  Hips find air
  pressure drops down fast and
  roars.

  March 27, 2010

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