girls
ought to
live a certain way.
I have a book of etiquette
from 1928:
“bobbed hair does not
carry with it the privledge
of using
a comb in public.”
If I’m the woman
wearing diamonds to breakfast
I’m labeled
nouveau riche.
Category: poetry
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published on Everydaypoets.com
Check it out!! So excited and can’t wait to get my next piece to them. Great poetry on this site, and I’m very happy (and proud) to be a small part of it!!
http://www.everydaypoets.com/rolling-under-a-radio-tower-by-jody-costa/comment-page-1/#comment-6317
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the yarn spinner
taken from my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Childern Live (1958).
The Yard Spinner
Intent on every word, the small boy hears
A story woven of an old man’s years
That, with the telling, finds a space to grow
In splendor for a boy who wants it so,
And, as the truly wonderous tale unravels,
Along an old world trail a small boy travels —
A boy who hangs upon each chosen word,
As with the spinning yarn the air is stirred,
Until the hero-worshipper is led,
His hand held fast in grandfather’s — to bed.
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secrets writers keep
i wonder
did she ever
edit thoughts
as if to say
“i always think of
garden blooms and
my children
and not of pain
and death
and worse than all
loneliness”
did she ever
write such verse
in mind alone
and then turn around
and type instead,
“how lovely is
this day….”
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the art of waving goodbye
he looked at her like she was the most beautiful
woman, spotlighted inspiration,
but when she caught him
he looked away fast, averting,it was then
she pressed her hand
forcefully through air
determined,
long fingers straining for
that fine art of
waving goodbye,
pressed her hand
and let it stain the air
strain the silence of an unspoken
conversation
that always ended so
abruptly… suddenly…
…
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watching summer Baltimore
crabs steamy with Old Bay
mixed with the scent of heavy
humidity and a wind carrying
a storm from the west
I sit on stairs watching
summer Baltimore languish.
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smoke break
standing alone
outside the office
smoke lingers from
previous breaks
head leaned back
to the sun and
across the way
someone is sailing
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these boys in my head
these boys in my head
vying for attention
fighting
and pulling me
this way and thatthese boys,
one (maybe more than)
who was meant to be
one who was
for the time being
one who
knew all along
and one…
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Wide Rivers
From my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Children Live (1958)
Wide Rivers
A small boy has no use for gentle rains —
He watches with a weathered eye and mutters
For rains that come in torrents, flood the mains,
Overflowing streets and leaf-strewn gutters.He sees wide rivers, far as eye can measure,
And, in storm-tossed debris, boats filled with treasure.
Poetry by JC Snyder 