I wrote three haiku
about the seasons colors
the bird flew away
Trying once again
now with snow and death's shadow
the bird fell down dead
So I turned away
my life remains black and white
the bird never lived.
When I glanced backward
as though there might be something
and saw a wing twitch
Those light brown feathers
rose up from the dark brown earth
wishing for blue sky.
On Thurber headed for Brighton
through the first flakes of that year’s snow
I drove my old Toyota Tercel, a car
of sure, steadfast reliability, to work
and only casually paid attention to
the streets, cars, and homes I passed.
I had passed them all so often before.
That morning, on Thurber headed for Brighton
through the first flakes of that year’s snow
I noticed a small white ranch house
enclosed in a short chain link fence,
because of the changes wrought on it
and because of its stark contrast
with any other house I have ever seen.
Driving on Thurber headed for Brighton
through the first flakes of that year’s snow
I saw all of the contents of that house
regurgitated out the open front door:
drawers and dressers, suitcases and sweaters,
a television face down, a doll on its side, and
a broken crib hanging across the low fence.
I drove down Thurber to Brighton and
turned right, following signs to the highway.
Driving south through the first flakes of that year’s snow,
I wondered if I had seen the end of something,
the end of someone, the end of some dream.
I remain unsure to this day if I saw anything at all
on Thurber headed for Brighton through the first snow.
—–
Poetry Thursday readers, please visit the rest of my blog for more poetry.
into blue sky, a few clouds
and the orange reflection
of the sunrise I make a prediction
for scattered flurries and some sun,
temperatures at or below freezing,
with windchill warnings in effect
for this and the adjacent counties
until midnight when the clouds will clear
and looking up, out of the basement window
I will search for stars hoping that they
will point a clear direction for my mind to follow.
Here’s a story about my wife: she’s the most insulted person I know. Really. On our tax return, she had to list her occupation as Stay At Home Mother. I suppose that’s better than home-maker or some other fifties reject. I usually say that she works full-time at home with our children, that she cares for me, that she creates a home that is warm and inviting to everyone. But the space on the tax form is too small for me to write that she serves as a social worker to all the members of our families. I can’t fit in there that she figures out our week’s meals on a tiny budget and still feeds friends and family who drop by. I want to somehow note that she gets the short end of every stick, that she doesn’t get to think of herself, and that no matter how much she does, everyone seems to expect more or simply overlook her wonders. It’s such a tiny space on that form and there’s so much I need to say, so I keep revising it down. Still, no matter what I do, there is no room left to talk of her boundless love, her selflessness, and the fact that she is constantly wondering why it isn’t enough to just be her and to be loved for doing nothing other than taking in breath and letting it out. Even now, with all the space in the world, my story is too small and says too little. But it’s all true. I’m so sorry to say it, but every word is true.
who is buying coffee at Starbucks this morning,
and whose low-rider jeans exposed the elastic band
of her purple cotton panties which had faded
from many wearings and washings and which
were rolled over at the small of her back,
if that’s what I can call that place on her body,
and whose shirt and black winter vest rose up
in deference to the soft purpleness and
that smooth ring of exposed skin above them,
to you, my dear, I say good morning. I ask
why you look angry or possibly just sad
when it is almost Christmas here in Syracuse
and still there is no snow and the air is warm enough
that your vest is unbuttoned, your pants slung low,
and the space between shirt and purple underwear
is happily bare? I look back at you in wonder
as I push open the door to leave, knowing
that we should both smile or at least nod,
you happy in the sure fact of your beauty
even in yesterday’s clothing, and me lingering
with the image of your purple underwear peeking out
like Mona Lisa’s smile, mysterious and endlessly satisfying.
To you, the woman wearing purple underwear, I say good morning.
Tomorrow a doctor will open the side of my throat, reach in, and touch my spine. He will remove a broken disk, fuse bone to bone with bone, and put me back to rights. When he signs the papers, he will hold a baby-blue fountain pen that is a god to the humble beggar with which I write. His is an instrument finely crafted of precious metals, balanced like a Japanese knife so that words and ink flow as though the were an extension of his body. My own words stumble and stutter as I drag a cheap fountain pen across sheets of re-used paper. The pen, its cap wrapped in black electrical tape where it cracked just days after I bought it, is worn and old. My ink fades and my body hurts. Tomorrow his hand will glide across the papers with my vital information, across my neck and spine, as he writes the next chapter in the book of my body. I can’t wait to read it, to see how my story progresses in permanent blue ink from a pen that is nothing short of the instrument of a god.
—–
Poetry Thursday readers, please visit the rest of my blog for more poetry.
in
one
soup pot
add all your desires
simmer, stir occasionally
two
hours
later
uncover
the soup, bare your soul
invite everyone inside you
your
heart
is now
ready to open
to loves new and old
you have adjusted the spices
now
serve
be warm,
satisfied,
and be beloved
Now bow your head for the blessing.
—–
One Deep Breath readers please visit the rest of my site to read more poetry.
You look out the window into a snow-globe world of softly falling snow. It was thicker only moments ago and as you wonder if it's about to stop, you see a giant kid reaching out his massive hand to shake the world. His palm closes over the sky. His skin is unwashed and you see germs the size of terriers and alley cats hissing down at you. And then your world comes apart as he shakes everything you know. Your head hits the ceiling, you fall into the wall. The tables and chairs dance. You land on the floor, lying beneath the window, as the boy sets the world down. He pulls his hand away and stares in your direction. But you're too small for him to notice. You rise to open the window, to scold this giant boy, to tell him that you are going to call his mother. But then you see that the snow is falling thickly again. The flakes are giant, soft and white. The world he has made is impossibly beautiful and the boy has moved off out of sight. Looking out the window you begin to wonder if you believe he was ever real at all.
The place was a dump
dressed up as a palace
a thin coat of paint
and plastic in the windows.
He invited her in saying
that she was so beautiful
and her voice was a song.
“I’ll pay you to stay.”
She had never been loved
and forgot her homeliness,
squeaking voice, and
the trash all over his floor.
But then the gods whispered,
“he’s lying to you dear,”
and stirred a breeze
that woke her from the dream.
He beckoned, she wavered, and
the gods wondered how to punish
evil men enticing innocent fools
to sign over their souls in pursuit
of ever elusive fame.
A poem for the folks who run a feckless scam on naive writers that reminds me of the dirty old man who offers candy to young children if only they will come home with him.
I was just reading some of the posts at Poetry Thursday and realized how important a first line is for a poem. There were four in a row that left me cold within the first twenty words and I was long gone before they ended. It reminded me of music and prose reading where a piece has to get me right away or I'm gone. I think that I forget about that all too often, especially when the poem is infinitely interesting to me and I haven't been thinking even a little bit about any other reader.
This is mainly for my students to keep in mind. Though I don't imagine it's a bad thing for any of us to remember. So there we are.
