Friday, May 20, 2011
But I tell myself this may be a sign that I should be writing some fog poems. My friend Gayle has a whole collection of fog poems in her new book "fog and other atmospheric conditions." It's a splendid book, her first. If you want to order a copy contact me. At any rate, I think a few fog stanzas might be in order. Or a fog sonnet. OR.... maybe a fog pantoum or villanelle. Those are forms well suited for obsessive situations. This weather is obsessive on God's part I think. Is He in love with adverse weather? Is there a plan in all of this?
[OK, those of you who eschew God talk (you know who you are) can call this power "Mother Nature" or "the cosmos" or whatever you please.]
For me though, I am serious about fog and weather poems. I do think it is a sign. Drat! Just when I was getting up a good head of steam in "The Boyfriend Project!"
Ooops. Time to get dressed and ready to go to book group. I can't for the life of me recall which book. I know I read it right away after last month's group so I will be able to hold up my end.... brain cells are probably too WET from all this weather to work properly.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Rain is my enemy, I shall not forgive.
I am ever at his mercy just to survive.
I get so wet I may as well grow gills
for breathing in water like this. I’ll not likely survive.
Oh where are you sun, why won’t you arrive?
I feel I will at any moment grow ill
from all the water upon my sill.
From all the water upon my sill
I feel I will at any moment grow ill.
Oh where are you sun, why won’t you arrive?
I’ve breathed in too much water and won’t likely survive.
I’m so wet, I think I’ve grown gills.
I’m at the mercy of rain just to survive.
Rain is my sworn enemy and I won’t forgive.
You can see how rain annoys me. That said, I do love rain when it is not every day. Ahhh, how we want to manipulate nature for our own purposes. Guilty.
Must say I am in total appreciation for how green everything is getting. Flowers are popping awake, birds that have been gone all winter have returned to our feeders, the dirt smells so good right now. But sheesh... a little sun already!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Awake since the news
of the crash, you
in the hospital, pasted together —
your parents in chairs by your bed.
No matter that you ditched me
just yesterday, another girl
wearing the ring you made in shop,
the one I hid from my father.
No sleep for me tonight, love not
a switch to flip because some girl
with a laissez-faire father
lets you get to second base.
Tomorrow, at your bedside,
your new girl on a date
with your best friend, I promise
to find you again when we’re 50.
Daddy says I have to get up,
go to church,
do my best not to look
like I’ve been out all night.
He suggests confession.
Make it right he says.
I say no.
You’ve disrespected your mother.
I say she wasn’t there and wouldn’t know
love if it walked up and introduced itself.
It’s not rouge I wear to Mass on my left cheek.
From The Heart as Phoenix side:
There Was the Year
of learning to kiss,
positioning noses and closing
eyes. I admit to sneaking
a look to see if his eyes
were properly shut. Brown
eyes laughing, soft lips breaking
into laughter at my dare.
There was the year
of foreign boys, well a summer
that wanted to be a year.
Dark-eyed boy from Columbia,
a prince from Persia,
and a boy who spoke German
or was it Russian?
Years gone by lurk
like ghosts on the beach
and in the town. Movies
in my head, like Exodus.
The theater burned, we got fire
checks for when it was safe
to kiss in the balcony another night.
There hasn’t been a year
when I was not in love, not close
to losing myself or finding myself
because of love. Boys
became men and I loved them for it.
My eyes stayed open during kisses,
my lips a map of kissing.
But I wanted to ask,
if you don’t mind, where did that year go
when I learned to love you?
The Year I Loved You
I loved you a year
when I thought love a lie,
thought love a star
embroidered on black,
unreal as marriage vows.
I didn’t love you before
and then I did, and then not
in person, but like a star
zooming to its death
vowing to return.
I loved you with magic
and you pulled rabbits
out of hats made of stars,
cutting me in half
finally, as I knew lovers do.
I didn’t love you again
until a bus station opened
to you in the doorway, a star.
Then I loved you for three days
as if I were going to die.
I loved you like a stone
wrapped in my own skin
tossed into a pool of stars
sinking, spinning rings
of vows we never made.
I didn’t love you well
enough to make you stay.