MaryAnnChristmasGreeting2008

For Godot -- Research in Poetry

MaryAnn was included (who knows why) in For Godot's recent experiment in computer-generated poetry, "Issue 1."

Apparently this project has raised many hackles.

To see this project, go to:


http://www.forgodot.com/

Poems published in The Mount Vernon Inquirer......

MaryAnn has had four poems published in the July 2008 issue of our local monthly paper, The Mount Vernon Inquirer.

They are: Cricket Song, Collateral Damage, Digging for Worms, and Laundry List. All appeared previously on this blog.

Owl

the carriage sits in the hallway,
squat, stolid reminder in wooly navy
blue and polished chrome, the
tea draws and
she quickly counts the lump sugar by

twos into the bowl:
still here--after so many mornings
disgorged from the hellish
center of the earth, pushing always
against the press of human flesh

still here, still here, still here--
still speaking, tongue
(guarded by American teeth, wire-
molded, polished) yet unsevered

still here--after so many nights
when stars pocked the skies and
the old owl cried, who, who, who?

Who indeed? She still has no answer.

Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company

down the cool aisles, basket
tightly held in hand, harbingers of summer
closely shelved: the liquid soap to
blow rainbow orbs, the thick sticks
of chalk, the bright rubber balls,

a pile of planets, small moons,
many-hued, one for Dick, one
for Jane, and one for mother too--
these summer days are long--
our young must be amused....

waltzing down the cool aisles,
glancing past the butcher, sipping
back those words that come
entirely too quickly,
or else be told "be quiet mommy"

cash flies through the air at the
Western Union desk, through the
wires, we are surrounded by
such ordinary magic but
we tap our feet in our haste

for the baked asphalt of the playground,
the shade of leaves above benches designed for discomfort, the
water swilled from icy bottles, the
feats yet to be performed and applauded.....

Fairy Tale Theatre

In the land of not enough
the bell tolls their time away

marked by unreasoning angers,
petulant insistence on this or that rough
and badly cut garment, scripting their words
only after they mis-spoke, those
frogs and toads
unknowingly dropped from
their lips, they are censured,
oh, they are censured for their unlovely utterances!!

the coarse towel unravels, the
wall cracks, they cannot re-weave or
plaster over these
imperfections, these arrows that
pierce hearts, it is all their
fault, yet they cannot mend and amend it through magic
or the dropping of tears

and failing eyes cause anger, as does
asking for more than can be
gleaned from the ground

in the land of not enough
the bell tolls their time away

Redbird, Blackbird

the red-breasted birds visit
with us again, heads half-cocked,
trilling the morning and evening song

banishing those blacklegged birds of
somber hue who croaked through the
days of November, their sour edicts
now forgotten

he knocks on the door again, the
devil of self-doubt, greasy noose of
a collar tight about his neck

and Fogarty gives him a couple
of swift kicks, sending him on
his way, stomach still pinch-cramped

with want of food, mouth dust-dry,
tramping down the walk, exhaling expletives

as Fogarty pitches empty jars into the blue
bins, clink, clink, clink, crash, scratches
out another list, the words totter on the
page, top-heavy, indigestible as wallpaper paste

black on white, the printing as plain as the
mark of a finger through a furze of dust

Clockwork

tock-tick, tock-tick, tick, tick, tick
black of night
leaves the red electric numerals
graved upon the eyes

tea kettle waits patiently upon
the range for the ringing of the
bells....5:50, 6:00, 7:00....

blindslats yield, curtain-panels drawn
left and right, encroaching sun creeps
above the bridge to glint upon

the windshields dashing past
the funeral home
(whoosh, squeal, crash)

as smells of eggs and coffee
seep into the hallways--doors
open/close open/close open/close
and soles
slap slap slap upon the stairwell,
followed by
a
BANG

women leave traces of
scent behind, by the mailboxes,
while they, bag and box laden,
make their way to station,
school, or office on heels of
all descriptions

at mid-day the bells ring out
and we pause

at three there is the riot
of voices, color, movement,
unceasing, pulsing forward
as the tide

walking home: hand in hand,
flesh against flesh, our voices
piping up against the wind, twin
strands intertwining, knitted as
we once were....

the peace of bed, sheets the white of
bones and eggshells, dark locks
damp upon a forehead pushed
aside to give leave to the lips
to place their imprint there

to bed, again,
with tea and tablets to
urge the drowse of sleep
against the ringing of the bells,
tinny and obnoxious by turns,
these unwelcome heralds bleating,
breaking silent dark in twain

Sunday Dinner

oh yes, this green and
pleasant land, milk
and honey drenched,
away and away, beyond
the river, beyond
the band of railroad
tracks rusted over, the land
of soybeans, corn, and kale

where the ladle does not hit
the bottom of the pot,
beef to the heel on the
weekly joint, and all will be
in abundance (the chorus
repeats) all will be in
abundance

as the sun rises over thick-bladed
fields bordered by wood and stone
birdsong rises up to the blank blue,
a slate waiting for our writing

The View From the Monkey Bars

I.
fat sparrows stab at
the jagged breadslice,
the heel of the loaf half-soaked
in a gravy of rainwater
puddling under the arches,
whitewashed, framing
this postage stamp of green
--hedgebordered, at the
center a fir, heavy-branched,
garlanded with
electric orbs in April

II.
ah, and do we see
the lights dim--oh,
Burke, think well of
charges, and surcharges,
I charge you, reconsider
these attachments of
our income

III.

rain pours down,
triple lights swing
as paper lanterns do,
almost weightless,
battered by the character of wind
that raises up
wreaths of leaves, smoothbrown,
thinveined, brittle-edged,
a rustling crown to
dip and edge away,
finally undone entirely,
sent their scattered way

as you puzzle out the traces of the
weird script sandblasted
off the blond bricks, so
many bars of gold, they
glimmer, mirage-like
as you perch on the monkey bars