10 December 2010
04 December 2010
November Poem-a-Day Challenge Chapbook Submission........
Page-Turner (Can One Trust the Narrator?)
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
Seven-OH-Five
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
Fleetwood Bridge
the roadmap streaks blue and red,
twisted, knotty, the veins I trace
with my finger....
were there a global positioning system
that could find you, it would be on
a bridge over Fleetwood's tracks,
casting your eyes over, casting your
bread upon, the river, where we
saw an opossum, swollen-bellied,
amble down to take a
drink, silvery under the electric
light
later,
squinting, so, at the
green, gold, red, heavy-lidded through
years of yellow paint, one coat upon
another, you gripping the steering wheel
as we plot the best route,
from aye to bee to cee and finally,
oh so finally, to zed. and home. and rest.
but now it is as black as a North Korean night on
Google maps, the last candle snuffed
out and no electric light to be seen
brights on the bridge, at night,
a necklace, sparkling, but
hot to the touch, they warned one
off, the wires, too, woven azure, crimson,
grass-green, jewel colored, touch me, touch me,
if you dare
Butterfly, Loch Avon
in four-color plates, this
special featurette of our
magazine:
ten steps to a new
you:
curving script to detail
this cunning
stunt
to be pulled off (in a
most determined fashion)
between the marshalled
efforts of: dressmaker,
manicurist, and
the like, not
forgetting, of course,
some themes of self-
improvement (so dear to
our editorial hearts) whether
whisking eggs or
curling our eyelashes
and here she is, presented on
the penultimate page, our paragon,
our gold and ivory baby, our butterfly, her
teeth tearing into peachflesh,
ready, finally, for her close-up
Rooftop Dining
just tell me when you
can get the money; that's all
I want to know
(ses navy-blue jumper, khaki trousers,
neat black shoes and the cellular
clapped to his ear, so)
soles pressing upwards, to inspect
the rooftop, after a shout through
the door
whilst the men of leisure
enjoy their breakfasts, their
letters of agreement and
memorandums of understanding
signed long since
as Sal smiles and says "them
cigarettes get heavy to lift"
and she agrees to another cup
of coffee (black), the toast
scraped over with butter gone cold
Waiting for the Dough to Rise
there's time, yet, while the
bread-dough rises, to stop
and speak, your words
metrical in their efficiency...
oh, that I could blur
their clipped edges with
my fingertips,
no shame in slowing that
engine down to a low
roar, our words reappearing in
the air, held aloft as
dandelion spores, there
for us to savor their
meaning during this
drift and pull along
suburban sidewalks brisk
with activity, as the
dough doubles, only to
be punched down for kneading,
time yet, whilst it bakes,
to have some talk of this
or that
but no, and so,
a floured hand is grasped goodbye
Artifacts
what need have we
of another love-poem?
they grace the fluorescent
check-out aisles, in stacks,
next to minty chewing gum,
pricked onto fine linen decorative accents,
ubiquitous as chain-hotel
wallpaper flocked in blue
(a neutral blue)
to soothe the tired eyes of men
still, love comes in at
the eyes, so who am I
to argue? When all is
said and done, some
talk of thee and thou
who is the wiser as the
sun rises, with the gas
still to be paid and
dinner made
the heart still sinks, an
elevator gone awry, when
thought of love-loss in quietude strikes
like a fillet knife to the throat, the
garotting wire shiny taut, so
love letters, dusty, in the
drawer, a footnote (or two),
some ancient, ardent, artifacts fit only
for museum shelves, flowers
pressed flat as a pancake
between printed pages speaking
of love, unspeaking, that
vast unraveling of sense
and sensibility
Canvas
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
Walls
lay your head on my shoulder, forget
what they say (meaning and masking matters
not one whit as the sun rises, sets, the
shifting face of the moon will smile down
on us, seeing, as she does, similar spirits, pale
dead rocks that, nonetheless, burn bright, are
changeable, blotted by dark patches, like
moss on the wall, built up, stone by stone,
to make a whole from parts once scattered
far and wide)
no need for the words of others, mine,
as we build our walls water-tight, thick-
mortared, to keep out such as would harm us
Three Roads Converge
three roads converge, the
triple-faced masks stare
down (gas, food, lodging) and she, her hounds
to heel, holds a torch aloft,
small moon of light suspended
to illuminate three roads, torn
over by the weather, ragged
furrows of asphalt forgotten
by the surveyor
which way, then, to turn?
the buzz and hum of electric
lights attract a chorus of
insects, singing....so far you
have come....so far yet
to go
Lost and Found Again
moving from lost to found all she
needed were the right co-ordinates,
internal gps did the rest--
sorting through all the noise, the
murmuring meant to distract, the
dripping tap diverting thought (what
was that, then, I wanted?) as
she stands, in stocking feet, on the
threshhold of the bedroom, framed there,
held, for a moment, as if in a
memory box (this scrap of blanket, blue, this
carbon copy of a bill of lading, yellow, the
rough brown of paper, wrinkled deeply, that once
wrapped flowers)
and has she found some shade of
self again? retrieved, like
a blue wool balaclava from the
bottom of the box: found (amongst all
the clobber of chilren's things, some
marked with names, more
without, the scarves twisting
into accidental knots)
....
landmarks on the map are
not to scale - legends for schools,
public parks, houses of worship,
all in primary colors, the filiments of
railway lines snaking, sinuous,
off the four corners of the page
....
so lost in thought, coming to the
findings, finally, at the bottom of
a jewellery box, broken glimmerings of
metal, found after all these
years, the necklace, too, of green
stones she thought lost, how he played
with the clasp that final night
....
flotsam, jetsam, the effluvia of
all our days lost, found, lost
again, pendulum moving back and
forth, the tick-tock of sun/moon
evermore
Where Did the Time Go?
she asks and sighs to see
the hands on the face moving
forward (too fast, always) as she pulls
her hands over hers and turns
back to the packing,
hands already gloved with a fine grey
dust, packing the books first,
then the winter clothing, last
the teakettle and
kitchen implements
pennies, warmed in our hands,
burnt holes through the thick
garden of ice on the windowpane, that
tapestry of cool, so we could
see the drifts new-pillowing
the hills, deadening sound
lovely in his bones, throwing off
his coat, with a shrug, with a
smile
stay awhile
but no
he goes
pages, crumbling, of Time and
Tide, arriving in a pale
envelope, hand-lettered, the
stamps uncancelled
added to the last-minute
box, the grocery circular too,
that-which-might-be-needed
a final sweeping of the
floor, then gone, wondering, indeed,
where the time went
Tell Me Why He Loves Her So
tell me why, again, you paint
those you do and how you
choose the colors and the
brushes, too, to stroke the
tempera onto the smoothed wood,
until she stares at me so,
(pigment-powder-to-paint to make a saint)
boldly, as if to say, I, not you,
own his eyes, I am his
delight from morning until noon, I
glow in the sun, resplendent,
unspeaking, every attention paid to
my lips, cheeks, hair, eyes, the
wrinkling of my collar, the top-
most button forgotten in his haste
(and tell me why he loves her so)
W(hole)
the hole that is the whole of him
(so it seems, sometimes) with his
dear volubility, discoursing away
faster than the birds in the bush
and herself only half-awake at eight and
longing for some--liquid stimulant--
to rouse her to awaked-ness
straining his words through her hands
she places several (snap!) in her purse,
some, twinned like the pepper and
salt on her countertop (click-clack), still
others atop her bathroom looking-glass,
and a stack in the milk-white breadbox, fresh
when she needs them most
the hole filled with the whole
of him, hands, mouth, stomach....
his words so freely given,
so greedily received
Quilt
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
Bad Animal
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
Stairwells
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
Garland
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
Threshold
next steps are in stone,
grey, sweating cold, as if
in a fever
who laid them here
with careful hands? She
does not know as
she steps heavily over
the threshold in her
dreams, lies long on a
bed, the mid-morning sun
pale, like weak tea, hardly
making an effort and
sleep comes, finally as
the chorus of sparrows
quits, finally, and
as if in complete agreement with each other
lift off and fly,
birdwings blanketing the sky
The Triune Brain
who can tell the lessons learned
(or unlearned) in the lizard-like
depths of the mind, preconscious,
vertebrate, crawling from the
muddy water to scratch upon stones,
flame fires on meat, react to
pheromones, wind-carried through
the ferns, that triune brain reads,
tint-coded on the four-color
plate inserted (and at such
a cost) these lessons learned
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
Seven-OH-Five
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
Fleetwood Bridge
the roadmap streaks blue and red,
twisted, knotty, the veins I trace
with my finger....
were there a global positioning system
that could find you, it would be on
a bridge over Fleetwood's tracks,
casting your eyes over, casting your
bread upon, the river, where we
saw an opossum, swollen-bellied,
amble down to take a
drink, silvery under the electric
light
later,
squinting, so, at the
green, gold, red, heavy-lidded through
years of yellow paint, one coat upon
another, you gripping the steering wheel
as we plot the best route,
from aye to bee to cee and finally,
oh so finally, to zed. and home. and rest.
but now it is as black as a North Korean night on
Google maps, the last candle snuffed
out and no electric light to be seen
brights on the bridge, at night,
a necklace, sparkling, but
hot to the touch, they warned one
off, the wires, too, woven azure, crimson,
grass-green, jewel colored, touch me, touch me,
if you dare
Butterfly, Loch Avon
in four-color plates, this
special featurette of our
magazine:
ten steps to a new
you:
curving script to detail
this cunning
stunt
to be pulled off (in a
most determined fashion)
between the marshalled
efforts of: dressmaker,
manicurist, and
the like, not
forgetting, of course,
some themes of self-
improvement (so dear to
our editorial hearts) whether
whisking eggs or
curling our eyelashes
and here she is, presented on
the penultimate page, our paragon,
our gold and ivory baby, our butterfly, her
teeth tearing into peachflesh,
ready, finally, for her close-up
Rooftop Dining
just tell me when you
can get the money; that's all
I want to know
(ses navy-blue jumper, khaki trousers,
neat black shoes and the cellular
clapped to his ear, so)
soles pressing upwards, to inspect
the rooftop, after a shout through
the door
whilst the men of leisure
enjoy their breakfasts, their
letters of agreement and
memorandums of understanding
signed long since
as Sal smiles and says "them
cigarettes get heavy to lift"
and she agrees to another cup
of coffee (black), the toast
scraped over with butter gone cold
Waiting for the Dough to Rise
there's time, yet, while the
bread-dough rises, to stop
and speak, your words
metrical in their efficiency...
oh, that I could blur
their clipped edges with
my fingertips,
no shame in slowing that
engine down to a low
roar, our words reappearing in
the air, held aloft as
dandelion spores, there
for us to savor their
meaning during this
drift and pull along
suburban sidewalks brisk
with activity, as the
dough doubles, only to
be punched down for kneading,
time yet, whilst it bakes,
to have some talk of this
or that
but no, and so,
a floured hand is grasped goodbye
Artifacts
what need have we
of another love-poem?
they grace the fluorescent
check-out aisles, in stacks,
next to minty chewing gum,
pricked onto fine linen decorative accents,
ubiquitous as chain-hotel
wallpaper flocked in blue
(a neutral blue)
to soothe the tired eyes of men
still, love comes in at
the eyes, so who am I
to argue? When all is
said and done, some
talk of thee and thou
who is the wiser as the
sun rises, with the gas
still to be paid and
dinner made
the heart still sinks, an
elevator gone awry, when
thought of love-loss in quietude strikes
like a fillet knife to the throat, the
garotting wire shiny taut, so
love letters, dusty, in the
drawer, a footnote (or two),
some ancient, ardent, artifacts fit only
for museum shelves, flowers
pressed flat as a pancake
between printed pages speaking
of love, unspeaking, that
vast unraveling of sense
and sensibility
Canvas
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
Walls
lay your head on my shoulder, forget
what they say (meaning and masking matters
not one whit as the sun rises, sets, the
shifting face of the moon will smile down
on us, seeing, as she does, similar spirits, pale
dead rocks that, nonetheless, burn bright, are
changeable, blotted by dark patches, like
moss on the wall, built up, stone by stone,
to make a whole from parts once scattered
far and wide)
no need for the words of others, mine,
as we build our walls water-tight, thick-
mortared, to keep out such as would harm us
Three Roads Converge
three roads converge, the
triple-faced masks stare
down (gas, food, lodging) and she, her hounds
to heel, holds a torch aloft,
small moon of light suspended
to illuminate three roads, torn
over by the weather, ragged
furrows of asphalt forgotten
by the surveyor
which way, then, to turn?
the buzz and hum of electric
lights attract a chorus of
insects, singing....so far you
have come....so far yet
to go
Lost and Found Again
moving from lost to found all she
needed were the right co-ordinates,
internal gps did the rest--
sorting through all the noise, the
murmuring meant to distract, the
dripping tap diverting thought (what
was that, then, I wanted?) as
she stands, in stocking feet, on the
threshhold of the bedroom, framed there,
held, for a moment, as if in a
memory box (this scrap of blanket, blue, this
carbon copy of a bill of lading, yellow, the
rough brown of paper, wrinkled deeply, that once
wrapped flowers)
and has she found some shade of
self again? retrieved, like
a blue wool balaclava from the
bottom of the box: found (amongst all
the clobber of chilren's things, some
marked with names, more
without, the scarves twisting
into accidental knots)
....
landmarks on the map are
not to scale - legends for schools,
public parks, houses of worship,
all in primary colors, the filiments of
railway lines snaking, sinuous,
off the four corners of the page
....
so lost in thought, coming to the
findings, finally, at the bottom of
a jewellery box, broken glimmerings of
metal, found after all these
years, the necklace, too, of green
stones she thought lost, how he played
with the clasp that final night
....
flotsam, jetsam, the effluvia of
all our days lost, found, lost
again, pendulum moving back and
forth, the tick-tock of sun/moon
evermore
Where Did the Time Go?
she asks and sighs to see
the hands on the face moving
forward (too fast, always) as she pulls
her hands over hers and turns
back to the packing,
hands already gloved with a fine grey
dust, packing the books first,
then the winter clothing, last
the teakettle and
kitchen implements
pennies, warmed in our hands,
burnt holes through the thick
garden of ice on the windowpane, that
tapestry of cool, so we could
see the drifts new-pillowing
the hills, deadening sound
lovely in his bones, throwing off
his coat, with a shrug, with a
smile
stay awhile
but no
he goes
pages, crumbling, of Time and
Tide, arriving in a pale
envelope, hand-lettered, the
stamps uncancelled
added to the last-minute
box, the grocery circular too,
that-which-might-be-needed
a final sweeping of the
floor, then gone, wondering, indeed,
where the time went
Tell Me Why He Loves Her So
tell me why, again, you paint
those you do and how you
choose the colors and the
brushes, too, to stroke the
tempera onto the smoothed wood,
until she stares at me so,
(pigment-powder-to-paint to make a saint)
boldly, as if to say, I, not you,
own his eyes, I am his
delight from morning until noon, I
glow in the sun, resplendent,
unspeaking, every attention paid to
my lips, cheeks, hair, eyes, the
wrinkling of my collar, the top-
most button forgotten in his haste
(and tell me why he loves her so)
W(hole)
the hole that is the whole of him
(so it seems, sometimes) with his
dear volubility, discoursing away
faster than the birds in the bush
and herself only half-awake at eight and
longing for some--liquid stimulant--
to rouse her to awaked-ness
straining his words through her hands
she places several (snap!) in her purse,
some, twinned like the pepper and
salt on her countertop (click-clack), still
others atop her bathroom looking-glass,
and a stack in the milk-white breadbox, fresh
when she needs them most
the hole filled with the whole
of him, hands, mouth, stomach....
his words so freely given,
so greedily received
Quilt
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
Bad Animal
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
Stairwells
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
Garland
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
Threshold
next steps are in stone,
grey, sweating cold, as if
in a fever
who laid them here
with careful hands? She
does not know as
she steps heavily over
the threshold in her
dreams, lies long on a
bed, the mid-morning sun
pale, like weak tea, hardly
making an effort and
sleep comes, finally as
the chorus of sparrows
quits, finally, and
as if in complete agreement with each other
lift off and fly,
birdwings blanketing the sky
The Triune Brain
who can tell the lessons learned
(or unlearned) in the lizard-like
depths of the mind, preconscious,
vertebrate, crawling from the
muddy water to scratch upon stones,
flame fires on meat, react to
pheromones, wind-carried through
the ferns, that triune brain reads,
tint-coded on the four-color
plate inserted (and at such
a cost) these lessons learned
The Triune Brain
For day 30 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "lessons learned" poem.
who can tell the lessons learned
(or unlearned) in the lizard-like
depths of the mind, preconscious,
vertebrate, crawling from the
muddy water to scratch upon stones,
flame fires on meat, react to
pheromones, wind-carried through
the ferns, that triune brain reads,
tint-coded on the four-color
plate inserted (and at such
a cost) these lessons learned
who can tell the lessons learned
(or unlearned) in the lizard-like
depths of the mind, preconscious,
vertebrate, crawling from the
muddy water to scratch upon stones,
flame fires on meat, react to
pheromones, wind-carried through
the ferns, that triune brain reads,
tint-coded on the four-color
plate inserted (and at such
a cost) these lessons learned
Threshold
For day 29 of the November PAD challenge. Prompt: A "next steps" poem.
next steps are in stone,
grey, sweating cold, as if
in a fever
who laid them here
with careful hands? She
does not know as
she steps heavily over
the threshold in her
dreams, lies long on a
bed, the mid-morning sun
pale, like weak tea, hardly
making an effort and
sleep comes, finally as
the chorus of sparrows
quits, finally, and
as if in complete agreement with each other
lift off and fly,
birdwings blanketing the sky
next steps are in stone,
grey, sweating cold, as if
in a fever
who laid them here
with careful hands? She
does not know as
she steps heavily over
the threshold in her
dreams, lies long on a
bed, the mid-morning sun
pale, like weak tea, hardly
making an effort and
sleep comes, finally as
the chorus of sparrows
quits, finally, and
as if in complete agreement with each other
lift off and fly,
birdwings blanketing the sky
28 November 2010
Hallmark
For day 28 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "What really happened."
you wouldn't believe--what
really happened--it was the
stuff of Hallmark, magical
memories served up steaming with
a mug of hot cocoa, the edges of
the page glistering with those
sparkly bits that decorate
shop windows, turn the page, turn
the page until we read our, our
finally, our
happily ever after
snap a picture, quick, before
it's gone
you wouldn't believe--what
really happened--it was the
stuff of Hallmark, magical
memories served up steaming with
a mug of hot cocoa, the edges of
the page glistering with those
sparkly bits that decorate
shop windows, turn the page, turn
the page until we read our, our
finally, our
happily ever after
snap a picture, quick, before
it's gone
Canvas
For day 27 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Blame the ______."
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
blame the way the sun
crept in at the window, boiling
gold, covering the canvas, the
pane, from top to bottom
too soon, too bright for the
eyes still longing for sleep,
the hands fumbling for
coffee, the feet stumbling
into shoes, this lassitude
(and nothing else)
making her tongue wordless
Stairwells
For day 26 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "on the run" poem.
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
down the stairwell again
and out the door, bang
with a slap upon the
sidewalk, the school run
then the bank (open at eight),
the post office, grocery (pepper,
milk, bread, bones for soup),
drugstore for baby medicine to
lower a fever, bandages for a skinned
knee, the stationers for several
cards, the cherries covered in
chocolate
on the run to beat the bus,
collect the mail, call the social
worker, laundry then, and dinner and
done
Bad Animal
Day 25 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "animal" poem.
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
teeth bared to tear
another
ivory-sharp-poison-
tipped,
man--is a
bad animal indeed
burrowing into the
gloom and shade
best suited to
such deeds as he
relishes
Quilt
For day 24 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "spaces" poem.
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
between quilt and fitted sheet is
the best space
before the yolk of the sun
has broken from the shell
of the sky. dark, yes, quiet,
no--the radio hums thickly,
male, male, with a touch of
female to tell the traffic
....
lazy hand slaps it quiet, for
a space
until a cry, the final alarm,
brings soles to carpet and then
on and on through all the day,
tangled-thick, trying
Bird's Custard
For day 23 of the PAD challenge. An "anti-form" poem.
custard, so, coalesced in the
pot, stir, stir so it does not
congeal (wrist heat-seared) the Birds's for the
pudding, the delicious lack of
form puddling down onto the
old country roses, pale gold sweet, the
holiday taste wrought from
powder and a little milk, strange
chemistry to make memories
amongst the sultanas, the spices,
dried currants, citron too
custard, so, coalesced in the
pot, stir, stir so it does not
congeal (wrist heat-seared) the Birds's for the
pudding, the delicious lack of
form puddling down onto the
old country roses, pale gold sweet, the
holiday taste wrought from
powder and a little milk, strange
chemistry to make memories
amongst the sultanas, the spices,
dried currants, citron too
25 November 2010
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
For day 22 of the PAD challenge. Poem that "takes a stand."
and here we see the natal
star to guide their way, some
thousands of years elapsed and--
still we wait for him--how
hard for her, alone, in a strange
country, and she so young
in a desert land, so far from
mother, sister, aunt, a number on a form, to
be registered, and still he is
remembered, in thought and word and
deed, though spat upon, reviled,
the star still shines
and here we see the natal
star to guide their way, some
thousands of years elapsed and--
still we wait for him--how
hard for her, alone, in a strange
country, and she so young
in a desert land, so far from
mother, sister, aunt, a number on a form, to
be registered, and still he is
remembered, in thought and word and
deed, though spat upon, reviled,
the star still shines
Garland
For day 21 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: A "permission" poem.
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
Yes, in as many words as that,
the forms, filled in triplicate,
tucked neatly away. Where? You
do not need to know--perhaps in
the dead files, the contracts cancelled
by those who cannot fly
and she recalls the file cabinets,
row upon row, their metallic ranks, some sticking, some
so loose they would bruise your
shin and catch upon your stockings, the
fine dust from the carbons coats her
hands, the telex shudders as the
yellow tape, now perforated, chugs,
chugs the message through to
Budapest, behind the wall, received
on the other end as she
and the other (so junior) assistants
re-apply blood lipsticks in a nineteen-thirties
washroom, heavy-mirrored, honey-gold color of
the furnishings outside so warm as to
suffocate as the Borden woman
swings down the hall, her bronzed
offspring (late of some Grecian islands) performing
oh-so-perfunctory filing
and tuneless whistling fills the air,
and there's a job, he says, for you
in California, whenever you want it
21 November 2010
Wrong Turn
For day 20 of the PAD challenge. A "right" or "wrong" poem.
no right or wrong turns with you, map in
hand, marshalling the troops,
loading the luggage
heading for the flat middle of
the country, carpeted with
corn and soybeans, we
stop for lunch at the Flying J,
fingering pink packets of saccharin and
staunching bleeds of ketchup with a
quick swipe of a napkin, heading
off the mess before it spreads
too far, then back into the car,
even right in your wrong-ness,
the happy mistake, the accidental
short-cut, bringing us back to that quiet cul-de-sac
no right or wrong turns with you, map in
hand, marshalling the troops,
loading the luggage
heading for the flat middle of
the country, carpeted with
corn and soybeans, we
stop for lunch at the Flying J,
fingering pink packets of saccharin and
staunching bleeds of ketchup with a
quick swipe of a napkin, heading
off the mess before it spreads
too far, then back into the car,
even right in your wrong-ness,
the happy mistake, the accidental
short-cut, bringing us back to that quiet cul-de-sac
W(hole)
Day 19 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: A poem with a "hole" in it.
the hole that is the whole of him
(so it seems, sometimes) with his
dear volubility, discoursing away
faster than the birds in the bush
and herself only half-awake at eight and
longing for some--liquid stimulant--
to rouse her to awaked-ness
straining his words through her hands
she places several (snap!) in her purse,
some, twinned like the pepper and
salt on her countertop (click-clack), still
others atop her bathroom looking-glass,
and a stack in the milk-white breadbox, fresh
when she needs them most
the hole filled with the whole
of him, hands, mouth, stomach....
his words so freely given,
so greedily received
the hole that is the whole of him
(so it seems, sometimes) with his
dear volubility, discoursing away
faster than the birds in the bush
and herself only half-awake at eight and
longing for some--liquid stimulant--
to rouse her to awaked-ness
straining his words through her hands
she places several (snap!) in her purse,
some, twinned like the pepper and
salt on her countertop (click-clack), still
others atop her bathroom looking-glass,
and a stack in the milk-white breadbox, fresh
when she needs them most
the hole filled with the whole
of him, hands, mouth, stomach....
his words so freely given,
so greedily received
Lost and Found Again
For day 18 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "lost and found" poem.
moving from lost to found all she
needed were the right co-ordinates,
internal gps did the rest--
sorting through all the noise, the
murmuring meant to distract, the
dripping tap diverting thought (what
was that, then, I wanted?) as
she stands, in stocking feet, on the
threshhold of the bedroom, framed there,
held, for a moment, as if in a
memory box (this scrap of blanket, blue, this
carbon copy of a bill of lading, yellow, the
rough brown of paper, wrinkled deeply, that once
wrapped flowers)
and has she found some shade of
self again? retrieved, like
a blue wool balaclava from the
bottom of the box: found (amongst all
the clobber of chilren's things, some
marked with names, more
without, the scarves twisting
into accidental knots)
....
landmarks on the map are
not to scale - legends for schools,
public parks, houses of worship,
all in primary colors, the filiments of
railway lines snaking, sinuous,
off the four corners of the page
....
so lost in thought, coming to the
findings, finally, at the bottom of
a jewellery box, broken glimmerings of
metal, found after all these
years, the necklace, too, of green
stones she thought lost, how he played
with the clasp that final night
....
flotsam, jetsam, the effluvia of
all our days lost, found, lost
again, pendulum moving back and
forth, the tick-tock of sun/moon
evermore
moving from lost to found all she
needed were the right co-ordinates,
internal gps did the rest--
sorting through all the noise, the
murmuring meant to distract, the
dripping tap diverting thought (what
was that, then, I wanted?) as
she stands, in stocking feet, on the
threshhold of the bedroom, framed there,
held, for a moment, as if in a
memory box (this scrap of blanket, blue, this
carbon copy of a bill of lading, yellow, the
rough brown of paper, wrinkled deeply, that once
wrapped flowers)
and has she found some shade of
self again? retrieved, like
a blue wool balaclava from the
bottom of the box: found (amongst all
the clobber of chilren's things, some
marked with names, more
without, the scarves twisting
into accidental knots)
....
landmarks on the map are
not to scale - legends for schools,
public parks, houses of worship,
all in primary colors, the filiments of
railway lines snaking, sinuous,
off the four corners of the page
....
so lost in thought, coming to the
findings, finally, at the bottom of
a jewellery box, broken glimmerings of
metal, found after all these
years, the necklace, too, of green
stones she thought lost, how he played
with the clasp that final night
....
flotsam, jetsam, the effluvia of
all our days lost, found, lost
again, pendulum moving back and
forth, the tick-tock of sun/moon
evermore
17 November 2010
Tell Me Why He Loves Her So
For day 17 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Tell me why _____ ."
tell me why, again, you paint
those you do and how you
choose the colors and the
brushes, too, to stroke the
tempera onto the smoothed wood,
until she stares at me so,
(pigment-powder-to-paint to make a saint)
boldly, as if to say, I, not you,
own his eyes, I am his
delight from morning until noon, I
glow in the sun, resplendent,
unspeaking, every attention paid to
my lips, cheeks, hair, eyes, the
wrinkling of my collar, the top-
most button forgotten in his haste
(and tell me why he loves her so)
tell me why, again, you paint
those you do and how you
choose the colors and the
brushes, too, to stroke the
tempera onto the smoothed wood,
until she stares at me so,
(pigment-powder-to-paint to make a saint)
boldly, as if to say, I, not you,
own his eyes, I am his
delight from morning until noon, I
glow in the sun, resplendent,
unspeaking, every attention paid to
my lips, cheeks, hair, eyes, the
wrinkling of my collar, the top-
most button forgotten in his haste
(and tell me why he loves her so)
Financial Times
For day 16 of the PAD challenge. A "stacking" poem.
above the fold of the fleshy-pink
Financial Times some legends of loss
stacked upon the tottering pile "to
read and discard" distinct from "to save and file"
pillars of print, glossy four color, dull black-
and-white, perfused with perfumes
--the stationer stocked them, you
brought them to me, along with
grapes and neatly labeled
recriminations, bulletpoints round,
blackpools one could fall into,
headfirst, and not notice until
the morning after
the night before, the baby's breath
softly punctuating the squares of tile
above the fold of the fleshy-pink
Financial Times some legends of loss
stacked upon the tottering pile "to
read and discard" distinct from "to save and file"
pillars of print, glossy four color, dull black-
and-white, perfused with perfumes
--the stationer stocked them, you
brought them to me, along with
grapes and neatly labeled
recriminations, bulletpoints round,
blackpools one could fall into,
headfirst, and not notice until
the morning after
the night before, the baby's breath
softly punctuating the squares of tile
16 November 2010
Peacocks
dancing on the tightrope as the
Palm Springs doctor looks on, taking
notes on a lined yellow tablet
rings of gold, sliced pineapple, shine
wetly at the sun, occluded by
thick syrup, held in a blue bowl, sweet,
sweet
tones clipped as the bristles of a new broom, the
secretary pencilling in the next appointment
and the next, the next, the next,
starlight mints twinkling away in the cut-
glass next to a prim cloisonne
peacock, green, blue, green, green again,
splayed out to hold paperclips
nearly matching the brooch perched on the
sweater of the tightrope dancer (see
her bleeding through all that
pepto-bismol pink) pricked pale
beyond the blue door wind
whips leaves into a frenzied
circle, transitory autumnal crown,
brittle, so, it cannot last, is
unmade
then
sodden down by pelting rain, half ice,
half water, as if made to order,
cracked in a striped towel, shaken liberally, hurriedly,
chapping the face into a frozen mask,
herringbone heavy upon her shoulders
his notes not done, they go on forever
in their famous, spidery script, from
Harvard yard, to leafy Connecticut, and
back to New York again, the car
serviced, the oil and tires checked,
ready for that last and greatest journey,
to his dear, his lost one
Palm Springs doctor looks on, taking
notes on a lined yellow tablet
rings of gold, sliced pineapple, shine
wetly at the sun, occluded by
thick syrup, held in a blue bowl, sweet,
sweet
tones clipped as the bristles of a new broom, the
secretary pencilling in the next appointment
and the next, the next, the next,
starlight mints twinkling away in the cut-
glass next to a prim cloisonne
peacock, green, blue, green, green again,
splayed out to hold paperclips
nearly matching the brooch perched on the
sweater of the tightrope dancer (see
her bleeding through all that
pepto-bismol pink) pricked pale
beyond the blue door wind
whips leaves into a frenzied
circle, transitory autumnal crown,
brittle, so, it cannot last, is
unmade
then
sodden down by pelting rain, half ice,
half water, as if made to order,
cracked in a striped towel, shaken liberally, hurriedly,
chapping the face into a frozen mask,
herringbone heavy upon her shoulders
his notes not done, they go on forever
in their famous, spidery script, from
Harvard yard, to leafy Connecticut, and
back to New York again, the car
serviced, the oil and tires checked,
ready for that last and greatest journey,
to his dear, his lost one
15 November 2010
Contraventions
For day 15 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Just when you thought it was safe."
shadow on a film, the grey cloud
on black, the white splintering off
to the side, just when you
thought it was safe, turning the
golden key in the mailbox, the
thin envelope, all edges, rests
in your hands, black type a
cold contravention, the
landscape of soft interiors
soiled over and she daub,
daub, daubs the latest stain
just when she thought it safe
to sleep, the shouting died
down, the common creaks and
rustlings all she heard, just
when she thought it was
it was not
shadow on a film, the grey cloud
on black, the white splintering off
to the side, just when you
thought it was safe, turning the
golden key in the mailbox, the
thin envelope, all edges, rests
in your hands, black type a
cold contravention, the
landscape of soft interiors
soiled over and she daub,
daub, daubs the latest stain
just when she thought it safe
to sleep, the shouting died
down, the common creaks and
rustlings all she heard, just
when she thought it was
it was not
14 November 2010
Three Roads Converge
Day 14 of the PAD challenge. A "crossroads" poem.
three roads converge, the
triple-faced masks stare
down (gas, food, lodging) and she, her hounds
to heel, holds a torch aloft,
small moon of light suspended
to illuminate three roads, torn
over by the weather, ragged
furrows of asphalt forgotten
by the surveyor
which way, then, to turn?
the buzz and hum of electric
lights attract a chorus of
insects, singing....so far you
have come....so far yet
to go
three roads converge, the
triple-faced masks stare
down (gas, food, lodging) and she, her hounds
to heel, holds a torch aloft,
small moon of light suspended
to illuminate three roads, torn
over by the weather, ragged
furrows of asphalt forgotten
by the surveyor
which way, then, to turn?
the buzz and hum of electric
lights attract a chorus of
insects, singing....so far you
have come....so far yet
to go
13 November 2010
Where Did the Time Go?
Day 13, PAD challenge. Prompt: a "question" title.
she asks and sighs to see
the hands on the face moving
forward (too fast, always) as she pulls
her hands over hers and turns
back to the packing,
hands already gloved with a fine grey
dust, packing the books first,
then the winter clothing, last
the teakettle and
kitchen implements
pennies, warmed in our hands,
burnt holes through the thick
garden of ice on the windowpane, that
tapestry of cool, so we could
see the drifts new-pillowing
the hills, deadening sound
lovely in his bones, throwing off
his coat, with a shrug, with a
smile
stay awhile
but no
he goes
pages, crumbling, of Time and
Tide, arriving in a pale
envelope, hand-lettered, the
stamps uncancelled
added to the last-minute
box, the grocery circular too,
that-which-might-be-needed
a final sweeping of the
floor, then gone, wondering, indeed,
where the time went
she asks and sighs to see
the hands on the face moving
forward (too fast, always) as she pulls
her hands over hers and turns
back to the packing,
hands already gloved with a fine grey
dust, packing the books first,
then the winter clothing, last
the teakettle and
kitchen implements
pennies, warmed in our hands,
burnt holes through the thick
garden of ice on the windowpane, that
tapestry of cool, so we could
see the drifts new-pillowing
the hills, deadening sound
lovely in his bones, throwing off
his coat, with a shrug, with a
smile
stay awhile
but no
he goes
pages, crumbling, of Time and
Tide, arriving in a pale
envelope, hand-lettered, the
stamps uncancelled
added to the last-minute
box, the grocery circular too,
that-which-might-be-needed
a final sweeping of the
floor, then gone, wondering, indeed,
where the time went
12 November 2010
Walls
For day 12 of the PAD challenge. Prompt A "forget what they say" poem.
lay your head on my shoulder, forget
what they say (meaning and masking matters
not one whit as the sun rises, sets, the
shifting face of the moon will smile down
on us, seeing, as she does, similar spirits, pale
dead rocks that, nonetheless, burn bright, are
changeable, blotted by dark patches, like
moss on the wall, built up, stone by stone,
to make a whole from parts once scattered
far and wide)
no need for the words of others, mine,
as we build our walls water-tight, thick-
mortared, to keep out such as would harm us
lay your head on my shoulder, forget
what they say (meaning and masking matters
not one whit as the sun rises, sets, the
shifting face of the moon will smile down
on us, seeing, as she does, similar spirits, pale
dead rocks that, nonetheless, burn bright, are
changeable, blotted by dark patches, like
moss on the wall, built up, stone by stone,
to make a whole from parts once scattered
far and wide)
no need for the words of others, mine,
as we build our walls water-tight, thick-
mortared, to keep out such as would harm us
11 November 2010
No One Wants the Knock on the Door
For day 10 of the PAD challenge. Prompt "No one wants (blank)."
at midnight and the children
long abed, then the
knock on the door followed
by dogs, slips trailing from
tumbled drawers, the
clothes press ransacked,
the crockery knocked from the dresser
and for what?
skirting board cracked, a
jagged gash by the
window sash, a black
hieroglyph she stares at
and tries to decipher, the
mark of a boot, the stroke of
a rifle....no matter....
some language past her understanding
at midnight and the children
long abed, then the
knock on the door followed
by dogs, slips trailing from
tumbled drawers, the
clothes press ransacked,
the crockery knocked from the dresser
and for what?
skirting board cracked, a
jagged gash by the
window sash, a black
hieroglyph she stares at
and tries to decipher, the
mark of a boot, the stroke of
a rifle....no matter....
some language past her understanding
10 November 2010
Artifacts
For day 10 of the PAD challenge. A "love" or "anti-love" poem.
what need have we
of another love-poem?
they grace the fluorescent
check-out aisles, in stacks,
next to minty chewing gum,
pricked onto fine linen decorative accents,
ubiquitous as chain-hotel
wallpaper flocked in blue
(a neutral blue)
to soothe the tired eyes of men
still, love comes in at
the eyes, so who am I
to argue? When all is
said and done, some
talk of thee and thou
who is the wiser as the
sun rises, with the gas
still to be paid and
dinner made
the heart still sinks, an
elevator gone awry, when
thought of love-loss in quietude strikes
like a fillet knife to the throat, the
garotting wire shiny taut, so
love letters, dusty, in the
drawer, a footnote (or two),
some ancient, ardent, artifacts fit only
for museum shelves, flowers
pressed flat as a pancake
between printed pages speaking
of love, unspeaking, that
vast unraveling of sense
and sensibility
what need have we
of another love-poem?
they grace the fluorescent
check-out aisles, in stacks,
next to minty chewing gum,
pricked onto fine linen decorative accents,
ubiquitous as chain-hotel
wallpaper flocked in blue
(a neutral blue)
to soothe the tired eyes of men
still, love comes in at
the eyes, so who am I
to argue? When all is
said and done, some
talk of thee and thou
who is the wiser as the
sun rises, with the gas
still to be paid and
dinner made
the heart still sinks, an
elevator gone awry, when
thought of love-loss in quietude strikes
like a fillet knife to the throat, the
garotting wire shiny taut, so
love letters, dusty, in the
drawer, a footnote (or two),
some ancient, ardent, artifacts fit only
for museum shelves, flowers
pressed flat as a pancake
between printed pages speaking
of love, unspeaking, that
vast unraveling of sense
and sensibility
09 November 2010
Waiting for the Dough to Rise
Written for day 9 of the PAD challenge. A "slow down" poem.
there's time, yet, while the
bread-dough rises, to stop
and speak, your words
metrical in their efficiency...
oh, that I could blur
their clipped edges with
my fingertips,
no shame in slowing that
engine down to a low
roar, our words reappearing in
the air, held aloft as
dandelion spores, there
for us to savor their
meaning during this
drift and pull along
suburban sidewalks brisk
with activity, as the
dough doubles, only to
be punched down for kneading,
time yet, whilst it bakes,
to have some talk of this
or that
but no, and so,
a floured hand is grasped goodbye
there's time, yet, while the
bread-dough rises, to stop
and speak, your words
metrical in their efficiency...
oh, that I could blur
their clipped edges with
my fingertips,
no shame in slowing that
engine down to a low
roar, our words reappearing in
the air, held aloft as
dandelion spores, there
for us to savor their
meaning during this
drift and pull along
suburban sidewalks brisk
with activity, as the
dough doubles, only to
be punched down for kneading,
time yet, whilst it bakes,
to have some talk of this
or that
but no, and so,
a floured hand is grasped goodbye
08 November 2010
Rooftop Dining
For day 8 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "agreement" poem.
just tell me when you
can get the money; that's all
I want to know
(ses navy-blue jumper, khaki trousers,
neat black shoes and the cellular
clapped to his ear, so)
soles pressing upwards, to inspect
the rooftop, after a shout through
the door
whilst the men of leisure
enjoy their breakfasts, their
letters of agreement and
memorandums of understanding
signed long since
as Sal smiles and says "them
cigarettes get heavy to lift"
and she agrees to another cup
of coffee (black), the toast
scraped over with butter gone cold
just tell me when you
can get the money; that's all
I want to know
(ses navy-blue jumper, khaki trousers,
neat black shoes and the cellular
clapped to his ear, so)
soles pressing upwards, to inspect
the rooftop, after a shout through
the door
whilst the men of leisure
enjoy their breakfasts, their
letters of agreement and
memorandums of understanding
signed long since
as Sal smiles and says "them
cigarettes get heavy to lift"
and she agrees to another cup
of coffee (black), the toast
scraped over with butter gone cold
07 November 2010
Gone to Ground
November and the rabbit
gone to ground, no
more to be seen,
his haste evident in
the white flash of fur
down the burrow
evading the ferret, so
he lives another day to
blink and twitch in his
rabbity fashion,
endearing, so
on a picture-postcard
of Easter yet to come
meanwhile, the bare branches switch
at the sky, thrashing as if
enraged at their annual disrobing
gone to ground, no
more to be seen,
his haste evident in
the white flash of fur
down the burrow
evading the ferret, so
he lives another day to
blink and twitch in his
rabbity fashion,
endearing, so
on a picture-postcard
of Easter yet to come
meanwhile, the bare branches switch
at the sky, thrashing as if
enraged at their annual disrobing
Town, At Night
For day seven of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a poem that is "pro" something.
dream-enlarged, they greet one
in this night-town of twisted quilts
and goosedown supporting
various and sundry themes: flight, fear,
lust, touch, tenderness, the
journey, too, through sleep, so
often unrestful.....waking with a
start, drenched-- and I still
here-- and what day, what hour
might this be called?
envying so childsleep (now I
lay me) but even that troubled
by bogeymen hewn from different strains....
faces rise up, unbidden:
and how are you my dear?
and how are you my darling?
have you started to put down roots?
will it be a good year?
thwick, thwick, thwick, the film reels off
in technicolor, one short leads to
another, the final denouement
the brilling of her alarm
dream-enlarged, they greet one
in this night-town of twisted quilts
and goosedown supporting
various and sundry themes: flight, fear,
lust, touch, tenderness, the
journey, too, through sleep, so
often unrestful.....waking with a
start, drenched-- and I still
here-- and what day, what hour
might this be called?
envying so childsleep (now I
lay me) but even that troubled
by bogeymen hewn from different strains....
faces rise up, unbidden:
and how are you my dear?
and how are you my darling?
have you started to put down roots?
will it be a good year?
thwick, thwick, thwick, the film reels off
in technicolor, one short leads to
another, the final denouement
the brilling of her alarm
06 November 2010
Slipped Stitches
Day 6 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Looking for (blank)"
slipped stitch that strains
the eye, perfection except for
the lapse in attention caused
by....what? a knock on the
door and your knitting falls
from your lap? nerves disordered
so,
plucked as a harp, discordant, jagged notes at
four ay em, the china pot cracked
into a map of crazing that leads,
well, nowhere
looking for the thread to mend the
slipped stitch, her tongue, thick
with worries, as silent as those
on the butcher's block, next
to the crubeens
.........
searching out the light behind
the leaded glass, the diamonds
of glass winking back
the conversation rises, falls in
erratic amplification, so
many stitches tied and knotted
off, some talk of Christmas letters
(and the baskets yet to
be auctioned)
no knife to be found for the bread, and so
their crosses remain uncut, wheat
and white amongst the
canned fruit salad and
plastic forks cold-coddled beneath
electric light
slipped stitch that strains
the eye, perfection except for
the lapse in attention caused
by....what? a knock on the
door and your knitting falls
from your lap? nerves disordered
so,
plucked as a harp, discordant, jagged notes at
four ay em, the china pot cracked
into a map of crazing that leads,
well, nowhere
looking for the thread to mend the
slipped stitch, her tongue, thick
with worries, as silent as those
on the butcher's block, next
to the crubeens
.........
searching out the light behind
the leaded glass, the diamonds
of glass winking back
the conversation rises, falls in
erratic amplification, so
many stitches tied and knotted
off, some talk of Christmas letters
(and the baskets yet to
be auctioned)
no knife to be found for the bread, and so
their crosses remain uncut, wheat
and white amongst the
canned fruit salad and
plastic forks cold-coddled beneath
electric light
05 November 2010
Butterfly, Loch Avon
For day five of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "metamorphosis" poem.
in four-color plates, this
special featurette of our
magazine:
ten steps to a new
you:
curving script to detail
this cunning
stunt
to be pulled off (in a
most determined fashion)
between the marshalled
efforts of: dressmaker,
manicurist, and
the like, not
forgetting, of course,
some themes of self-
improvement (so dear to
our editorial hearts) whether
whisking eggs or
curling our eyelashes
and here she is, presented on
the penultimate page, our paragon,
our gold and ivory baby, our butterfly, her
teeth tearing into peachflesh,
ready, finally, for her close-up
in four-color plates, this
special featurette of our
magazine:
ten steps to a new
you:
curving script to detail
this cunning
stunt
to be pulled off (in a
most determined fashion)
between the marshalled
efforts of: dressmaker,
manicurist, and
the like, not
forgetting, of course,
some themes of self-
improvement (so dear to
our editorial hearts) whether
whisking eggs or
curling our eyelashes
and here she is, presented on
the penultimate page, our paragon,
our gold and ivory baby, our butterfly, her
teeth tearing into peachflesh,
ready, finally, for her close-up
04 November 2010
The Ties That Bind
Day four of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "constriction" poem.
the ties that bind and
then the whalebone stays,
the golden feet and wasp-
waists confined into
their garments, iron-seamed,
the corsetings and beltings
hobbling her stride so she
makes only mincing steps
towards the door (and
freedom?)
this maiden's form
deformed
long lines and
full support
of the famous 502
small compensation
the ties that bind and
then the whalebone stays,
the golden feet and wasp-
waists confined into
their garments, iron-seamed,
the corsetings and beltings
hobbling her stride so she
makes only mincing steps
towards the door (and
freedom?)
this maiden's form
deformed
long lines and
full support
of the famous 502
small compensation
03 November 2010
Fleetwood Bridge
For day 3 of the November PAD challenge. Prompt: a "location" poem.
the roadmap streaks blue and red,
twisted, knotty, the veins I trace
with my finger....
were there a global positioning system
that could find you, it would be on
a bridge over Fleetwood's tracks,
casting your eyes over, casting your
bread upon, the river, where we
saw an opossum, swollen-bellied,
amble down to take a
drink, silvery under the electric
light
later,
squinting, so, at the
green, gold, red, heavy-lidded through
years of yellow paint, one coat upon
another, you gripping the steering wheel
as we plot the best route,
from aye to bee to cee and finally,
oh so finally, to zed. and home. and rest.
but now it is as black as a North Korean night on
Google maps, the last candle snuffed
out and no electric light to be seen
brights on the bridge, at night,
a necklace, sparkling, but
hot to the touch, they warned one
off, the wires, too, woven azure, crimson,
grass-green, jewel colored, touch me, touch me,
if you dare
the roadmap streaks blue and red,
twisted, knotty, the veins I trace
with my finger....
were there a global positioning system
that could find you, it would be on
a bridge over Fleetwood's tracks,
casting your eyes over, casting your
bread upon, the river, where we
saw an opossum, swollen-bellied,
amble down to take a
drink, silvery under the electric
light
later,
squinting, so, at the
green, gold, red, heavy-lidded through
years of yellow paint, one coat upon
another, you gripping the steering wheel
as we plot the best route,
from aye to bee to cee and finally,
oh so finally, to zed. and home. and rest.
but now it is as black as a North Korean night on
Google maps, the last candle snuffed
out and no electric light to be seen
brights on the bridge, at night,
a necklace, sparkling, but
hot to the touch, they warned one
off, the wires, too, woven azure, crimson,
grass-green, jewel colored, touch me, touch me,
if you dare
02 November 2010
Seven-OH-Five
Day 2 of the November PAD challenge. Prompt: a "not ready" poem.
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
seven o five and OH the
minutes tick down, and dear,
this stocking is already laddered (where IS
another?) and there the
kettle blowing her top, steaming
away as if she would power the
whole house and
dammit where are my keys, so
sure I left them on the hook
by the door,
tick, tick, tick echoing back,
the click, click, click of
hasty shoes upon the boards (too
late, now, to worry about the
noise) snatching at purse-
strap then
dash-dark-down the stairwell,
ready as she'll ever be
(resolving, always, to be better:
that graceful, unhurried woman espied from afar)
Page-Turner (Can One Trust the Narrator?)
For day one of the November PAD challenge. A poem re: turning the page on past events.
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
leather spined, she turns the
first, blank page, to see the
frontispiece, in short inky strokes,
obscured, so slightly, by paper tissue-
thin, the uppermost corner
wrinkled as if the last reader
closed the volume with an
impatient (or hasty) hand
endpapers, printed in peacock
colors, the whorls of red, blue,
green merging into a whole as
rich as plum pudding
turning the page, forgoing the
inevitable dedication (not to
her, certainly) musing over the
cryptic capitals punctuated by
oh-so-definite periods
chapter one was romance, the
treacle thick on the fingers,
licked off, delicious it was, so
sweet
no eye for foreshadowing, the
page missing from the index
vexing her, and can one,
really, ever trust the
narrator?
no. and so--she turns the
cream colored sheets, looking for
some legend she will understand,
oil black, that
she can trace over. but. no.
placed back upon the shelf at the
last and left to the whims
of the removal men
22 October 2010
Mount Vernon Inquirer article by Mr. Joe Parisi on the book launch/reading for "Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" edited by James "jAFa" Fair
http://www.mvinquirer.com/blood_beats_in_four_square_miles.htm
Scarecrows
they crop up, this time of year, on
lawns untroubled by tubers or the
like, pale vestiges of their former,
workaday selves, clad in old clothes
and caps, to scare off the crows....
now, the mass-produced grins mirror
each other, staked in similar clipped
suburban lawns, reduced to the
decorative, the false pleat, the
row of buttons designed to catch the eye
crows are nonplussed by such fellows,
storebought, their tags still attached
as they are staked into the ground, a
xerographic, sixth-generation copy of their
sterner cousins, trousers cut to
ribbons in the wind, their aspect
fearsome, clad, as they were, in
the clothes of the dead, the tattered
remnants of a Sunday suit, worn
shiny, cuffs and collar frayed
and crows and candy-gorging goblins alike,
pass them by, unseeing, unafraid
lawns untroubled by tubers or the
like, pale vestiges of their former,
workaday selves, clad in old clothes
and caps, to scare off the crows....
now, the mass-produced grins mirror
each other, staked in similar clipped
suburban lawns, reduced to the
decorative, the false pleat, the
row of buttons designed to catch the eye
crows are nonplussed by such fellows,
storebought, their tags still attached
as they are staked into the ground, a
xerographic, sixth-generation copy of their
sterner cousins, trousers cut to
ribbons in the wind, their aspect
fearsome, clad, as they were, in
the clothes of the dead, the tattered
remnants of a Sunday suit, worn
shiny, cuffs and collar frayed
and crows and candy-gorging goblins alike,
pass them by, unseeing, unafraid
Machinery
beehive hum of the machinery will
echo again down the long halls,
the shuttles spinning, this time the threads
woven into a new tapestry to tell all
our days, our hours, the long nights
before the dawn is done and day
crowns straight upon the veiny
sidewalk, asphalt blue, sparkle
glass accidental jewels pressed there
so incidentally and now only noticed
by the keenest eye
the colors go from red to blue-est
black, the inky color of oil blearing
across newsprint
and somewhere is archy still
tapping out stories for mehitabel
while the Yellow Kid tweets
"Hully Gee" and updates his
Facebook status?
stories, like human nature, do not
change: they merely pass from
speaker to speaker, dipping our
pens in the common ink, the
blue-black read all over
used for wrapping paper, kindling,
insulation for our boots, for
the long march--and words
will keep us warm--if we repeat them
fast enough
if we believe them, clear enough, if
we sleep, love, laugh, eat with
word-work, the best and brightest work,
the truest work, in the end
echo again down the long halls,
the shuttles spinning, this time the threads
woven into a new tapestry to tell all
our days, our hours, the long nights
before the dawn is done and day
crowns straight upon the veiny
sidewalk, asphalt blue, sparkle
glass accidental jewels pressed there
so incidentally and now only noticed
by the keenest eye
the colors go from red to blue-est
black, the inky color of oil blearing
across newsprint
and somewhere is archy still
tapping out stories for mehitabel
while the Yellow Kid tweets
"Hully Gee" and updates his
Facebook status?
stories, like human nature, do not
change: they merely pass from
speaker to speaker, dipping our
pens in the common ink, the
blue-black read all over
used for wrapping paper, kindling,
insulation for our boots, for
the long march--and words
will keep us warm--if we repeat them
fast enough
if we believe them, clear enough, if
we sleep, love, laugh, eat with
word-work, the best and brightest work,
the truest work, in the end
19 October 2010
Poetry Reading, 22nd October 2010, Lola's Tea House, Pelham, NY
I was not able to make this reading due to unforeseen circumstances.....apologies...
Poetry Reading
Lola's Tea House
130 Fifth Avenue
Pelham, NY
Friday, 22nd October 2010
7:30 p.m. - 10:00 p.m.
$5.00 cover / $10.00 food purchase
RSVP 914-738-2100
Poetry Reading
Lola's Tea House
130 Fifth Avenue
Pelham, NY
Friday, 22nd October 2010
7:30 p.m. - 10:00 p.m.
$5.00 cover / $10.00 food purchase
RSVP 914-738-2100
17 October 2010
Now available via Amazon.com!!!!!!! "Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" -- the first anthology of Mount Vernon, NY poets, edited by James "jAFa" Fair.
It's here!!!
http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Beats-Four-Square-Miles/dp/1453778047/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Beats-Four-Square-Miles/dp/1453778047/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
03 October 2010
BOOK LAUNCH!!! "Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" --- the first anthology of Mount Vernon poets!!!!
Book Launch / Reading for "Blood Beats in Four Square Miles" edited by James Fair.
This is the very first anthology to feature the work of Mount Vernon poets.
Date: Sunday 17th October 2010
Time: 3:00 p.m.
Place: AC-BAW Center for the Arts
128 South Fourth Avenue
(between 2nd and 3rd Streets)
Mount Vernon, NY 10550
This event has been listed on Facebook, should anyone like to RSVP and attend!!!!
I, along with a few others, will be reading some poems.
Cheers,
MaryAnn
mccarrafitz@hotmail.com or mmccarrafitzpatrick@gmail.com
24 August 2010
20 August 2010
McCarra/Poetry Now Available via Kindle!!!!!
McCarra/Poetry is now available via Amazon.com's "Kindle Store." Have McCarra/Poetry delivered to you, monthly, for the bargain price of just $1.99!!!! Trial subscriptions available for the undecided amongst you....
Cheers,
MaryAnn
Cheers,
MaryAnn
15 August 2010
Digging His Garden
digging his garden she sees
him planting bulbs, one by one,
in the dark furrows he dug
Tuesday last, after coming from
work and changing his clothes,
his back curved over the earth,
as she washes dishes, one
by one
each of his movements a
sign of faith
that the roots will
feed and the sun shine still
over his handiwork
whispering up to him, trumpeting
out sounds like the pale
honeysuckle emits their warm fug
of scent
she lost him between breakfast and lunch,
it was that simple, their parting, like
the Red Sea, away from each
other, but still she speaks...with each
seed he plants he hears her consonants
and vowels mixed perfectly, as heavy
cream through coffee
and still she does not understand, as
her fingernails grasp at the flagstones
placed with such care
(he has decided, this year, on a
border of red mixed with white)
paltry words an offering poor enough,
but still, all she had
him planting bulbs, one by one,
in the dark furrows he dug
Tuesday last, after coming from
work and changing his clothes,
his back curved over the earth,
as she washes dishes, one
by one
each of his movements a
sign of faith
that the roots will
feed and the sun shine still
over his handiwork
whispering up to him, trumpeting
out sounds like the pale
honeysuckle emits their warm fug
of scent
she lost him between breakfast and lunch,
it was that simple, their parting, like
the Red Sea, away from each
other, but still she speaks...with each
seed he plants he hears her consonants
and vowels mixed perfectly, as heavy
cream through coffee
and still she does not understand, as
her fingernails grasp at the flagstones
placed with such care
(he has decided, this year, on a
border of red mixed with white)
paltry words an offering poor enough,
but still, all she had
Naptime
the perpetual hum of the
air conditioning units block out
the street noise so it seems
the neighbors mime with madly
gesticulating hands, their mouths
moving, but wordless, these
passing members of the play, the
man in black dragging his
bag of cans, the lap dog
cosseted in a stroller colored
candy-pink
storm coming--the sudden dark,
casts the room in shadow, no
need for a weatherman to see
what way the wind blows and
the plink, plink, of the drops
are a rough morse code
repeating, again repeating, here
you are, again, to hear
these same old sounds, each
filed away and stored in
aural memory, the clatter a
relief in the cool quiet of the
bedroom and him just
waking from a nap with a cry
for an embrace, some food, too
air conditioning units block out
the street noise so it seems
the neighbors mime with madly
gesticulating hands, their mouths
moving, but wordless, these
passing members of the play, the
man in black dragging his
bag of cans, the lap dog
cosseted in a stroller colored
candy-pink
storm coming--the sudden dark,
casts the room in shadow, no
need for a weatherman to see
what way the wind blows and
the plink, plink, of the drops
are a rough morse code
repeating, again repeating, here
you are, again, to hear
these same old sounds, each
filed away and stored in
aural memory, the clatter a
relief in the cool quiet of the
bedroom and him just
waking from a nap with a cry
for an embrace, some food, too
August
this is the desert month--the
doctor's office closes, the woman
sits, eyes heavy-lidded, listens
to cricket-hum as flowers turn to
photographs, the leaves curling
away to reveal a limb, a
wink, the shyness of the cerebellum
rounding the corner to come
to a terrible conclusion, hard
won, peeling away the layers, the
seismic shift these actions make
noticed by none but herself, the
artichoke peeled to its center, the
wordplay and sentence structure
broken down, the bones diagrammed
so--here was her heart, her liver
fleshy-fat, here the coils of her
brain-pan, white like pickled fish
caught in a jar
and what remains, of her, in
this desert August?
some fond remembrance, perhaps,
some inkblots, a tear in a
dress of grey lace, a heel broken from a
black shoe, drowsing there in late
afternoon, framing the world
with ten fingers, hoping, still
for water from rock, bread
from the skies
doctor's office closes, the woman
sits, eyes heavy-lidded, listens
to cricket-hum as flowers turn to
photographs, the leaves curling
away to reveal a limb, a
wink, the shyness of the cerebellum
rounding the corner to come
to a terrible conclusion, hard
won, peeling away the layers, the
seismic shift these actions make
noticed by none but herself, the
artichoke peeled to its center, the
wordplay and sentence structure
broken down, the bones diagrammed
so--here was her heart, her liver
fleshy-fat, here the coils of her
brain-pan, white like pickled fish
caught in a jar
and what remains, of her, in
this desert August?
some fond remembrance, perhaps,
some inkblots, a tear in a
dress of grey lace, a heel broken from a
black shoe, drowsing there in late
afternoon, framing the world
with ten fingers, hoping, still
for water from rock, bread
from the skies
18 July 2010
Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - 2010 April PAD Challenge Results!
Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - 2010 April PAD Challenge Results!
MaryAnn's poem, "White Rock Fairy" is number 24 in the list of 50 poems chosen from the 1000 poems submitted for the April 2010 Poem-A-Day Challenge!
Many thanks to Robert Lee Brewer for sponsoring the PAD Challenge!
MaryAnn's poem, "White Rock Fairy" is number 24 in the list of 50 poems chosen from the 1000 poems submitted for the April 2010 Poem-A-Day Challenge!
Many thanks to Robert Lee Brewer for sponsoring the PAD Challenge!
11 July 2010
King of Syracuse
under the eye of the sun he
became King of Syracuse, this
Prince among common men
bordered by water, but
untrammeled, so, by those old
strictures that held other sons
in check
the potter's son, then, a leader
of men and not to be trifled with,
see his steel, glinting at noon-day?
see how it pierces the heart?
crown him, with green and gold.
became King of Syracuse, this
Prince among common men
bordered by water, but
untrammeled, so, by those old
strictures that held other sons
in check
the potter's son, then, a leader
of men and not to be trifled with,
see his steel, glinting at noon-day?
see how it pierces the heart?
crown him, with green and gold.
Grand Opening
see them assembled, suited in
blue, grey, straining at their
neckties, shifting in their heels,
waiting for the flash that will
freeze them for all time. And
here we are, at this Grand
Opening (near Grand Street) of
cool aisles of comestibles
I simply cannot live without.
Ranging among the tomatoes, lounging
by the lettuce--oh, weighing the
heft of eggplants in her hands
oh, the loveliness of canned
peaches in heavy syrup, the
fruit cocktail, too, jumbled in a crystal cup,
marbled meats wrapped by
the butcher, humming along to
the muzak....will you still
need me......
blue, grey, straining at their
neckties, shifting in their heels,
waiting for the flash that will
freeze them for all time. And
here we are, at this Grand
Opening (near Grand Street) of
cool aisles of comestibles
I simply cannot live without.
Ranging among the tomatoes, lounging
by the lettuce--oh, weighing the
heft of eggplants in her hands
oh, the loveliness of canned
peaches in heavy syrup, the
fruit cocktail, too, jumbled in a crystal cup,
marbled meats wrapped by
the butcher, humming along to
the muzak....will you still
need me......
Counting out the Coffee Spoons
counting out the coffee spoons in
the sleep-stupid morning, counting out
the cries in the night, counting the
strands in the cobweb, counting
out the six grey hairs on her head discovered
just this morning and herself so
terrible at mathematics--however
will it all add up, this
assemblage of ends and oddments,
how to enter it, messy-black on
the fine-lined pages of a ledger?
blotting my copybook, the
perpetual cloud mists and
blesses me again and I
respond mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
and, to that end, amen!
the sleep-stupid morning, counting out
the cries in the night, counting the
strands in the cobweb, counting
out the six grey hairs on her head discovered
just this morning and herself so
terrible at mathematics--however
will it all add up, this
assemblage of ends and oddments,
how to enter it, messy-black on
the fine-lined pages of a ledger?
blotting my copybook, the
perpetual cloud mists and
blesses me again and I
respond mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
and, to that end, amen!
Porch in Summer
motor turns over then a
trickling noise--coolant through
the coils? ah, the sweet
relief of air-conditioned
rooms that brought us in from
summer porches where we would
rock, nod at a passer-by,
reflect on the rough borders
of marigolds overgrown so
slightly, the stir in the
air a relief, the night
welcomed for the cool dark
the glass refreshed with (yet
another) splash, the closeness
of the kitchen, this tenth
ring of hell she so happily
endures, knowing that later will
come, and the fireflies, too
with their bright punctuation, placing
an end to her wordless sentence
trickling noise--coolant through
the coils? ah, the sweet
relief of air-conditioned
rooms that brought us in from
summer porches where we would
rock, nod at a passer-by,
reflect on the rough borders
of marigolds overgrown so
slightly, the stir in the
air a relief, the night
welcomed for the cool dark
the glass refreshed with (yet
another) splash, the closeness
of the kitchen, this tenth
ring of hell she so happily
endures, knowing that later will
come, and the fireflies, too
with their bright punctuation, placing
an end to her wordless sentence
27 June 2010
One-Eyed Reilly
and here he was again, One-Eyed Reilly,
as sure as Sunday, turning up like that
lucky penny she tucked into her
shoe on a Saturday
and herself, ruining the fine crease
of his trousers, looking for one of the
six keys to the city he keeps
safe in his pockets
late lunches of pasta e fagioli, the
stories of his sainted mother, the
thumbprint bruises on her upper arm, count
those jewels, emerald, ruby, amythyst
purpling, the man who does not know
his strength....
he plants a seed to sprout in
her ear, then, triple e spaugs dodging
the crevasses on Grand Street,
is on his way again, saving his one
and only world, painting out a
new signage, and, leaving the
last unsaid, she bids him her
fond farewell
as sure as Sunday, turning up like that
lucky penny she tucked into her
shoe on a Saturday
and herself, ruining the fine crease
of his trousers, looking for one of the
six keys to the city he keeps
safe in his pockets
late lunches of pasta e fagioli, the
stories of his sainted mother, the
thumbprint bruises on her upper arm, count
those jewels, emerald, ruby, amythyst
purpling, the man who does not know
his strength....
he plants a seed to sprout in
her ear, then, triple e spaugs dodging
the crevasses on Grand Street,
is on his way again, saving his one
and only world, painting out a
new signage, and, leaving the
last unsaid, she bids him her
fond farewell
Rag and Bone Man
she walks with the rag and
bone man, his cart rattling
down the street, wheels
uneven, shuddering, metal
upon metal and
he paws her hand in
his, deciphering the tiny scars,
white, upon otherwise
manicured mitts, the
strange text presenting itself
to an unpracticed, but
willing eye
target orange, his vest, and
him with six children, the
last a girl, their bird-
mouths always upturned,
squawking out awkward melodies
of hunger
she hungers too, no less, picking
through his findings, the
ragged ends of ragged days,
the false flourishes and
cheap ribbons thick with a
greasy dust, First Place and
Best Beloved no longer...
her dogs yelp and ache
oh, for a word or two
of truth to shock the
system, the cold clear
of rain in late August, the
sweep of the wind in
September, whipping the leaves into a crown,
the antiseptic snows of December, as good as
fertilizer for a lawn
reading
the lineaments in and
of his face, no more
young, yet not old,
jake by her
bone man, his cart rattling
down the street, wheels
uneven, shuddering, metal
upon metal and
he paws her hand in
his, deciphering the tiny scars,
white, upon otherwise
manicured mitts, the
strange text presenting itself
to an unpracticed, but
willing eye
target orange, his vest, and
him with six children, the
last a girl, their bird-
mouths always upturned,
squawking out awkward melodies
of hunger
she hungers too, no less, picking
through his findings, the
ragged ends of ragged days,
the false flourishes and
cheap ribbons thick with a
greasy dust, First Place and
Best Beloved no longer...
her dogs yelp and ache
oh, for a word or two
of truth to shock the
system, the cold clear
of rain in late August, the
sweep of the wind in
September, whipping the leaves into a crown,
the antiseptic snows of December, as good as
fertilizer for a lawn
reading
the lineaments in and
of his face, no more
young, yet not old,
jake by her
Planting the Dogwood Tree
oh, for some speech from you
after you plant the white
flowering dogwood to shade
our heads, those of our great-
grandchildren too,
the slow thirst that rises
up over minutes, then hours
as little boys with dusty knees
turn sticks to rifles and stones
to missiles
quilt folded to a v--right
side and left, hers closest
to the cry of a child,
closer, too, to the kitchen,
so, he sleeps, undisturbed
as a child himself, wordless,
hand at the small of her
back as the sun rises to sear
the cut grass into hay
and the sheets flap, flaglike
on the line, the ice
melting in his glass, the
condensation blistering,
beadlike, tearing down
after you plant the white
flowering dogwood to shade
our heads, those of our great-
grandchildren too,
the slow thirst that rises
up over minutes, then hours
as little boys with dusty knees
turn sticks to rifles and stones
to missiles
quilt folded to a v--right
side and left, hers closest
to the cry of a child,
closer, too, to the kitchen,
so, he sleeps, undisturbed
as a child himself, wordless,
hand at the small of her
back as the sun rises to sear
the cut grass into hay
and the sheets flap, flaglike
on the line, the ice
melting in his glass, the
condensation blistering,
beadlike, tearing down
24 June 2010
Roses
oven-hot through the
soles that slap the
sidewalk and:
are you saved?
yes, Roses, are you
saved?
the question hangs in
the stilly air like dandelion-down
floating, here and there before
setting down their resilient seeds,
growing up, obstinate, even between
pavement cracks and
where building meets
sidewalk, sprouting green
and arms, fleshy-fat, rest on
pillowed windowsills,
surveying the passing
scene
as children chalk out
games she chalks up
the score, nil, nil,
and nil by mouth for
some time to come
the rubber ball, fleshily
pink, she only half-
startled, catches it, the
warmth of it surprising
her, throws it back to
the boy (she knows motherless,
fatherless)
he catches it: smiles
she goes on her way, saved
or unsaved...
soles that slap the
sidewalk and:
are you saved?
yes, Roses, are you
saved?
the question hangs in
the stilly air like dandelion-down
floating, here and there before
setting down their resilient seeds,
growing up, obstinate, even between
pavement cracks and
where building meets
sidewalk, sprouting green
and arms, fleshy-fat, rest on
pillowed windowsills,
surveying the passing
scene
as children chalk out
games she chalks up
the score, nil, nil,
and nil by mouth for
some time to come
the rubber ball, fleshily
pink, she only half-
startled, catches it, the
warmth of it surprising
her, throws it back to
the boy (she knows motherless,
fatherless)
he catches it: smiles
she goes on her way, saved
or unsaved...
Black Dog
God's breath in man....
the last thing one would
expect on a day such as
this, as the black dog
circles to make his
presence known
no coldness, of charity
in your hands, the
brow furrowed as you
spoke, tiger-eyes
burning bright
hair curling back, so
(he growls and bares
his teeth, troublesome
canine, most difficult
of breeds)
she bent her head
to his, plucking on those
strings to make some
melody between them
drowning out even the
most incessant of howls
the last thing one would
expect on a day such as
this, as the black dog
circles to make his
presence known
no coldness, of charity
in your hands, the
brow furrowed as you
spoke, tiger-eyes
burning bright
hair curling back, so
(he growls and bares
his teeth, troublesome
canine, most difficult
of breeds)
she bent her head
to his, plucking on those
strings to make some
melody between them
drowning out even the
most incessant of howls
Christmas Lights
cobweb-thin filaments joining us,
one to one, to everyone, as
the copper gleams, the
burnished glow trembles at
the touch, the messages,
hammered out, so, then
sleeping, through the long
afternoon--no letters in
the post--so little, but
longed for, the ordinary
expressions
so, fields lie fallow, after
the rains, the stumps
yet to be pulled up and
where, she asks, will
the Christmas lights be hung
to light the way of the child?
the wind blows hot and
cold, all four seasons
in the same day,
marked with crosses,
crossways, the crossword
worked over at half-past
ten, the telephone
rang twice, then stopped
thrust into abrupt silence
she stares, distracted, at
her image, replicated,
stamp-like, over and again,
so easily torn
one to one, to everyone, as
the copper gleams, the
burnished glow trembles at
the touch, the messages,
hammered out, so, then
sleeping, through the long
afternoon--no letters in
the post--so little, but
longed for, the ordinary
expressions
so, fields lie fallow, after
the rains, the stumps
yet to be pulled up and
where, she asks, will
the Christmas lights be hung
to light the way of the child?
the wind blows hot and
cold, all four seasons
in the same day,
marked with crosses,
crossways, the crossword
worked over at half-past
ten, the telephone
rang twice, then stopped
thrust into abrupt silence
she stares, distracted, at
her image, replicated,
stamp-like, over and again,
so easily torn
16 June 2010
Self-Made Man
be still and know that you are loved
unlike any other
the trees, joining branches over the
road, make a canopy of green leaves
for her to walk beneath
detritus placed out on the curb
for the trashman--Wednesday is
collection day, black bags bulging, larval
in them,
oddments--an alphabet soup of letters, some
errant organs still wrapped in sterile plastic, a
kidney here, a heart there, two eyes (the better
to see you with, my dear, as the old wolf said)
she assembles a whole in half the
time it takes her to walk to Bronxville, the
original reconstituted man, add water and
stir briskly, with your smile lipsticked on
expert, so, at making something from
nothing
looping great strands of DNA around
her fingers, fashioning this self-made
man, the codes catching in her
nails
she'll teach him to talk, too,
a word at a time, til they
totter in a tower of Babel, together,
embracing his newness in her
arms, him, slick against her in
an August thunderstorm,
fleshy, this man of remnants, who,
new-born, looks upon her, pale-eyed,
learns love like an old repetition
of sums sung out from a window
unlike any other
the trees, joining branches over the
road, make a canopy of green leaves
for her to walk beneath
detritus placed out on the curb
for the trashman--Wednesday is
collection day, black bags bulging, larval
in them,
oddments--an alphabet soup of letters, some
errant organs still wrapped in sterile plastic, a
kidney here, a heart there, two eyes (the better
to see you with, my dear, as the old wolf said)
she assembles a whole in half the
time it takes her to walk to Bronxville, the
original reconstituted man, add water and
stir briskly, with your smile lipsticked on
expert, so, at making something from
nothing
looping great strands of DNA around
her fingers, fashioning this self-made
man, the codes catching in her
nails
she'll teach him to talk, too,
a word at a time, til they
totter in a tower of Babel, together,
embracing his newness in her
arms, him, slick against her in
an August thunderstorm,
fleshy, this man of remnants, who,
new-born, looks upon her, pale-eyed,
learns love like an old repetition
of sums sung out from a window
Red Comets
the butcher wipes his hands on
his white flag of an apron, the
thumbprints of punctuation comet-like
smears she can see from across the
street
the meat, red, sheared from the bone,
white, and he takes a long drag on his
cigarette, then exhales, pluming smoke above his head
he sees her, sitting, alien,
amongst all this new brickwork, she
knows better the stairwell stinking
of cabbage and fish, the fifth coat of
chocolate brown paint flaking to reveal
plaster below
the voice billowing, wordless, above
her head, at the top of the
stairwell, she would swallow it, if she could,
just to quiet it, as a fractious child
held to her breast
his white flag of an apron, the
thumbprints of punctuation comet-like
smears she can see from across the
street
the meat, red, sheared from the bone,
white, and he takes a long drag on his
cigarette, then exhales, pluming smoke above his head
he sees her, sitting, alien,
amongst all this new brickwork, she
knows better the stairwell stinking
of cabbage and fish, the fifth coat of
chocolate brown paint flaking to reveal
plaster below
the voice billowing, wordless, above
her head, at the top of the
stairwell, she would swallow it, if she could,
just to quiet it, as a fractious child
held to her breast
Bone-Fire
another cop funeral, a big one,
today, and all the boots spit-polished,
a heel on her heart, still, she
will heal herself with music and
the magic of her fingertips drawing
roses up from the dead earth,
this sere plain, overrun by the
jackal, other heavyheaded animals
of prey, their eyes glinting back at
her in the dark, the November dark
of bone-fires sparking up as
she exhales a breath
kindling her own light
today, and all the boots spit-polished,
a heel on her heart, still, she
will heal herself with music and
the magic of her fingertips drawing
roses up from the dead earth,
this sere plain, overrun by the
jackal, other heavyheaded animals
of prey, their eyes glinting back at
her in the dark, the November dark
of bone-fires sparking up as
she exhales a breath
kindling her own light
07 June 2010
The Mad Gesture
because there is no other choice
he makes the mad gesture
marshalling his armies for another
assault
while she sits, with a dumb mouth
and closed eyes, as another film
reels off in her mind. now a flash
of taxi-yellow, now a blinking eye
of red
atop the stone formation two
books may make a desk, a
flier from the drycleaners (one coupon
torn off) the receptive page
for inkblot chicken-scratch, lifted
from the prescription pad (how
many years did she decipher the
doctor's hand
without becoming any the wiser?)
he makes the mad gesture
marshalling his armies for another
assault
while she sits, with a dumb mouth
and closed eyes, as another film
reels off in her mind. now a flash
of taxi-yellow, now a blinking eye
of red
atop the stone formation two
books may make a desk, a
flier from the drycleaners (one coupon
torn off) the receptive page
for inkblot chicken-scratch, lifted
from the prescription pad (how
many years did she decipher the
doctor's hand
without becoming any the wiser?)
Plumbing
the taps run hot and cold,
scalding, frigid, by turns,
reminding one of those vastly
separate climates, the
equatorial, and the stolid,
stoic north of grey stones weeping,
the rising damp leaving a chill
in the kidneys
missing that--middle place
of simple warmth, lazing, lizard-like
on a rock, the sun, noon-high,
indiscriminate: she warms all without
marking out some reckoning to be
paid out in the end
the post is thin again today:
two begging letters, a tract, a
postcard from the pawnbroker (who
buys and sells your gold)
scalding, frigid, by turns,
reminding one of those vastly
separate climates, the
equatorial, and the stolid,
stoic north of grey stones weeping,
the rising damp leaving a chill
in the kidneys
missing that--middle place
of simple warmth, lazing, lizard-like
on a rock, the sun, noon-high,
indiscriminate: she warms all without
marking out some reckoning to be
paid out in the end
the post is thin again today:
two begging letters, a tract, a
postcard from the pawnbroker (who
buys and sells your gold)
An Old Recipe
to be sure, he was flakier
than a buttered biscuit,
though twice as toothsome
sweeter than the fragrance
trumpeting from the honeysuckle,
yellow and white, banking the
highway, the pits in the
road only an occasional
inconvenience
shanks mare, for miles, in
the sun, the shimmer over
black tar, and she melts, melts,
away to a puddle
than a buttered biscuit,
though twice as toothsome
sweeter than the fragrance
trumpeting from the honeysuckle,
yellow and white, banking the
highway, the pits in the
road only an occasional
inconvenience
shanks mare, for miles, in
the sun, the shimmer over
black tar, and she melts, melts,
away to a puddle
01 June 2010
Reading on 4th June 2010 / Lola's Tea House in Pelham, NY
MaryAnn--along with 8-10 others-- will be reading on Friday 4th June 2010.
Open Mic Night
7:30 - 10:30 p.m.
Lola's Tea House
130 Fifth Avenue
Pelham, New York
http://www.lolasteahouse.com
914-738-2100
$5.00 cover $10.00 minimum
Open Mic Night
7:30 - 10:30 p.m.
Lola's Tea House
130 Fifth Avenue
Pelham, New York
http://www.lolasteahouse.com
914-738-2100
$5.00 cover $10.00 minimum
28 May 2010
New Book Project.......
As some of you may be aware, one of my three sons is affected with the neurological disorder known as autism.
I have, for some time now, been thinking about collecting together into a book the stories of other parents....stories which will inform, inspire, and possibly offer hope in what can so often be a difficult road to walk.
I've started a blog, outlining the rationale behind the volume and inviting parents to share their stories with me.
Here's the link:
http://mychildalways.blogspot.com
If you're interested....please do swing by and have a look!!
I have, for some time now, been thinking about collecting together into a book the stories of other parents....stories which will inform, inspire, and possibly offer hope in what can so often be a difficult road to walk.
I've started a blog, outlining the rationale behind the volume and inviting parents to share their stories with me.
Here's the link:
http://mychildalways.blogspot.com
If you're interested....please do swing by and have a look!!
12 May 2010
New Podcast made on Podbean!!!
Check it out!!!
MaryAnn's made a new podcast and posted it to Podbean!!!
Here's the link!!
http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com
MaryAnn's made a new podcast and posted it to Podbean!!!
Here's the link!!
http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com
10 May 2010
Buttoned
circle of a moon, in black, four-
holed for the threading, so many
buttons, those with shanks and
those without, the nubbins of
loose threads, curling, brushed away to
the floor, buttoned boots, and
aprons, the first buttons on a
sweater, made of abalone shell, sewed
with pink-red thread that bled
when it was washed, the button
on the doll's dress, this doll,
buttoned and unbuttoned, put
them all on to take them all
off, and again, buttoned up
into a dress that is a floral field, a
pattern repeating down to the hem, the
making and unmaking of her
fastening, fast, of a button at the neck,
and, again, she smiles
holed for the threading, so many
buttons, those with shanks and
those without, the nubbins of
loose threads, curling, brushed away to
the floor, buttoned boots, and
aprons, the first buttons on a
sweater, made of abalone shell, sewed
with pink-red thread that bled
when it was washed, the button
on the doll's dress, this doll,
buttoned and unbuttoned, put
them all on to take them all
off, and again, buttoned up
into a dress that is a floral field, a
pattern repeating down to the hem, the
making and unmaking of her
fastening, fast, of a button at the neck,
and, again, she smiles
Smaller Ponds
lamp crackles to life as the
poet plucks his beard, the other, in
plaid shortsleeves, lights a cigarette,
smoking amongst the paperbacks
woman sits, silent
small fish in a
smaller pond, gutted for the
salt-barrel before winter, ragged
spine white, flesh dried on a rock
beneath the sun
gutted
pale provision salted away
for the cold months, head and tail
sloughed off with a blunt blade
the light goes out.
no more.
poet plucks his beard, the other, in
plaid shortsleeves, lights a cigarette,
smoking amongst the paperbacks
woman sits, silent
small fish in a
smaller pond, gutted for the
salt-barrel before winter, ragged
spine white, flesh dried on a rock
beneath the sun
gutted
pale provision salted away
for the cold months, head and tail
sloughed off with a blunt blade
the light goes out.
no more.
Over Her Shoulder, As She Walks, Overhearing
almost talking into her ear, this one,
mouth corner-twisting at the crossing of
Grand and Gramatan, it's a bad thing
when you see a realtor moving to Stevens...
que linda!! que linda!!
this month the dresses in Amelia's Bridal
are eggplant-colored, their rich sheen
reflecting his face as he shakes his head
side-to-side and sighs,
once is enough, yes, once. enough.
six black crows, strokes of charcoal
waving in the wind, black sedans
double-parked: he had me going in
circles, circles (they break ranks to
let the woman in green pass)
and, you know, I said to him, I
said, if he would only wait I
would have it for him, but he
was too much in a hurry, what
with the car and all
wedding
party
balloon
funeral
from soup to nuts the florist will
serve, with a couple of passport photos
thrown in for good measure
overhearing the very breath inhaled,
exhaled, over her shoulder, soles
pressing the pavement
mouth corner-twisting at the crossing of
Grand and Gramatan, it's a bad thing
when you see a realtor moving to Stevens...
que linda!! que linda!!
this month the dresses in Amelia's Bridal
are eggplant-colored, their rich sheen
reflecting his face as he shakes his head
side-to-side and sighs,
once is enough, yes, once. enough.
six black crows, strokes of charcoal
waving in the wind, black sedans
double-parked: he had me going in
circles, circles (they break ranks to
let the woman in green pass)
and, you know, I said to him, I
said, if he would only wait I
would have it for him, but he
was too much in a hurry, what
with the car and all
wedding
party
balloon
funeral
from soup to nuts the florist will
serve, with a couple of passport photos
thrown in for good measure
overhearing the very breath inhaled,
exhaled, over her shoulder, soles
pressing the pavement
04 May 2010
Framed in Black
*Written for day 30 of the PAD challenge. A "letting go" poem.
balloon sailing off over
the Concourse, blue globe
across all those lanes
of traffic (north/south,
south/north)
traveling too fast for mama
to catch, very soon over
the rooftops, the ribs of washlines
white below
then even
past the beady-black eyes
of pigeons, up, further
and further, past the
moon and even
the stars, held there, forever,
framed in black
balloon sailing off over
the Concourse, blue globe
across all those lanes
of traffic (north/south,
south/north)
traveling too fast for mama
to catch, very soon over
the rooftops, the ribs of washlines
white below
then even
past the beady-black eyes
of pigeons, up, further
and further, past the
moon and even
the stars, held there, forever,
framed in black
And Suddenly There Is That Touch...
*Written for day 29 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "and suddenly (blank)."
and suddenly
there is that touch to
the small of the back
in mid-afternoon, the
sun starting a slow decline
as the number 52 bus
roars past--then fades--the
black plastic sack taped to
the window of Republica
Cigars blocks the sun as he
sits and rolls, rolls
the tanned leaves into tight cylinders
as hot tar, sticky-black
is poured and pressed into
potholes
she turns and ruminates
on the veins of cracked plaster,
adding them to the list (the damp,
of course, caused it)
and shouts rise up from
the pathway below the bedroom
window, competing with the
summer sound of motorcycles
from the highway
twisting the sheet in her
hands and counting the
blossoms: forget-me-nots, blue-
bells, forsythia like that
growing by the schoolyard,
waiting for the lilacs to bloom
at the white house on the
corner, passing by that
cloud of scent to
inhale deeply...
she sighs and
starts the dinner
and suddenly
there is that touch to
the small of the back
in mid-afternoon, the
sun starting a slow decline
as the number 52 bus
roars past--then fades--the
black plastic sack taped to
the window of Republica
Cigars blocks the sun as he
sits and rolls, rolls
the tanned leaves into tight cylinders
as hot tar, sticky-black
is poured and pressed into
potholes
she turns and ruminates
on the veins of cracked plaster,
adding them to the list (the damp,
of course, caused it)
and shouts rise up from
the pathway below the bedroom
window, competing with the
summer sound of motorcycles
from the highway
twisting the sheet in her
hands and counting the
blossoms: forget-me-nots, blue-
bells, forsythia like that
growing by the schoolyard,
waiting for the lilacs to bloom
at the white house on the
corner, passing by that
cloud of scent to
inhale deeply...
she sighs and
starts the dinner
30 April 2010
Wassaic
disgorging from each car at the
end of this railway line, are the
grey men with hats and cases, news-
papers folded under their arms
some met by wives in sleek sedans--
others walk home in the twilight
quietly approaching, the roar of the
train ebbing away to nothing, as if
it never were
the promise of a moon later, low-hanging
over the station, a
gleaming dinnerplate suspended as if
in a catalogue for new brides,
pale white, brighter than electricity
music rising up, the cricket song,
the scratch of matches, the winding of
the clock--at the tone the time will
be---
end of this railway line, are the
grey men with hats and cases, news-
papers folded under their arms
some met by wives in sleek sedans--
others walk home in the twilight
quietly approaching, the roar of the
train ebbing away to nothing, as if
it never were
the promise of a moon later, low-hanging
over the station, a
gleaming dinnerplate suspended as if
in a catalogue for new brides,
pale white, brighter than electricity
music rising up, the cricket song,
the scratch of matches, the winding of
the clock--at the tone the time will
be---
No Other Road
*Written for day 27 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "hopeful" poem.
because there is no other road
we lace our boots up and look,
resolutely, at the ink drying on the
page, these floods that would
detail, in an exhaustive manner,
all that has gone before, the
case notes, blue on white, neatly
filed, the various and sundry
applications, forms, petitions and
letters to the editor--a fine
thing indeed, to see your name
in print--
all the while that small wild
bird, quivering, flying in your breast,
the ever-living heartbeat that
forgets to die, somehow, and
lives on, the spark amidst
the dust crackling into a bonfire
because there is no other road
we lace our boots up and look,
resolutely, at the ink drying on the
page, these floods that would
detail, in an exhaustive manner,
all that has gone before, the
case notes, blue on white, neatly
filed, the various and sundry
applications, forms, petitions and
letters to the editor--a fine
thing indeed, to see your name
in print--
all the while that small wild
bird, quivering, flying in your breast,
the ever-living heartbeat that
forgets to die, somehow, and
lives on, the spark amidst
the dust crackling into a bonfire
28 April 2010
McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number 8
Made this morning over USTREAM.TV
Here's the link.....
http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/6505068
Also on YouTube....
Check it out!!!
Here's the link.....
http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/6505068
Also on YouTube....
Check it out!!!
26 April 2010
Five Times and More
*Written for day 26 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "more than 5 times".
five times and more I called your name,
five times and more I was denied
the pleasure of your voice---
I hear it now, everywhere, even in
the corn crake, the crow, the
chattering squirrel, the wood pigeon
yawp of the great world spreading
over me
like marmalade over thin
toast
yet it has not your sweetness,
I think, when all is said and done
and done I am with calling your name
five times and more I called your name,
five times and more I was denied
the pleasure of your voice---
I hear it now, everywhere, even in
the corn crake, the crow, the
chattering squirrel, the wood pigeon
yawp of the great world spreading
over me
like marmalade over thin
toast
yet it has not your sweetness,
I think, when all is said and done
and done I am with calling your name
Sweet Home
*Written for day 25 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: poem inspired by a song.
(Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd)
searching for that sweet home,
in Alabama (or anywhere
that will have her)
spending long hours on
demographics, plans of
houses, taxes, termites,
the lot--and all she
wishes for is a bed to rest
her head on and a
place for her books, and
some time, and a room, yes,
to write in, endlessly
(Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd)
searching for that sweet home,
in Alabama (or anywhere
that will have her)
spending long hours on
demographics, plans of
houses, taxes, termites,
the lot--and all she
wishes for is a bed to rest
her head on and a
place for her books, and
some time, and a room, yes,
to write in, endlessly
The Morse Code of Fireflies
*Written for day 24 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "evening" poem.
blinking their morse code, these
fireflies in late July spell out
all I would say to you as
I wring out the dishrag and
set it to dry, distracted by the
squeals of neighbor-children and
the voices of their parents, pitching and clink-
clacking over their late-night
drinks, a grill glowing in
the distance as the cricket-noise
swells and fades, swells and fades
yet again, fine concert, that
see-- a S.O.S. -- hear me, see
me-- the blind shall yet see,
the lame yet walk, the halt
have their voice
float-blink, float-blink
as if borne by the breeze blowing past.....contrasting
the tactlessness of 24/7 neon--
these subtle fellows--sending their message
then
on their way
blinking their morse code, these
fireflies in late July spell out
all I would say to you as
I wring out the dishrag and
set it to dry, distracted by the
squeals of neighbor-children and
the voices of their parents, pitching and clink-
clacking over their late-night
drinks, a grill glowing in
the distance as the cricket-noise
swells and fades, swells and fades
yet again, fine concert, that
see-- a S.O.S. -- hear me, see
me-- the blind shall yet see,
the lame yet walk, the halt
have their voice
float-blink, float-blink
as if borne by the breeze blowing past.....contrasting
the tactlessness of 24/7 neon--
these subtle fellows--sending their message
then
on their way
Airmail Letter
*Written for day 23 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "exhausted" poem.
thick with lack of sleep, writing a
missive in the blue-red-blue-red-blue-
red airport terminal, waiting on
the next leg of her flight
and home to New York after
seven long nights in Los Angeles, the
hum in her ears makes it an
effort, the line between her
eyes and the tablet as taut
as a string used to pull teeth
sealed, stamped, and deposited in a
red-white-blue-red-white-blue-red-white-
blue mailbox, the lines of
his address wavering as
she posts it
sleeping, before touching earth, Austen
fallen from her lap, the
bump-bump-bump stuttering
against the runway jolting her
awake.....and longing to sleep the
sleep of angels still abed
thick with lack of sleep, writing a
missive in the blue-red-blue-red-blue-
red airport terminal, waiting on
the next leg of her flight
and home to New York after
seven long nights in Los Angeles, the
hum in her ears makes it an
effort, the line between her
eyes and the tablet as taut
as a string used to pull teeth
sealed, stamped, and deposited in a
red-white-blue-red-white-blue-red-white-
blue mailbox, the lines of
his address wavering as
she posts it
sleeping, before touching earth, Austen
fallen from her lap, the
bump-bump-bump stuttering
against the runway jolting her
awake.....and longing to sleep the
sleep of angels still abed
24 April 2010
White Rock Fairy
* Written for day 2 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "water" poem.
water cascading, the Ajax
stronger than dirt
while
wings folded neatly
she sits at a small table
of avocado green as the
White Knight and Mr. Clean
regale her with tales of
stains vanquished
the lazy susan in harvest
gold revolves, the walnut-studded bundt
cake, neatly sliced, the
coffee perking (fill it to
the rim?)
this Psyche, long looking
for her stupid Cupid,
wondering, if indeed, absinthe makes the
heart grow fonder---
whiling away the hours as
her washday wears on, his shirts,
whiter than white, awaiting the
press of her iron
water cascading, the Ajax
stronger than dirt
while
wings folded neatly
she sits at a small table
of avocado green as the
White Knight and Mr. Clean
regale her with tales of
stains vanquished
the lazy susan in harvest
gold revolves, the walnut-studded bundt
cake, neatly sliced, the
coffee perking (fill it to
the rim?)
this Psyche, long looking
for her stupid Cupid,
wondering, if indeed, absinthe makes the
heart grow fonder---
whiling away the hours as
her washday wears on, his shirts,
whiter than white, awaiting the
press of her iron
Departures
*Written for Day 1 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "lonely" poem.
she looks upon the depression
left deep upon the pillow, his
headprint still evident, the
tangle, too, of his pyjamas tossed
to the floor
in Tulsa, now, he is, she knows,
and the din of her afternoon yet
to begin, the birds descanting
in a restless tone, the
sky burning above her roof
when did he leave? she tries
to remember and sees the
fresh-ironed shirts carefully
folded and packed, socks paired
and rolled, toiletries in a dopp
kit, this careful assemblage meant
to minimize wrinkling
then recalls the kiss too light
to wake her, the grinding of a
key against the barrel of the lock
and gone
she looks upon the depression
left deep upon the pillow, his
headprint still evident, the
tangle, too, of his pyjamas tossed
to the floor
in Tulsa, now, he is, she knows,
and the din of her afternoon yet
to begin, the birds descanting
in a restless tone, the
sky burning above her roof
when did he leave? she tries
to remember and sees the
fresh-ironed shirts carefully
folded and packed, socks paired
and rolled, toiletries in a dopp
kit, this careful assemblage meant
to minimize wrinkling
then recalls the kiss too light
to wake her, the grinding of a
key against the barrel of the lock
and gone
22 April 2010
Digging for Earthworms
*Written for day 22 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "earth" poem (for earth day).
digging for earthworms I do
not think of the tectonic
plates shifting, the molten
magma center of this earth,
but of the errands to be
run, the telephone calls
dialed, the dinner, now
defrosting on the counter, to
be somehow assembled
I do not think of those
others who have walked here,
leaving the ground undisturbed,
as we tear through the sod
to blackness below, or of
the fossil remains we may
yet find
the afternoon post brings
more demands, the calendar,
like clockwork, presents us
with the first and last
of the month, the curious
pressing scripts so easily
ignored (for a moment) in
favor of these earthworms,
tangling-thick, working the
earth in their own slow way
digging for earthworms I do
not think of the tectonic
plates shifting, the molten
magma center of this earth,
but of the errands to be
run, the telephone calls
dialed, the dinner, now
defrosting on the counter, to
be somehow assembled
I do not think of those
others who have walked here,
leaving the ground undisturbed,
as we tear through the sod
to blackness below, or of
the fossil remains we may
yet find
the afternoon post brings
more demands, the calendar,
like clockwork, presents us
with the first and last
of the month, the curious
pressing scripts so easily
ignored (for a moment) in
favor of these earthworms,
tangling-thick, working the
earth in their own slow way
According to the Weatherman
*Written for day 21 of the PAD challenge. Prompt "According to (blank)".
we're due for rain again, and
with it all the truck of
raincoats and boots and
sopping socks, the wayward
wind blowing the umbrellas
backwards--you see them,
abandoned, in a huff, at the
side of the road, when only a little
patience could set them right.
I don't need a weatherman to
know what way the wind blows---
I watch it in your eyes, those
hurricanes brewing up, thick-
barreled, carrying away the cattle
we're due for rain again, and
with it all the truck of
raincoats and boots and
sopping socks, the wayward
wind blowing the umbrellas
backwards--you see them,
abandoned, in a huff, at the
side of the road, when only a little
patience could set them right.
I don't need a weatherman to
know what way the wind blows---
I watch it in your eyes, those
hurricanes brewing up, thick-
barreled, carrying away the cattle
Fr. Maximilian Kolbe, Prisoner Number 16670
*Written for the PAD challenge. Day 19 a poem about somebody.
14 August 1941
black smoke plumed up to
heaven and he, burnt along
with the rest, said "Ave
Maria" before the injection
of carbolic acid, crowned
with red and white, this one
who laid down his life
for another, in Block
13, starved for a fortnight of the
weak substitute coffee and dry bread
and "God dwells in
our midst" said he,
going to his death with singing
and praise, straight into the arms of
Our Lady
14 August 1941
black smoke plumed up to
heaven and he, burnt along
with the rest, said "Ave
Maria" before the injection
of carbolic acid, crowned
with red and white, this one
who laid down his life
for another, in Block
13, starved for a fortnight of the
weak substitute coffee and dry bread
and "God dwells in
our midst" said he,
going to his death with singing
and praise, straight into the arms of
Our Lady
21 April 2010
Packing-Boxes
*Written for day 20 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "Looking forward."
future-time is a plot of
ground, tree-shaded, some
chickens, too, and quiet
no point in chewing over the
past like an old bone--onwards and upwards,
he says, and pulls out
the packing boxes and the
tape, crumpled newspaper
to blacken the hands as
the Skynyrd CD replays,
again, the cardboard crates
are loaded onto a truck
bound for the green-bladed, yet
unknown future, the bill of
lading filled out, the
signatures affixed, and so
we start our journey to
that green and pleasant land
future-time is a plot of
ground, tree-shaded, some
chickens, too, and quiet
no point in chewing over the
past like an old bone--onwards and upwards,
he says, and pulls out
the packing boxes and the
tape, crumpled newspaper
to blacken the hands as
the Skynyrd CD replays,
again, the cardboard crates
are loaded onto a truck
bound for the green-bladed, yet
unknown future, the bill of
lading filled out, the
signatures affixed, and so
we start our journey to
that green and pleasant land
To a Coffee-Pot
*For day 18 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "To (blank)"
so thankful, sometimes, for
things that work--you--
(if you can be a "you") distilling
the essence of ground beans
(most mornings) into my cup, except,
of course, when I prefer your
pale cousin, tea
gleaming silver, on the stovetop,
you work and perk and hiss and steam
away until the top chamber
is filled and fragrant--
and thankful, so, I pour
blackness into white, savoring
that first draught of warmth
to break the chill morning
so thankful, sometimes, for
things that work--you--
(if you can be a "you") distilling
the essence of ground beans
(most mornings) into my cup, except,
of course, when I prefer your
pale cousin, tea
gleaming silver, on the stovetop,
you work and perk and hiss and steam
away until the top chamber
is filled and fragrant--
and thankful, so, I pour
blackness into white, savoring
that first draught of warmth
to break the chill morning
Greenhouse
*For day 17 of the PAD challenge. A "science" poem.
this botanist sets aside the
York and Lancaster rose, the
African and French marigolds--
preferring instead the pine apple,
white and yellow chrysanthemums
bound into this bouquet,
crowned with clematis,
wreathed through with rosemary
for remembrance and
white periwinkle too, the sun
dancing on the glass house that
shields his bended head, each
ray a gleaming point of significance
flashing off his signet ring, a
gift from his father, as
he binds these blooms together
this botanist sets aside the
York and Lancaster rose, the
African and French marigolds--
preferring instead the pine apple,
white and yellow chrysanthemums
bound into this bouquet,
crowned with clematis,
wreathed through with rosemary
for remembrance and
white periwinkle too, the sun
dancing on the glass house that
shields his bended head, each
ray a gleaming point of significance
flashing off his signet ring, a
gift from his father, as
he binds these blooms together
20 April 2010
16 April 2010
Anubis
*Written for day 16 of PAD. Prompt: "death."
I do not think the dead cry for us
as we for them
we collected saltwater, in jars,
to prove our feelings for him,
our dead king, the golden
one, his armies massed and at
the ready.....
how many head of cattle?
how many battalions, how
many flags to unfurl in
the underworld?
how large his granaries?
I do not think the dead cry for us
as we for them
I do not think the dead cry for us
as we for them
we collected saltwater, in jars,
to prove our feelings for him,
our dead king, the golden
one, his armies massed and at
the ready.....
how many head of cattle?
how many battalions, how
many flags to unfurl in
the underworld?
how large his granaries?
I do not think the dead cry for us
as we for them
Breakfast at Camelot
*Written for day 15 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "deadline" poem.
late again with the words
that would matter in black and white,
no matter, she can
wait to hear the presses
roll, the white cylinders
of paper unspooling noisily
on Forty-third Street, the
stop press for her own
personal headline as the
sun rises over Sardi's,
even Ray has gone home to
Brooklyn--and her
next deadline--breakfast
at Camelot with Pat the Priest
late again with the words
that would matter in black and white,
no matter, she can
wait to hear the presses
roll, the white cylinders
of paper unspooling noisily
on Forty-third Street, the
stop press for her own
personal headline as the
sun rises over Sardi's,
even Ray has gone home to
Brooklyn--and her
next deadline--breakfast
at Camelot with Pat the Priest
Circe
*For day 14 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: an "island" poem.
a pyramid of oranges at
Ben Nat, opposite the island
comprised of four benches,
stopping off place for the
weary shoppers watching
passers-by weighing fruit,
purchasing chickens and crubeens,
grappling with bags as the
cigar-man slowly rolls his leaves
oh, for an island of
melodies to sing her
into a drowsing sleep
as the sun set beyond palm
trees, into an ocean of unreal
blue, stolen from the paintbox,
Crayola's best color, the
sapphire-blue sea, so
far from the Bronx River
on a sandy shore while
the chorus sings her
to sleep, her own island,
the black loops of tape
running, automatic, this
Transland travel agency
of images sun-bleached, the
package holidays carefully
posed and composed
a pyramid of oranges at
Ben Nat, opposite the island
comprised of four benches,
stopping off place for the
weary shoppers watching
passers-by weighing fruit,
purchasing chickens and crubeens,
grappling with bags as the
cigar-man slowly rolls his leaves
oh, for an island of
melodies to sing her
into a drowsing sleep
as the sun set beyond palm
trees, into an ocean of unreal
blue, stolen from the paintbox,
Crayola's best color, the
sapphire-blue sea, so
far from the Bronx River
on a sandy shore while
the chorus sings her
to sleep, her own island,
the black loops of tape
running, automatic, this
Transland travel agency
of images sun-bleached, the
package holidays carefully
posed and composed
Amor Vincit?
*Written for day 13 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: A "love" or "anti-love" poem.
I'm through with love,
said she, tossing her
gloves down on the table
through waiting by the
telephone for the call
that never comes, through
with sighing her sighing, dying
breath and deconstructing
the actions and inactions of
another, endlessly. Through. I've had
a belly full of aches to
last me a century or more
Through.
I'm through with love,
said she, tossing her
gloves down on the table
through waiting by the
telephone for the call
that never comes, through
with sighing her sighing, dying
breath and deconstructing
the actions and inactions of
another, endlessly. Through. I've had
a belly full of aches to
last me a century or more
Through.
13 April 2010
McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number 7
New poetry reading broadcast this morning over USTREAM.TV.
Check it out!!!
http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/6156753
Check it out!!!
http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/6156753
12 April 2010
Mount Vernon: Chief Gramatan Walks
*Written for day 12 of the PAD challege. Today's prompt: write about a city.
Chief Gramatan walks the four
point four square miles,
remembering a time before this
economic engine hummed
along Sandford Boulevard and
the bricks being shifted to
make new houses, each complete
with washer and dryer
the fruit fallen from the tree,
crushed red beneath his feet,
spots the sidewalk the polyglot
strolls upon in a Sunday hat
in this city of churches, raising hands
to Heaven, nearly touching
the clouds
Chief Gramatan walks the four
point four square miles,
remembering a time before this
economic engine hummed
along Sandford Boulevard and
the bricks being shifted to
make new houses, each complete
with washer and dryer
the fruit fallen from the tree,
crushed red beneath his feet,
spots the sidewalk the polyglot
strolls upon in a Sunday hat
in this city of churches, raising hands
to Heaven, nearly touching
the clouds
11 April 2010
The Last Letter
*Written for day 11 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "The Last (blank)."
not zed, but another, better,
carried as a talisman
against harm, those blue
slashes on white paper, folded so,
and placed in her handbag, side-by-
side with compact and lipstick,
the daily warpaint, putting on a
face to face the world, these
words a garment made of chains
no one can break, so finely they
were wrought
not zed, but another, better,
carried as a talisman
against harm, those blue
slashes on white paper, folded so,
and placed in her handbag, side-by-
side with compact and lipstick,
the daily warpaint, putting on a
face to face the world, these
words a garment made of chains
no one can break, so finely they
were wrought
10 April 2010
Gothic Romance
*Written for day 10 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "horror."
"the stealthy hand of midnight
wraps round her neck as she
thinks upon the flower pressed
between the leaves of the
book he gave her, so many
years ago, and on the
promise made to her, that
night: that he would
return, in spirit form, and
have her for his own......"
so the page read, as she
switched off the light and
went to her bed, dreaming of
the visions a dark night
(and an over-active mind)
could conjure up, some
horror of the less than living,
the frankly dead, to
come, sit by our side,
bide awhile with one
her lost love, the pale
youth, spouting the poetry
of lies so attractive to
hear, in a clutched embrace,
falling back to the ragged earth
before he must return to his tomb,
some miles hence, and the
chilly folds of his winding sheet
"the stealthy hand of midnight
wraps round her neck as she
thinks upon the flower pressed
between the leaves of the
book he gave her, so many
years ago, and on the
promise made to her, that
night: that he would
return, in spirit form, and
have her for his own......"
so the page read, as she
switched off the light and
went to her bed, dreaming of
the visions a dark night
(and an over-active mind)
could conjure up, some
horror of the less than living,
the frankly dead, to
come, sit by our side,
bide awhile with one
her lost love, the pale
youth, spouting the poetry
of lies so attractive to
hear, in a clutched embrace,
falling back to the ragged earth
before he must return to his tomb,
some miles hence, and the
chilly folds of his winding sheet
09 April 2010
Halftone Portrait
*Written for day 9 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "a self-portrait."
glancing, as she does, at each glass
she passes, the mirror
and the shopwindow, simply
to make sure she is still there,
and not spirited off in a
puff of smoke, the ether rising up,
one day black, the next white, the
halftone passed over in the book of
color plates, the details
of her eyes, the nape of
her neck still invite discovery,
though draped with knots of
silk, black, white, gold, the folds
creasing up against her cheek
as she drops her head down
to ink again the plain page
she was granted
glancing, as she does, at each glass
she passes, the mirror
and the shopwindow, simply
to make sure she is still there,
and not spirited off in a
puff of smoke, the ether rising up,
one day black, the next white, the
halftone passed over in the book of
color plates, the details
of her eyes, the nape of
her neck still invite discovery,
though draped with knots of
silk, black, white, gold, the folds
creasing up against her cheek
as she drops her head down
to ink again the plain page
she was granted
08 April 2010
His Level Now Upon the Shelf
*Written for day 8 of the PAD challenge. Prompt "a tool."
his level now upon the shelf
he held surely in his hands, now age-
gnarled, aching, when he was a
younger man, building up a house for
his young bride and the children,
planned for, who came in time to
sit around his table
the center ring of brass still
shines as it did that day, when,
resting it on the stone wall
facing westward, the pearl in
the sphere of glass steady, so,
as the sun dipped beyond the
hills he counted his blessings on
his fingers, those other tools,
too, that helped make his house
a home, the boards smoothed and joined
for a cradle, a chest for a
daughter, a roof to keep the weather out,
all these things he counts, and recounts, his
level now upon the shelf
his level now upon the shelf
he held surely in his hands, now age-
gnarled, aching, when he was a
younger man, building up a house for
his young bride and the children,
planned for, who came in time to
sit around his table
the center ring of brass still
shines as it did that day, when,
resting it on the stone wall
facing westward, the pearl in
the sphere of glass steady, so,
as the sun dipped beyond the
hills he counted his blessings on
his fingers, those other tools,
too, that helped make his house
a home, the boards smoothed and joined
for a cradle, a chest for a
daughter, a roof to keep the weather out,
all these things he counts, and recounts, his
level now upon the shelf
07 April 2010
Until the Last Ember of the Sun
*Written for day 7 of the PAD challenge, prompt "Until (blank)."
until the last ember of the sun
falls through the firmament, a
small beacon in all that black,
she will wait, in her shift, counting
the leaves as they grow, finely-veined,
semi-transparent, on the tree
that brushes her windowpane with an
errant branch, a tapping finger, as
if to say, yes, you are still here
in spite of all the contradictions,
served up cold, on a plate, like
last night's dinner
smiling, all the while, at the
passing scene (how can she not?)
untangling the knots the wind wove
in her hair, counting the ants as
they make their hoardings for
winter, her heart's larder already full
of apples, sweets, preserves, all there
for the tasting
until the last ember of the sun
falls through the firmament, a
small beacon in all that black,
she will wait, in her shift, counting
the leaves as they grow, finely-veined,
semi-transparent, on the tree
that brushes her windowpane with an
errant branch, a tapping finger, as
if to say, yes, you are still here
in spite of all the contradictions,
served up cold, on a plate, like
last night's dinner
smiling, all the while, at the
passing scene (how can she not?)
untangling the knots the wind wove
in her hair, counting the ants as
they make their hoardings for
winter, her heart's larder already full
of apples, sweets, preserves, all there
for the tasting
06 April 2010
On The Road Home
*Written for day 6 of the PAD challenge...on de Goya's "Flight of the Witches."
how soon before they would shift
back to their familiar shapes, the
carrion crow, the cat, the snake
writhing around the stump of a
tree he had hoped to safely sleep
beside until the dawn broken
like the shell of an egg held
in her hand, cracked
against the rim of a teacup, the
kettle singing atop the fire
now this whirlwind of flesh about
his head, and he only wanting
to be home in his own bed,
unmolested by spirits, his wife
whispering, telling her beads,
ten by ten, ivorywhite, her hands
in his, later, murmuring a
morning prayer, her lips pressed to his
how soon before they would shift
back to their familiar shapes, the
carrion crow, the cat, the snake
writhing around the stump of a
tree he had hoped to safely sleep
beside until the dawn broken
like the shell of an egg held
in her hand, cracked
against the rim of a teacup, the
kettle singing atop the fire
now this whirlwind of flesh about
his head, and he only wanting
to be home in his own bed,
unmolested by spirits, his wife
whispering, telling her beads,
ten by ten, ivorywhite, her hands
in his, later, murmuring a
morning prayer, her lips pressed to his
05 April 2010
North Reading Room
*Written for the PAD (poem-a-day) 2010 challenge for National Poetry Month. The prompt is: too much information.
wooden card catalogues, the sliding
drawers have their grooves smoothed
with beeswax, those busy insects simmering
like the synapses of her brain as she
catches his eye across the reading room
dotted by heads bent over books, inclined
towards the green-shaded lamps to catch
the light in this otherwise dim gallery
of recessed shelves and carpet-quieted boards
fingers trembling at "a" she thinks yes, able,
he is and I for him, and happy so, to
catalogue each sigh and slight
she feels, listing her pale attributes
on one side of the scale, her
human measurements--five-seven, brown-
haired, blueish-eyed, 45-34-44, an
eight-and-a-half shoe (to walk
alongside you), ears still unpierced
at forty-two, no tattoos, scratching out
genealogies and grocery lists, wishing for
what was, when she was hungry
and Gawain still not yet killed her dragon--
other bones linger long, around the
encampment, whitened, with an inventory
written upon them, the magical, the
lost and longed for, the pecks of corn and barley and
half-stone weight of sugar candy stored away
wooden card catalogues, the sliding
drawers have their grooves smoothed
with beeswax, those busy insects simmering
like the synapses of her brain as she
catches his eye across the reading room
dotted by heads bent over books, inclined
towards the green-shaded lamps to catch
the light in this otherwise dim gallery
of recessed shelves and carpet-quieted boards
fingers trembling at "a" she thinks yes, able,
he is and I for him, and happy so, to
catalogue each sigh and slight
she feels, listing her pale attributes
on one side of the scale, her
human measurements--five-seven, brown-
haired, blueish-eyed, 45-34-44, an
eight-and-a-half shoe (to walk
alongside you), ears still unpierced
at forty-two, no tattoos, scratching out
genealogies and grocery lists, wishing for
what was, when she was hungry
and Gawain still not yet killed her dragon--
other bones linger long, around the
encampment, whitened, with an inventory
written upon them, the magical, the
lost and longed for, the pecks of corn and barley and
half-stone weight of sugar candy stored away
04 April 2010
History, Unraveling
that history, unraveling from
the edges of the tapestry
unweaving, each day, a little
more, the scenes of unicorns
recumbent, fading from view as
he turns to her with quizzical
looks and the riddle of his
fingers spanning round her waist, the
Cloisters in dark November, tracing
the face of the woman, stone-
hewn
riddle me, riddle me, randy-ro,
my father gave me seed to sow
they bloom now, in Spring, so many
seasons later,
sleeping, have they been sleeping
these many years, a long
hibernation of sorts, bursting forth
only now, their histories
writ upon their petals,
florid and pale by turns
the edges of the tapestry
unweaving, each day, a little
more, the scenes of unicorns
recumbent, fading from view as
he turns to her with quizzical
looks and the riddle of his
fingers spanning round her waist, the
Cloisters in dark November, tracing
the face of the woman, stone-
hewn
riddle me, riddle me, randy-ro,
my father gave me seed to sow
they bloom now, in Spring, so many
seasons later,
sleeping, have they been sleeping
these many years, a long
hibernation of sorts, bursting forth
only now, their histories
writ upon their petals,
florid and pale by turns
03 April 2010
A Lecture on Tintoretto
throwing off the old cloak of
melancholy, shaking away the
raindrops dripping from the tip
of an umbrella puddling down to our feet
as the lecture on Tintoretto starts,
the room darkens, and the slides
drop in their carousel, the click-
click-click ticking away the next
fifty minutes or so
later
watching, as starving cattle, seven
in number, totter away, seven glossy-fat
take their place, grazing in the long grass
putting on new clothes,
radiant in your reflection,
sighing, always, at the colors mixed
perfectly, so, the iris a palette
of blue, gold, brown
melancholy, shaking away the
raindrops dripping from the tip
of an umbrella puddling down to our feet
as the lecture on Tintoretto starts,
the room darkens, and the slides
drop in their carousel, the click-
click-click ticking away the next
fifty minutes or so
later
watching, as starving cattle, seven
in number, totter away, seven glossy-fat
take their place, grazing in the long grass
putting on new clothes,
radiant in your reflection,
sighing, always, at the colors mixed
perfectly, so, the iris a palette
of blue, gold, brown
Partly Because She Loves Him
partly because she loves him
she holds her tongue
as she watches two geese
honking northwards, past Fleetwood Station
and wishes he would clasp her hand again
in his, warming it, this chill
Spring evening as
another train glides south
the rectangles of light punctuated
by the visages of travellers trying
to reach their own ends, folding and
unfolding their newspapers, grappling
with glossy magazines, and she,
she nurses an ache, a knot, so
thickcorded to her middle it never
will be born, her phantom child, a second self,
her love, her lost one, cherished
for so long, so well, it is nearly named,
but yet a chimera, glistering in the
dark, then gone
she holds her tongue
as she watches two geese
honking northwards, past Fleetwood Station
and wishes he would clasp her hand again
in his, warming it, this chill
Spring evening as
another train glides south
the rectangles of light punctuated
by the visages of travellers trying
to reach their own ends, folding and
unfolding their newspapers, grappling
with glossy magazines, and she,
she nurses an ache, a knot, so
thickcorded to her middle it never
will be born, her phantom child, a second self,
her love, her lost one, cherished
for so long, so well, it is nearly named,
but yet a chimera, glistering in the
dark, then gone
02 April 2010
The Coach Painter
(1826, Bridgetown, Barbados)
paint pots of red and gilt, in
Barbados, Bridgetown it was, where
the conflagration rose up--and the
carriage for the Governor only
half-complete, the coat-of-arms
a bare tracing when an errant
spark fell upon those rags, long
forgotten, and, as the birds
cried out their evening song the
smouldering grew to flame, the glass
panes, carefully leaded, carried from England,
blackened and cracked, the lion and the
unicorn rampant no more, but
charred to dust, the billowing smoke seen
beyond the green of canefields, an ill
omen, indeed, in this coastal town,
the sails of tall schooners swaying on the
water, moored to this island
of coral limestone, his cat
run into the cotton at the
first sign of smoke. the sun
rises again and he, too, to survey
the damage, the salvage starts,
building up again, from the earth,
this painter of coaches
paint pots of red and gilt, in
Barbados, Bridgetown it was, where
the conflagration rose up--and the
carriage for the Governor only
half-complete, the coat-of-arms
a bare tracing when an errant
spark fell upon those rags, long
forgotten, and, as the birds
cried out their evening song the
smouldering grew to flame, the glass
panes, carefully leaded, carried from England,
blackened and cracked, the lion and the
unicorn rampant no more, but
charred to dust, the billowing smoke seen
beyond the green of canefields, an ill
omen, indeed, in this coastal town,
the sails of tall schooners swaying on the
water, moored to this island
of coral limestone, his cat
run into the cotton at the
first sign of smoke. the sun
rises again and he, too, to survey
the damage, the salvage starts,
building up again, from the earth,
this painter of coaches
Manhattan (Evening)
let me float in my lover's arms,
sure, what harm in it, to fox trot
down lovers lane, no harm indeed,
if honestly meant, that kiss (or two)
in the twilight, beneath electric
lights wired and rewired patiently
(I just knew you would kiss like that,
as the sky was riven in two)
from mid-century on
and the city would be a fine place,
if they would ever finish building it....
the sun rising and setting on the
gatekeepers with their coffee and
meetings and profit and loss statements,
the price of paper and ink, the
printer in Pennsylvania, then Vermont,
then India, now China...
how soon before we are all remaindered?
and still she floats in her lover's
arms, the lucky coin in her shoe
thinsilver, under her heel
sure, what harm in it, to fox trot
down lovers lane, no harm indeed,
if honestly meant, that kiss (or two)
in the twilight, beneath electric
lights wired and rewired patiently
(I just knew you would kiss like that,
as the sky was riven in two)
from mid-century on
and the city would be a fine place,
if they would ever finish building it....
the sun rising and setting on the
gatekeepers with their coffee and
meetings and profit and loss statements,
the price of paper and ink, the
printer in Pennsylvania, then Vermont,
then India, now China...
how soon before we are all remaindered?
and still she floats in her lover's
arms, the lucky coin in her shoe
thinsilver, under her heel
Spring Is A-Coming In
tu-whit, tu-whoo
tu-whit, tu-whoo
and Spring is a-coming in
with all her attendant charms
and furbelows, the green at
her wrists and in her hair,
loose-belted round her waist, the
tendrils curling into words, the
growing script across the slate-
blue flagstones
her breath, blowing away winter
hoar-frost, her touch thaws
the ground, drawing up
the purple crocus and the drooping heads
of snowbells littering the lawns
newly greened
.....the wettest March in memory, yes,
soaked to the skin we were,
as we walked from school, the
last blast of Winter biting at
our heels, the trees upturned
in the street....
it was a lover and his...
in the Springtime....
and Spring says, come
and lie with me
and watch the pink cloud tree
explode again, like last year, while
you cradled the book and volume of
his brain in your hands
when hearts burst and
the grounds were well watered
her breath was a
welcome respite, wreathing
itself round, a relief after
the hard cold freezing our pipes,
chapping our fingers, the slogging
through snow,
her breath a kiss upon our brow
tu-whit, tu-whoo
and Spring is a-coming in
with all her attendant charms
and furbelows, the green at
her wrists and in her hair,
loose-belted round her waist, the
tendrils curling into words, the
growing script across the slate-
blue flagstones
her breath, blowing away winter
hoar-frost, her touch thaws
the ground, drawing up
the purple crocus and the drooping heads
of snowbells littering the lawns
newly greened
.....the wettest March in memory, yes,
soaked to the skin we were,
as we walked from school, the
last blast of Winter biting at
our heels, the trees upturned
in the street....
it was a lover and his...
in the Springtime....
and Spring says, come
and lie with me
and watch the pink cloud tree
explode again, like last year, while
you cradled the book and volume of
his brain in your hands
when hearts burst and
the grounds were well watered
her breath was a
welcome respite, wreathing
itself round, a relief after
the hard cold freezing our pipes,
chapping our fingers, the slogging
through snow,
her breath a kiss upon our brow
22 March 2010
McCarra/Poetry noted in list of "100 Best Poetry Blogs."
McCarra/Poetry was recently noted in a list of "100 Best Poetry Blogs" compiled by Accredited Online Colleges.....
Here's the link, if you're interested....
http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/
They list some blogs that I was, of course, already aware of.....plus a bunch that I will now have to check out!!!!!
Here's the link, if you're interested....
http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/
They list some blogs that I was, of course, already aware of.....plus a bunch that I will now have to check out!!!!!
18 March 2010
16 March 2010
03 March 2010
Rooftop Photograph
angling towards the camera, the
eye that would have your soul
checking the light, and the filter
so some other can scan it into
the brainpan, in black and white, the
sun soon to set beyond the rooftops
were there pigeons? perhaps.
holding the corners, delicate,
as I hold you, edges so sharp,
still cutting clear, the sky unclouded,
a pane wiped of rain, the mirror
reflecting back, my eyes upon you always
eye that would have your soul
checking the light, and the filter
so some other can scan it into
the brainpan, in black and white, the
sun soon to set beyond the rooftops
were there pigeons? perhaps.
holding the corners, delicate,
as I hold you, edges so sharp,
still cutting clear, the sky unclouded,
a pane wiped of rain, the mirror
reflecting back, my eyes upon you always
He Speaks Again
there he was again, this time
between the honey and the
olive oil (first of the season) in the pantry, his tongue
tripping thick over his words.....it's
too cold, entirely, on your fire escape,
he says, and where is that cup of tea
I was wanting?
as she slops it into pale blue china,
German, gold-rimmed, the service
incomplete, sugar bowl smashed (how?)
and the sherds pressed into that
mosaic of broken things
and so, he lists her faults, as she
taps the tip of her shoe against the tile,
planning his last meal
between the honey and the
olive oil (first of the season) in the pantry, his tongue
tripping thick over his words.....it's
too cold, entirely, on your fire escape,
he says, and where is that cup of tea
I was wanting?
as she slops it into pale blue china,
German, gold-rimmed, the service
incomplete, sugar bowl smashed (how?)
and the sherds pressed into that
mosaic of broken things
and so, he lists her faults, as she
taps the tip of her shoe against the tile,
planning his last meal
Opening Day: Sunday
this new church, with piped-in music
and the occasional announcement, has
aisles for everything, new brick walls
sheltering two cashiers, ten registers,
one harried manager, and acres of
boxes, jars, bottles, bags, and shrink-wrapped
loveliness neatly shelved for
greedy fingers
anticipating the consumption of plastic
sandwiches and drugstore wine,
amen, I say to you, amen, let us save to spend
and spend again.....
funhouse mirror, fluorescent white light, and
pretty jars of hope and charity stacked just so......
the automatic doors open, shut, the
electric eye watches, benevolent red, burning
and the occasional announcement, has
aisles for everything, new brick walls
sheltering two cashiers, ten registers,
one harried manager, and acres of
boxes, jars, bottles, bags, and shrink-wrapped
loveliness neatly shelved for
greedy fingers
anticipating the consumption of plastic
sandwiches and drugstore wine,
amen, I say to you, amen, let us save to spend
and spend again.....
funhouse mirror, fluorescent white light, and
pretty jars of hope and charity stacked just so......
the automatic doors open, shut, the
electric eye watches, benevolent red, burning
12 February 2010
Evening Cigarette (or, Thank You, Marlboro Lights)
the lace that startles, white
above the yellow glow of the
security light--motion activated
it flicks on, sudden-like
as he passes below her window, where he knows
she sleeps, long under the covers as
the paper/tobacco tip of his cigarette
crackles, drawing in that first
lovely infusion of smoke to the lungs
(and, exhale) conscious of the
stage directions governing them both.
her face in the window, in summer framed
by straw, smile a blur of pink,
moving, wordless, behind the single
pane
now pressed to the pillow, tumbler
of water easy to hand
the hand that holds, clasping,
unclasping
above the yellow glow of the
security light--motion activated
it flicks on, sudden-like
as he passes below her window, where he knows
she sleeps, long under the covers as
the paper/tobacco tip of his cigarette
crackles, drawing in that first
lovely infusion of smoke to the lungs
(and, exhale) conscious of the
stage directions governing them both.
her face in the window, in summer framed
by straw, smile a blur of pink,
moving, wordless, behind the single
pane
now pressed to the pillow, tumbler
of water easy to hand
the hand that holds, clasping,
unclasping
Eggs for Sale (or, Flesh and Commerce)
those ovoid shapes she held in
her hand, awkward pearls to
offer--better to string them on
a chain, hang them on a
white wall, list them in a
black-and-white print advertisement
marshalled, with a scalpel, until
they say--what--
the riot of lost language, the
eyes unseeing, the ears closed
off from birdsong, bleating, callow
entreaties, apologies, songs of love,
songs of loss, innocence and
experience colluding into a whole
that turns a corner and draws
a hand over the bricks,
smooth, rough, smooth, rough,
one brick upon another makes a wall,
one cell upon another, my sweetness
her hand, awkward pearls to
offer--better to string them on
a chain, hang them on a
white wall, list them in a
black-and-white print advertisement
marshalled, with a scalpel, until
they say--what--
the riot of lost language, the
eyes unseeing, the ears closed
off from birdsong, bleating, callow
entreaties, apologies, songs of love,
songs of loss, innocence and
experience colluding into a whole
that turns a corner and draws
a hand over the bricks,
smooth, rough, smooth, rough,
one brick upon another makes a wall,
one cell upon another, my sweetness
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