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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

21 November 2010

New Podcast made on Podbean, 11/19/2010

http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCarra/Poetry Reading Number Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCarra/Poetry November 2010 reading

McCarra/Poetry November 2010 reading

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

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)

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

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

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

Blood Beats in Four Square Miles - promotion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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......

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!

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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?)

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)

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

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

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!!

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

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.

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

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

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

30 April 2010

McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number 8

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---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

05 February 2010

West of Ireland........


McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number Two Video by MaryAnn McCarra-Fitzpatrick - MySpace Video

McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number Two Video by MaryAnn McCarra-Fitzpatrick - MySpace Video

To be sure.....

to be sure, it was a wrench, the
loss of his talk, the hands
round her waist, love coming in
at the eyes

then the long years, marked by
telegraph posts passing the windows,
thrip, thrip, thrip, regular as
breathing

plating food and pouring drinks, and
repeat as the needle hits the
grooves of the vinyl and the
scratchpop cannot hide that
old song, replete with corn syrup

we lulled ourselves to sleep with,
familiar snatches of melody to
weave into a quilt to
cover ourselves, warmth in winter

after the long hot summer and
sweet bird of youth had flown......

Onions

coppery skins fall to the lino,
brittle to the touch, as
another scream starts, then arcs

and falls away to silence.
they cause no tears, these
onions, as she keeps calm

and carries on, the booklet of stamps in
her apron pocket chafing the tips
of her fingers as she touches them,

for a moment only giving those nerves
sway, then raises the volume on
the radio, following each note....

in the mood, casting her mind back
to those cold pavements in grey November
before the fires of bleak December

throwing the bone into the fire, the
whitened hulk aloft for a fine moment
before it falls to the flames

she inclines, and inclines again, slicing
the onions fine, swaying so slightly, stockings askew