Night of the Hospital: Mount Vernon, Bronxville

the white flags fly on the green,
(visible even in this dark)
flitter in the wind by the drive
cordoned off by orange, the
blinking cruisers follow you in, follow
you out, these uneasy escorts

the night of the hospital: the
faces swim behind the bulletproof
plastic bored with holes for speech to
trickle through

the forms written out in triplicate, the
scrips to be filled, the voices
over the telephone, yes, this,
but not that, watch for the red lines.....

milky liquid, ruby liquid, squirting
syringes, so much of sickness and then
--to sleep

"Chamber Music" published in The Mount Vernon Independent

"Chamber Music" (see earlier posts) was published in the 24th August edition of The Mount Vernon Independent.

However.......there are five typographical errors in the text.

Cricket Song

what difference, whether she
wears her hair waist-long or
up around her ears?

her irises still shift, from
grey to blue, the smocked
dress threaded through

with green, the crickets
sing a summer song, a
summer song of april

long since gone, the golden
strands floating, tangled in the
air thick-fogged after

the driving rain has torn
the heat up from the pavement,
thrown it skywards to hang there,

obdurate, a thick soup to
push my limbs through as I
think of you, floating towards

the ceiling, my red balloon,
my joy, my lost light, the
words that greet me in the night

ever, ever, and again the
words drift up to the windowpane.

they leave their marks.
I scratch them down.

Article on autism and housing discrimination published on Associated Content website.......

MaryAnn's third article has been published on the media website Associated Content.

Link to article:


http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/94676/maryann_mccarrafitzpatrick.html


or, simply click on the link to your right!!


Associated Content, The People's Media Company

Bread and Raspberry Jam

the truth lies in the middle, the
jam in the sandwich, the sweetness
spread amongst the pips that stick
in ones teeth, thicksmashed raspberries

the stones in her shoes, too, the
pebbles worn to pearls by her heels,
the round rock-teeth that Hansel
threw to glitter under the moon,

foiling his stepmother, that mad bitch,
calculating the slices left in the
loaf of bread, the number of breaths left
before she'd be boxed up--

this famine or the next--what difference,
really--except for that still surprise of
a breeze upon your neck, the relief of
quenching water when least expected

a dream of another found and lost
again (sleep-crumpled as the sun streams
in at the cracks) ebbing, ebbing as the tide
draws ever away

All the Pretty Maids

all the pretty maids stand in a row
waiting for their blossoms to emerge

two and three at a time, riotous, flashes
of color over the green, the voices bleared

through the air, quick brushstrokes of paint, now
here, now there, such a pleasant portrait

to contemplate as the sun stares down, streaking
their hair with gold and red, the copper, the brass

to line pockets, the pretty maids, with their
placid hands gathering, always gathering their

blossoms back to their sides, palm against palm,
the best way to walk

Notice to subscribers.......

I don't know why, exactly, but feedburner recently (twice) sent out a poem from last year. I'm not sure, quite, why this is.....but I do apologise.

Also.....for those of you who are Westchester residents.....check out the current issue of The Westchester Guardian (page 17). It's prose, not poetry, but I have (huzza!!!) half a page. Unlike the Times, they didn't edit me a bit!!

all best,

MaryAnn

McCarra--Poetry

Chamber Music

cutting clover in wide swathes, the
machine sputters and chokes, sighs and rests beneath the sun

how much better for the cows to
eat it, my blue-eyed boy, your
limbs mirroring mine as we walk along.....

four chambers, there are, four, and
each a room and place and time
unto itself entirely, the clock stopped
still in some, the ringing of the
hours halted, replaced by breaths, the
whispers marking time long since spent

each with their own inhabitants, these
boarders, pale chimera of what once was,
brought to life in an instant with a word,
a taste, a scrap of song the meat and
bread and wine to nourish the blood

a little longer
a little longer

the evening chorus in the green, in the green,
sun glistering down........
the blue darkens to dark, dark, the
sweetest song is a nightsong, the
dearest words those remembered.

The Vig Has Come Due........

and with it the ringing of the
telephone, echoing within this cave
of plaster and paint, the moldings
straightedged to the corners

ringringringringringring
ringringringringringringring......stop and silence

hangs heavy in the room, burgeoning down upon
these stooped shoulders, it drips, like treacle,
to the floorboards, a mess, a mess again--
clean it up with rotten rags and white vinegar

in the land of cornflakes the queen of the
weiner (red hots, get your red hots, red hots here....
see them pan-sizzled, black with bacon drippings)
tap dances across the kitchen floor,
each tap a morse code, no more, no more, no more

she cannot frame the words ego te absolvo,
pax tecum, go and sin no more: the
damage is done---it growls from her
stomach like a bear chained and baited,
the wee ones in short pants pummelling the
floor, fast as heartbeats, soles worn tissue thin,
blissful in their baby ignorance

the answer is yet unanswered, yet it shall
come, come, come, sure as Christmastide,
plain as the face of the full moon,
written out in the pages of the Daily
News, the public, the private, the
lawyers letters---all must add up to
something, surely---the tottering figures,
that tower of babel
these debits and credits on creased
papers, the ant-like ink an insult
to good sense, but still, and always,
nil desperandum

Untitled

tears prick the eyes,
these tiny knives, not yet
released to the cheek, the
bitter drops collected in cupped hands

even the back of the brain
cannot comprehend
this sorrow, the hearts
run through with swords
glinting like the bullet-flash
that brought our loved ones low,
flesh of our flesh, our
children, behind walls of
bricks and books and
papers left unwritten, the
proctor smiles and says
time's up

the sand run through already?
it cannot be, but is