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

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!!!

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

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