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.
became King of Syracuse, this
Prince among common men
bordered by water, but
untrammeled, so, by those old
strictures that held other sons
in check
the potter's son, then, a leader
of men and not to be trifled with,
see his steel, glinting at noon-day?
see how it pierces the heart?
crown him, with green and gold.
Grand Opening
see them assembled, suited in
blue, grey, straining at their
neckties, shifting in their heels,
waiting for the flash that will
freeze them for all time. And
here we are, at this Grand
Opening (near Grand Street) of
cool aisles of comestibles
I simply cannot live without.
Ranging among the tomatoes, lounging
by the lettuce--oh, weighing the
heft of eggplants in her hands
oh, the loveliness of canned
peaches in heavy syrup, the
fruit cocktail, too, jumbled in a crystal cup,
marbled meats wrapped by
the butcher, humming along to
the muzak....will you still
need me......
blue, grey, straining at their
neckties, shifting in their heels,
waiting for the flash that will
freeze them for all time. And
here we are, at this Grand
Opening (near Grand Street) of
cool aisles of comestibles
I simply cannot live without.
Ranging among the tomatoes, lounging
by the lettuce--oh, weighing the
heft of eggplants in her hands
oh, the loveliness of canned
peaches in heavy syrup, the
fruit cocktail, too, jumbled in a crystal cup,
marbled meats wrapped by
the butcher, humming along to
the muzak....will you still
need me......
Counting out the Coffee Spoons
counting out the coffee spoons in
the sleep-stupid morning, counting out
the cries in the night, counting the
strands in the cobweb, counting
out the six grey hairs on her head discovered
just this morning and herself so
terrible at mathematics--however
will it all add up, this
assemblage of ends and oddments,
how to enter it, messy-black on
the fine-lined pages of a ledger?
blotting my copybook, the
perpetual cloud mists and
blesses me again and I
respond mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
and, to that end, amen!
the sleep-stupid morning, counting out
the cries in the night, counting the
strands in the cobweb, counting
out the six grey hairs on her head discovered
just this morning and herself so
terrible at mathematics--however
will it all add up, this
assemblage of ends and oddments,
how to enter it, messy-black on
the fine-lined pages of a ledger?
blotting my copybook, the
perpetual cloud mists and
blesses me again and I
respond mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa
and, to that end, amen!
Porch in Summer
motor turns over then a
trickling noise--coolant through
the coils? ah, the sweet
relief of air-conditioned
rooms that brought us in from
summer porches where we would
rock, nod at a passer-by,
reflect on the rough borders
of marigolds overgrown so
slightly, the stir in the
air a relief, the night
welcomed for the cool dark
the glass refreshed with (yet
another) splash, the closeness
of the kitchen, this tenth
ring of hell she so happily
endures, knowing that later will
come, and the fireflies, too
with their bright punctuation, placing
an end to her wordless sentence
trickling noise--coolant through
the coils? ah, the sweet
relief of air-conditioned
rooms that brought us in from
summer porches where we would
rock, nod at a passer-by,
reflect on the rough borders
of marigolds overgrown so
slightly, the stir in the
air a relief, the night
welcomed for the cool dark
the glass refreshed with (yet
another) splash, the closeness
of the kitchen, this tenth
ring of hell she so happily
endures, knowing that later will
come, and the fireflies, too
with their bright punctuation, placing
an end to her wordless sentence
27 June 2010
One-Eyed Reilly
and here he was again, One-Eyed Reilly,
as sure as Sunday, turning up like that
lucky penny she tucked into her
shoe on a Saturday
and herself, ruining the fine crease
of his trousers, looking for one of the
six keys to the city he keeps
safe in his pockets
late lunches of pasta e fagioli, the
stories of his sainted mother, the
thumbprint bruises on her upper arm, count
those jewels, emerald, ruby, amythyst
purpling, the man who does not know
his strength....
he plants a seed to sprout in
her ear, then, triple e spaugs dodging
the crevasses on Grand Street,
is on his way again, saving his one
and only world, painting out a
new signage, and, leaving the
last unsaid, she bids him her
fond farewell
as sure as Sunday, turning up like that
lucky penny she tucked into her
shoe on a Saturday
and herself, ruining the fine crease
of his trousers, looking for one of the
six keys to the city he keeps
safe in his pockets
late lunches of pasta e fagioli, the
stories of his sainted mother, the
thumbprint bruises on her upper arm, count
those jewels, emerald, ruby, amythyst
purpling, the man who does not know
his strength....
he plants a seed to sprout in
her ear, then, triple e spaugs dodging
the crevasses on Grand Street,
is on his way again, saving his one
and only world, painting out a
new signage, and, leaving the
last unsaid, she bids him her
fond farewell
Rag and Bone Man
she walks with the rag and
bone man, his cart rattling
down the street, wheels
uneven, shuddering, metal
upon metal and
he paws her hand in
his, deciphering the tiny scars,
white, upon otherwise
manicured mitts, the
strange text presenting itself
to an unpracticed, but
willing eye
target orange, his vest, and
him with six children, the
last a girl, their bird-
mouths always upturned,
squawking out awkward melodies
of hunger
she hungers too, no less, picking
through his findings, the
ragged ends of ragged days,
the false flourishes and
cheap ribbons thick with a
greasy dust, First Place and
Best Beloved no longer...
her dogs yelp and ache
oh, for a word or two
of truth to shock the
system, the cold clear
of rain in late August, the
sweep of the wind in
September, whipping the leaves into a crown,
the antiseptic snows of December, as good as
fertilizer for a lawn
reading
the lineaments in and
of his face, no more
young, yet not old,
jake by her
bone man, his cart rattling
down the street, wheels
uneven, shuddering, metal
upon metal and
he paws her hand in
his, deciphering the tiny scars,
white, upon otherwise
manicured mitts, the
strange text presenting itself
to an unpracticed, but
willing eye
target orange, his vest, and
him with six children, the
last a girl, their bird-
mouths always upturned,
squawking out awkward melodies
of hunger
she hungers too, no less, picking
through his findings, the
ragged ends of ragged days,
the false flourishes and
cheap ribbons thick with a
greasy dust, First Place and
Best Beloved no longer...
her dogs yelp and ache
oh, for a word or two
of truth to shock the
system, the cold clear
of rain in late August, the
sweep of the wind in
September, whipping the leaves into a crown,
the antiseptic snows of December, as good as
fertilizer for a lawn
reading
the lineaments in and
of his face, no more
young, yet not old,
jake by her
Planting the Dogwood Tree
oh, for some speech from you
after you plant the white
flowering dogwood to shade
our heads, those of our great-
grandchildren too,
the slow thirst that rises
up over minutes, then hours
as little boys with dusty knees
turn sticks to rifles and stones
to missiles
quilt folded to a v--right
side and left, hers closest
to the cry of a child,
closer, too, to the kitchen,
so, he sleeps, undisturbed
as a child himself, wordless,
hand at the small of her
back as the sun rises to sear
the cut grass into hay
and the sheets flap, flaglike
on the line, the ice
melting in his glass, the
condensation blistering,
beadlike, tearing down
after you plant the white
flowering dogwood to shade
our heads, those of our great-
grandchildren too,
the slow thirst that rises
up over minutes, then hours
as little boys with dusty knees
turn sticks to rifles and stones
to missiles
quilt folded to a v--right
side and left, hers closest
to the cry of a child,
closer, too, to the kitchen,
so, he sleeps, undisturbed
as a child himself, wordless,
hand at the small of her
back as the sun rises to sear
the cut grass into hay
and the sheets flap, flaglike
on the line, the ice
melting in his glass, the
condensation blistering,
beadlike, tearing down
24 June 2010
Roses
oven-hot through the
soles that slap the
sidewalk and:
are you saved?
yes, Roses, are you
saved?
the question hangs in
the stilly air like dandelion-down
floating, here and there before
setting down their resilient seeds,
growing up, obstinate, even between
pavement cracks and
where building meets
sidewalk, sprouting green
and arms, fleshy-fat, rest on
pillowed windowsills,
surveying the passing
scene
as children chalk out
games she chalks up
the score, nil, nil,
and nil by mouth for
some time to come
the rubber ball, fleshily
pink, she only half-
startled, catches it, the
warmth of it surprising
her, throws it back to
the boy (she knows motherless,
fatherless)
he catches it: smiles
she goes on her way, saved
or unsaved...
soles that slap the
sidewalk and:
are you saved?
yes, Roses, are you
saved?
the question hangs in
the stilly air like dandelion-down
floating, here and there before
setting down their resilient seeds,
growing up, obstinate, even between
pavement cracks and
where building meets
sidewalk, sprouting green
and arms, fleshy-fat, rest on
pillowed windowsills,
surveying the passing
scene
as children chalk out
games she chalks up
the score, nil, nil,
and nil by mouth for
some time to come
the rubber ball, fleshily
pink, she only half-
startled, catches it, the
warmth of it surprising
her, throws it back to
the boy (she knows motherless,
fatherless)
he catches it: smiles
she goes on her way, saved
or unsaved...
Black Dog
God's breath in man....
the last thing one would
expect on a day such as
this, as the black dog
circles to make his
presence known
no coldness, of charity
in your hands, the
brow furrowed as you
spoke, tiger-eyes
burning bright
hair curling back, so
(he growls and bares
his teeth, troublesome
canine, most difficult
of breeds)
she bent her head
to his, plucking on those
strings to make some
melody between them
drowning out even the
most incessant of howls
the last thing one would
expect on a day such as
this, as the black dog
circles to make his
presence known
no coldness, of charity
in your hands, the
brow furrowed as you
spoke, tiger-eyes
burning bright
hair curling back, so
(he growls and bares
his teeth, troublesome
canine, most difficult
of breeds)
she bent her head
to his, plucking on those
strings to make some
melody between them
drowning out even the
most incessant of howls
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