ALL RESPONSES |
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I woke this morning, this Monday morning, with a novel idea spinning around in my head. To write first, before doing anything else. That’s what I’m doing, or close to it. First, I had to take the dogs out so that they could relieve themselves. Next, I relieved myself. So, in reality, I didn’t start writing first – I’ll admit there is a higher power in life than creativity. After taking care of it, though, I put water on the stove to boil for tea, and started writing. One of my dogs doesn’t like this. She sits right next to me, whining. (I know; I just switched to present tense. I’m also using sentence fragments.) Maybe she wants to play. With what? I can’t locate any rawhide bones. They’ve all been chewed up. Think. She knows where one is, but it’s stuck. I’m not going to look under couches, etc. No. I look on a window sill, and there is a small rawhide bone. I throw it in the floor, and she grabs it. I start writing again. But the tea kettle begins to whistle. I pour the water into the infuser. I write again.
When I got laid off seven months ago, I saw it as an opportunity to write. The people I know who’ve published books say, “Just start writing.” Not me. I have grand designs. Plots, themes, research. So what happened? For one thing, perfectionism got in the way. My book became an investigation, which led to reading several books, which caused me to lose sight of the original objective. Mostly, though, it was, and is, my insistence on getting all the other stuff out of the way first. Breakfast. The crossword puzzle. Cutting up wood. Mowing the yard. Taking brush to the city pile. Cleaning house. Fixing things. Checking email. Facebook. Websites. Food. Workouts. And, of course, dogs. And after all I’ve done in the last seven months; I still don’t have my own writing space. That should be the first thing I do after writing this. OK, my tea should be ready.
Mmmmm, it’s good. A citrusy summer tea blend. Now, let’s go over what I’m supposed to do today. I look out the window, and can’t remember. A baby rabbit chews weeds near the patio. I think – Maybe they eat dandelions. Of course they do. That could explain why, after sprouting all over at the start of spring, the dandelions have all but disappeared. Rabbits, on the other hand, have taken over the planet. They and the squirrels are both doing well. At times, they resemble one another, and I begin to wonder if they aren’t interbreeding. Sqirbbits. Squabbits. I’m all for inter-species breeding, with the exception of our own. Cows and pigs, chickens and turkeys, shrimp and crabs all come to mind. You can be sure someone is out there trying to do this with a multitude of species.
Now, what needs to be done today? Fix the visor in Clara’s car. I bought cobalt drill bits just for this task. Dig up concrete from the front walkway. Move more brush to the city pile. But here again, I need to go to the gym and work out –first. I need to put my private space in order –first. Why is it so easy to put off what I really need to do for myself? The argument goes like this: Get all the tedious, unpleasant stuff out of the way, and you’ll have plenty of time to do what you want later. You know what happens. The list grows longer. By the time you’ve made a dent in all those other things, the sun is going down and you’re pooped. My most creative time of day is in the morning, which is why I’m writing now. Let’s see if I can keep it up for the rest of my life. Next, breakfast and post Legs for Northography. |
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The transit between us is blurred.
Double yellow lines that overlap the white,
street lamps crowded with moths,
lonely dark alleys where the tar forms puddles.
In them, the moon sees her reflection.
To get to you I would pass
this corner store and that tattoo parlor
bulletin boards with rusted tacks.
Flyers pasted in a hurry;
hanging crookedly -unread, unnoticed.
My legs could carry me to you.
Through the thickest of peach trees and Southern accents-
down along the Suwannee River-
all the way down
where the pebbles are as smooth as our skin.
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The spring of being twelve.
The fall of being thirteen.
Nothing caught in between --
always having a number
to reference when you broke
the ring of a nearby year,
the solace of the winter months,
by chopping at its limbs. |
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Vines from her fingers
and the honey bees
purring beneath her legs
She speaks to no one
for days, except
her imaginary friend
Sometimes she reads
about the Catskills;
the little men, sleeping
secretly, her body prepares
for babies
And in her town, every house
has the same white curtains |
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He arrives
driving a cobalt blue
mustang
creature from a culture
across the sea
guiding his steed
with firm hand
welcomed into a daughter's life
daughter who waited
half a century
for this moment in time
meeting a future
mother-in-law
he says (an aside to his beloved)
'your mum's in good nick'
only one or two scrapings
from the original gold
mum reflects wryly
the true metal is
the opening to joy
this eldest daughter finds
she who had almost
given up
the soulmate thing
Eros comes
arrowless
astride his cobalt blue horse |
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When I hear about Cold Stones I
don’t really consider ice cream—
just cold stones.
There’s that grey marble for Charley B
with an epitath, “don’t try,”
but how could I not?
After hearing about the vomit scented floors
and
the vomit scented whores,
with ZZ Top legs,
build your cult wisely Chucky.
You might just make it big,
and ruin everything,
except her legs. |
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I had a pair of pretty legs,
I dangled them in a stream.
I kicked them high as a can can girl,
they carried me through my dreams.
When they needed some brown sugar,
I kept them as odds in the sun.
When they wanted some good hooking,
I wound them around my man’s.
–some men’s legs, you know, can be
very handsome, but I digress–
And when they grew old and crooked,
wanting only the ability to walk,
I wrote a poem to thank them
for their long singularity. |
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grandpa’s love was always soft
a week before he died
he called us to his bed
and gently told us
he was going soon
“but i don’t want you to cry
because i’m going to be with grandma”
so we promised him
after school my father called
he had some news
he told us grandpa was gone
my sister cried
my father cried
i hated her
for betraying our promise
in my child’s mind
i felt she had made my father cry
i ran down to the shagwa river
and wept into my own reflection
when i was done
i forgave my sister
and i realized
my father’s tears were his own
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Not even when he died [the childhood father I faintly remember],
I felt the sadness that pooled into most people's eyes
I never drowned in it, never tasted it
as I sat there, watching, wondering about the return of normalcy.
Not even when she knocked on the door and brought my half-sister,
one I had never met; or when she left with her to a place I have never found.
As a youngster, I watched constantly; drinking images like milk, deep gulps at a time; their messages spilling through the sides of my mouth, too much for me to swallow, too much for a young girl to understand.
Words were always easier, softer in their notes, slower in their routes
like the songs of grandmothers rocking their babies when night falls.
I could sit there for hours, chewing the air of soothing certainty I heard in their old voices; each of their words delivered at their own time.
Not even when that grandma died taking years of sweetness from our orchards with her.
Not even when I loved you last, did the tears walk away from me, as they do today. I can no longer imagine a life within what we once called us. The coolness of the damp log that shades the mushrooms to life is no longer a haven for me. I dropped one too many dreams in this long walk from then to now.
I once thought I could stand on my toes and touch the moon. The reach of a child, yet not so long ago. Tonight, there is nothing up there to touch
or perhaps,
I am too old to make that effort. |
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1978. A central mystery.
Missing in the middle
of the school year.
The subject of hushed silence,
hard-boned lies encircling
a marrow of unrevealed truth.
She was my friend,
but she never said goodbye
and I never heard from her again.
Still I kept the secrets of her past,
a dark tunnel of them.
The mother in prison who never wanted her.
Parceled from relative to relative.
The cousin who’d molested her.
Moss grew over my silence.
Questions no one would answer.
Her run outdistanced with weather,
out of the coffin of Minnesota snow
to a warm, fabulous state
I hoped for her.
Or was she still here?
The light captured in shadow.
Dust that moves in darkness.
Have you seen her?
She never made the milk cartons.
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Love the furious sea and field green adagios
break into swallow song trill
the bees prayer
wander in too much or too little
seize the day but love night
in hospital are pale invalids
next to tanned doctors
hate church
wiggle with four kinds of longing:
humble grass readers
stationary travelers
esurient fit of the cello
the island’s open door
walk to compostella
kneel at Loretta
blessed by the black madonna
live on the limen
would leap with being’s lightness
are anchored by hurting feet
wear down the cobblestones of Prague
follow streetside hawkers
selling Dvorak and Mozart like peanuts
haunt the old Jewish quarters
at night become dictionaries restlessness
always read the ending first
emerge from umber words
like burred deer gathering from the sources
mater, breath, sphere
escape from one prison to the next
paddle a green river
ride the escalator to heaven
know that god is down below
while quiescent saints live on the rooftops
trudge the Charles Bridge where violinists play
an old man grinds a hurdy gurdy
hide beneath a kaleidoscope of umbrellas
her legs tremble like aerials in the rain
compass needles
made of clay not marble
raise the table of the back
can read the crossing of the waters, the hurting
sun of gazes, the nescient dawn cleansed
of knowledge from the night
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Sturdy trees,
enfold me
with your wisdom,
carry me
in your boundless humility;
let me not forget
that my body
like your trunk
is a way to encase
the light inside.
Help me
to nurture
and
reveal
this light.
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Here, in the dark woods,
the rumored sun a dappling
jokester god, you rest.
Barefoot, penitent,
seated in age-old dampness,
stretch your legs, and wait. |
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To walk before dawn
at the first show of light,
we are all virgins: pink,
orange, turning yellow red
before the waning gray
evaporates
To swing young legs
over moss, to be a part
of this repeating moment
of newness
to be not yourself
but part of dawn
itself
and when it comes,
in the blink of an eye,
it will rename you
with another day |
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name
hidden
underneath
deep within
leaves of dreams
and earth..
wipe
away the
silence of
your soul.
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I remember them.
Legs,
smooth and long.
Bony feet, long toes
dug in sand and muddy water.
Unashamed
of the dirt collected around the toenails,
shown with pride as a badge,
the proof of summer.
Youth gracing the tight muscles,
mosquitoes' bites,
scratches adorned them.
No hiding the fun
of days spent running and rolling,
digging and wading...
Lovely testimony
of strength and beauty,
of innocence and grace,
of never-passing time. |
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She sits alone in my consciousness,
a reminder of her life as it once was.
I hope she still thinks of our world,
from that place in my mind she resides.
Her time on Earth had been returned,
without rewarding its pledge of longevity.
Now only I truly remember her laugh,
scent and the way she wore her hair. |
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Your great-grandfather kissed girls your age beneath my boughs.
Before the last storm laid me to rest, squirrels made their nests
in cavities hollowed out by woodpeckers, ants and grubs.
Birds laid eggs, eggs hatched and birds laid eggs. Their children
have flown to the other trees around us. Some of these trees
are my children and my children’s children. They knew your grandfather
and your parents. Their roots, your feet, reach into the earth.
Turn your face to the sun and enjoy all your years. |
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i’ve witnessed
something astray
in her since she met him
something so subtle
you wouldn’t see it
unless you’ve experienced it
her umbra carries shame
she doesn’t really own
her third marriage
to the only man
she has ever really loved
another cold night
on the couch
long legs curled
narrow shoulders
quaking
when he’s good
he’s solicitous
their passion running
through everyone
when he’s bad
he spews hell fire
three inches from her face
and...
he pronounces
her either an angel
or a bitch
depending on the wind
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O where
O where
have my gangly gams gone?
O where
O where
can they be?
I left them in the forest
by the dank
of a fallen tree
And there, some spritely
elfin girl
so many years ago
Did barter
with the fungal fringe
my gangly gams to grow
They plumped and curved
and shifted shape
in reconfiguration
and soon became
the supple site
of constant admiration
of boys and men
impelled to stare
and clamoring for touch
At first, I understood
it not, and
thought it overmuch
that legs and feet
and knobby knees
demanded such attention
but came to see
the necessity
that mothered that invention.
Distracted by the power
they gave to
turn men’s heads and hearts
I saw my legs as vehicles
instead of body parts.
Too soon
they shifted shape again
and sprouted purple tracks
Their magic fled,
they turned no heads.
Those, the sorry facts
that span the brinks
of innocence and
wizened recognition
That gams do come
and gams do go
in limited edition.
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In the dark, I look for it
since I lost my eye
ripped off my dress and watch it dance away across the sea.
it wrapped up on the BOOMS, holding in my rain gather'd up like drinking
girls and their dresses...
hoping God never chokes only squeezes... the Purr who hums some
Venecian waltz in "H"
aches, etching in the blonde road
sand digs in my doll's toes
the left leaning ones lay left
curled hammers
tired
the poor toes
huddled en mass
"we paint ball them"
free
wretched dipped in garbage and oil
hiding toes
behind my calf
these shorts
hiding my homelessness,
I am listed like a raft,
upon a wave
like them natives forgot under mounds
a vile wannabe
I lift off my dress like a work of art, ringing
these parts of it - dia spora
my steeltoes
paint balled sprayed
coolis where I go
watch it float down the years of Welcome under Appalachia
letting down
its bliss that gathered hair
and its recesses, sweet with chill.
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The heat of summer
is coating my skin
with its layer of stickiness.
I stick to everything.
My body sticks to my clothes,
my arms to my desk as I write this.
All of a sudden, I feel yellow...
green, or neon blue.
I am the human form of a post-it note.
In the stifling heat of the 4 of July
I lose my mind to humidity
and think of glue...
Then a more pleasant thought enters my mind.
Love.
Lovemaking makes you sweaty and sticky.
But does it make one think of post-it notes?
Is the glue on those colorful pieces of papers sweet?
Should I taste it...
I look at my arm instead.
mmmm... so close, accessible.
I need to move my computer.
This attic room is cozy but dangerous.
The concentration of heat and humidity
makes it a incubator for crazy thinking.
The sprinkler outside is calling me.
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She grew those long legs
long before
the first blood wound a line
to her white socks
long before
the first locks pushed around
her pink panty crotch
long before
she stepped on and broke your cock
after you forced your way
between those long legs. |
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