ALL RESPONSES |
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| I'd like to thank Mark for permitting us to use his work as a creative prompt. Please click on the provided link to learn more about him and his work. |
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An older woman waves
from an older Plymouth
driven by an older man.
Two blocks down the road,
she is still waving furiously
at all the empty storefronts.
Eddie lives on Division Street
close to the Golden Spike Tavern.
He sells Army surplus by day,
drinks Jack Daniels by night.
Eddie’s motto: “We spend
a future trying to understand”
Across the parking lot, trains
idle for hours, waiting
for no one in particular.
A door is ajar in the heart,
both today and tomorrow.
First, love must leave;
then the sorrow. Some folks
spend their entire lives wanting
to touch what they cannot see. |
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She says yes
to caring for cats—
striped Sugar, tawny Tangie—
while neighbors are
away for a week.
“Let them out
in the morning.
Shake the treat box
so they’ll go in at night.”
She becomes unhinged
to discover
she can’t get in.
Outside door is locked from the inside,
making her key useless.
Stand still.
Think a moment.
Where would
a front door key be hidden?
Search reveals a tiny nail
in a not-so-hidden spot.
Tsk tsk
but thank you, thank you.
She is rehinged.
Sugar arches against her leg.
Tangie looks over
his shoulder reproachfully.
She goes back home
to dream
of locks, bolts, hinges, latches, keys,
and rows of doors
swinging wide open.
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I've crushed against it until the slam of it cracked it off the frame
secretly made plans underneath to an afternoon's pitter patter
eyes made my shaped cokeglasses warbling down the floor.
she, who was so surprised to hear it- locked me into twisting the claim
when- she asked me, was I a crush for her?
a little afraid,
to stand to answer her
so there instead
as merely friends, _ Big time you are!...
wow. too much i said and
much still stays in the widening
left open. |
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Doors are made to open.
Walls are not.
They swing one way,
thanks to the clever hinge.
Some, you can see through.
Many have locks.
They define the border between In and Out,
and can be shut to keep
unwanted people and windblown
rain where they belong.
Closed, it’s a warning, a threat,
an obstacle, an impediment, a guardian.
Sometimes the guardian let’s her guard
down. She’s in a hurry, or waiting
for a visit to her walled world.
Dare to push on it.
A sliver of a room, a wall, a
squinting eye. Keeping secrets
to itself, but not so much that
you need to hide yours.
It can be read as
Come in, if you dare, or
Can’t you see this is a door?
Knock first. We’ll do the rest.
Resist the urge to push.
Oops. The wind must have blown it
open. Of course, this all depends on
how well you know the occupants.
If you’re handing out comic books
for Jehovah’s Witness, you might not
be welcome. If it’s your step-daughter’s
apartment, definitely not.
If you live here, you’ll ask
yourself… did I forget to close the door?
Or my housemate? You’re not sure.
Too much thinking now. Just go on in!
Break the seal! Take a leap!
For friendship. For warmth.
For air conditioning.
The cool air flows out.
The tension increases as your hand
nears the handle. Closer, you
can see colors and shapes within.
Yellow. Blue. Straight. Square.
Light vs. shadow.
Here you are, at the synapse.
Voltage, building up to arc
from one space to another,
to begin the chain reaction
of thought and action.
Let it stay this way.
Uncertain. Certain of never knowing,
of the charge exploding,
of what happens when atmospheres
blend so quickly.
We hope it’s quiet and soothing,
a good, therapeutic thing.
If it’s good for you, stand there
and think. Wait for the call,
until it draws you in.
Tell us what you find inside
the wrinkled door, if you ever come out.
We’d all like to know what’s in there.
There is a sign above:
“Don’t open this door.”
..but it’s already open. Or is it?
So now you push and
A flock of yellow finches
An evening ocean breeze
Sunset shifting from red to blue
Voices, a clatter of glass
Lavender, faintly over juniper
Cats and dogs and balls
Ripe tomatoes in temples
Your great grandmother, age 23
She’s beautiful, isn’t she?
Her hair the same color of your own
It’s the way you were raised
To open the door for a lady
Planets, each one a human spirit
Holding each other tightly in orbit.
A man, sitting at a table, writing
by a window, beyond
which we see white-washed
boxes piled on one another,
mountains, olive groves, the sea
with painted fishing boats.
Love grows here, its vines planted
thousands of years ago.
Call it Heaven. Peace. |
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It died here
within this room of deep and lingering scents
by that maple desk near the east window
on the yellow bond ream, some of which remains
in the dried ink, permanent India
the last drop cloging the nib of his favorite pen
that has fallen now to the sun-streaked floor
by the red elm chair he built and stained with Canada goldenrod
padded with hair from his Belgian team
leathered with the remains of the last of his black Devons
Words, still, remain in the left hand drawer
in the three letters composed during his last winter
when Helen had failed to respond to his pleas
for just one more conversation with him
one more sound of her deepened smoky voice
the only woman he would allow into this room
alone with him and his cases of books
his binders full of legions of poems
under the many colors of his pendulous zygocactus
and the simple desires of an old man who missed his daughter
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Footsteps and mad self-chatter,
Creak of closet opening and closing
I know he is choosing clothes
And has already chosen the man
For the night
In my solitary twin bed in the
Next room
I pretend to sleep,
Pretend this is ordinary.
Two lovers have parted:
One of them is me
Why do I toss and turn
Always hoping
The next time will be
The one to make it
Past the hangman’s
Noose: abandonment:
Drunkard’s promise of truth
The tossing and
Turning cleaves to me
Like a faithful spouse
Wants one more turn
about the dance floor,
One more fleeting encounter
As if the magic of disco
Nights and mirrored splashes
Of rotating lights will
Somehow keep us from harm
And lead us to love at last
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My father’s herringbone coat hangs behind
the door of my unlatched closet
I sometimes wear this coat when
the urge to reminisce overcomes
A younger man, stopping me
on the street, asks,
“Where did you get a coat
like that?”
I answer it was my father’s herringbone
coat, my father who is now dead;
the younger man pauses,hangs his head,
and moves on without speaking
In the inside pocket, I find
a list of projects my father
wanted to complete, but
never did
In fact, thinking back,
there was more of everything
he could have done; more
of what he should have
understood
My father’s herringbone coat hangs behind
the door of the unlatched closet
I sometimes wear this coat when
the urge to remember overcomes;
it seems to me this is just one way most of us
remember others—
in coats we have taken to be our own |
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May I Come In?
I am going to write to you as if we were good old friends,
friends who only had good memories to share,
but that wouldn't be the truth would it?
We know well all that has been and even though, now,
politely, we smile and ask the politically correct questions,
we know the truth stands behind a closed door.
There is no hate, I know,
but if it isn't love and it isn't hate then...
what is it?
There are taboo topics we skillfully avoid.
I know! Maybe what's left is plain banality,
maybe a bit of embarrassment...
You tell me what it is,
while here I am writing you a letter
that was supposed to be about the good we shared.
You don't say a thing, and truth be told
I don't think you know or imagine me here
still thinking, asking myself where it did all go wrong.
You door has been closed for a long time
but I still wish it ajar enough for me to ask
"may I come in?"
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Walking last night in the humid dark,
she heard deer running
breathing close.
This morning it was on the radio,
deer in the city.
it’s turning a little cooler, she is turning.
She has dropped her coins into waves,
given away her purse of money.
It’s time to grow back her fur.
A deer in the doorway—
wild good that plumbs
down deep inside her and she is a well.
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plumb bob, set seventy years ago, done wrong.
push the door close and lock her in
the dark, sure the light comes in
while the sun is up, but then
you scratch the door, and mew, and growl
like she will be eaten up; the morning comes,
she’s wet herself, and there will be no food.
plumb bob done wrong—do you ever wonder
where you and your rules came from?
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When I see you through that door, and the light spreads into 1 degree Kelvin,
And through there I see tree limbs and human garages spread out to oblivion,
When I can hold thousands of miles of your hand, and still touch something,
There is the briefest of moments of peace.
And the trees are stretched out into supernovas, and
My father watches my movements even though I have not seen him for years,
And my grandmothers are there, all three of them, and everyone that I have touched,
And we all finally know what is important.
The blackness is so simple that I realize it is jet,
And the Devil is nothing more than a semi-broken equation, and
Religion looks like petty criminal sentences—just a week or two—and
I remember how I found my first bicycle, red, with tassels on the handles, and
Rode it down the driveway, and fell, and scraped my knee, and then Mother’s breath.
When I get to see these things, love. And the hurt is the color of a pomegranate, and yet
It only stains my shirt, and not my heart. This is good. I cannot say it clearer. This is good.
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Lost.
Once again lost.
I should have gotten a map or at least asked for direction...
this I think while driving through another country road
that seems to go on forever and nowhere at the same time.
Then I see it, an old farmhouse... I drive closer.
Silence seems to inhabit this place
but maybe it is only my impression.
The porch shades the front door; a rocking chair to its side looks forgotten.
The sound of summer buzzes in the air, what's missing is the barking of a dog,
the sounds of life, work, coming from the barn, the house.
I walk to the door unsure of what to do. The place looks desolate, left to itself.
The floorboards complain under my shod feet as a dormant old lamp
no one has stroked in a while.
Reality is soon discovered when I notice the unlatched door.
Temptation to push and look inside, to holler a "hallo" I know
would bounce back on empty walls, is strong.
My hand is halted midair by the many pealing coats of paint near the handle
that seem to ask not to intrude, to respect the memories of others,
the sadness of a house in mourning.
Changes. I, simply, realize the message to me addressed.
Actions. Maybe standing still is all it’s needed.
Time. One moment is enough for me to see it all run by...
I turn and look at the expanses around me.
Here, nowhere, still lost. |
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Is the door unlatched and open or
unhinged outside the presented view?
What else do I not see?
A silhouette passed through the yellow light.
Glass doorknob cold to the touch so
I let go and I wait.
I knew moments ago what I was waiting for
but that has slipped away into the ether.
Replacing that thought are widening chasms I
had hoped would open the door, freeing me
from having to reach again.
It is silent here in the hallway and
I hear nothing from within or without.
Cold becoming colder. The key held in
my left hand burns.
I hear a ringing tone from far off
somewhat muted, distorted, submerged in water.
Do you remember our time in Pensacola Beach?
We danced upon the white sand
running through high tide we took our
chances with thousands of jelly fish
swimming late into the evening beneath hot
scorching stars.
Oil rigs hummed in the distance,
always churning water, day and night
the constant bittersweet orb competing
with sunrise and sunset.
And I have not spoken with you since.
In retrospect that was our apex and
upon arriving home what we built
disintegrated in our bare hands.
I kept some of the dust, locked in a
box in the attic entrance above the closet.
I do not know why, perhaps waiting, hoping. |
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My white skin, my perfect white skin would drive them all crazy. I knew it! I kissed my milk colored arm twice, said a prayer and more than decisively I knocked on the principle’s door.
«Knock, knock» I yelled along with my knocking. Too many knocks! I was so excited! Enthusiastic. The face of the principle was all red. He was wearing big white rimmed glasses and he was having a really deep scarlet moustache. There was a guinea pig running back and forth his desk and squeaking like crazy.
« Who the hell told you that you can yell out of my door? My precious wooden door?» Haha! I laughed out loud and rushed onto him. I climbed all over his lap. My principle! My sweet little principle! He was such a strong man and I love strong men so much! I grabbed his chin and gave him a long sucking kiss on his moustache lips.
« So you like kissing men» he said softly now in a solemn voice and I felt his penis growing in his pants.
«Oh yes!» I exclaimed happily «I love men and I believe that being a gay is the ultimate life joy! And as I can see, you like kissing men too!» and with these words I touched his crotch. He chuckled with shyness as if he was a little boy but the size of his penis belonged to a fully grown man, not to say, to two fully grown men! Mmmm.. my sly cute perverted principle!
«Now I want to see your skin» he announced with a formal tone. «It’s necessary, you understand, we must always see the skin of our employees. Some clients are allergic to yellowish color, and some doors are not tolerant to black skin! Can you imagine this? Doors! They just close when a black man or woman tries to pass through them! Crazy! But that’s life, what can we do? We have to adapt to the situations, to the non-wanting black people doors..So , show me your skin»..His hand squeezed gently my penis and his long pinky beautiful tongue licked my left cheek. I felt his moustache red hairs scratching my earlobe.
With a decisive movement, I unzipped my pants and the bright white color of my penis lit all the room. The rays of the morning sun were comparing pale to its color. «Oh God!» the principle sighed with crave and surprise. «This is what I call white!» I smiled with pride and I got ready for the last question. I was sure that I could pass all doors. «What’s your religion dear?» His tongue was curled like a snake around my fingers as I pushed them inside his mouth. I had to think fast.
«I am a Cavia Porcellus worshipper sir. My God is the Cavia Porcellus».
«Cavia Porcellous» he whispered, not without a secret admiration for the pomposity of the name. I was sure that it would impress him. I am always sure about this kind of things. « Cavia»…He said again «Porcellous»..»
«Yes, Cavia Porcellous» I repeated, taking care the reverberations of the name to sound like the creaking glasses of a mirror.
«Of course, you are hired!» He was so enthusiastic that a sudden hiccup made his body shake. Of course, I was hired. I had the perfect knowledge of the hidden doors. We have been followers of the Cavia Porcellus since then. Both of us. The two unique people on earth.
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twinking
from the high dark
a morse code
a constant messge
acknowledging, affirming
we are a part
we are needed
we can be more
we thank our lucky stars
and go to sleep dreaming of
making the plane
meeting deadlines
some doors closed
some opened
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Here is my fake smile. God to God
who, saw into places like what's behind the seats of this Angel’s ballpark.
You who was watching out for dog chasers or for what Strings together a home run ball
now you left me running down the sidewalk, alone, you can still sit with me any time or awhile, later
in Life when I drink, and laugh if when Dad did or didn't get up
nice one ok the jokes over now get up...
(Did It Yourself, DIY,n't ya) thinking
to set up in the checkers seats, you think
I brought me a son to the ballpark to play with on in that way
a Hotday flaked off made a fool of everyone,
with my youth clouds and rain
rain washed on your face, running down.
There is no food to touch on that day, I remembered
just your cracked lips from the drink I’ve handed him.
Swallowing just made the U.S.A.., in the molten seas
door prizes the gags are funny, now
as prayer promises me for those old and sick are easier to believe.
Here is a boy, who named Me once, called me a smile in High C,
who would to you also make
All the WORLDS chests to ache, close all those best things
Whose in so many partials as thoughts are worn out.
I cringe where you go to the loudest places you’ve ever been alone
something you set out to do on your own, saying I can't breathe In or outside your old country home, sooo American,
in those places nobody else can see,
I too was passing away, once
back at the blue sky in that mile marker, of a fading flag
So practiced was I
laughing on and on and on over the tearing
listening to your dancing insides,
to a bouncer who just got named,
the easy mile madness to say upon me rests
hoped bones flung afar in its Faked opening.
Stop over to the yards in Virginia,
who are just towering to Clouds, whose in His corners ships are building, the Summers left squinting
hanging any of her tangled hair in my eyes,
the frontal bow
she has gripped my handle hard
as fooseball, my yes
my yes
are telling they can better than anyone where its shots going.
So over and over,
high tides are over.
across the dying waves I am dreaming
Over there to you on Earth in my deck chair
old stanza over takes me, now with my last
Electric slide took me to wood blocks, I pick
Or thrust the organ pedals apart
Kick between you and search knots to hold
The grey granite sounds close in and around
The pretty World in space of a battled ship Calisp.
Here is Virgina- flower!
you there covered - floor me
and blow into her to chase me, she likes me, in Paris
Dusting in the forest – and useless – I stand alone there.
If you are playing o’er thar a sand bottom or sand bank
she blows to me
a white lili in the afternoon
and If you are listening you now will
Still and still be thar sitting up in your cot.
Chasing her,
escaped to leave here, her
Floats down the silvery drain
failed in healing - Its barely white...
was her and milks the sails
have covered her barely and wet
We all went to sink with.
She is me, asking do you fend off the sea
Or does if feed off your Salvaged years (my own dead reckoning).
My hurting sunset eye bleeding into her
Always painting back to places as Greece like nothing can.
As white as a favoring wind, a high C blows
The pan flute scour and blanket your flower I am back to hold your craft and pull you to me.
Flesh of mine, your cotton white, dresses the heat amid a hot summer nights dreaming over and over
She is a ship I sank into.
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Not only did he leave
the door unlatched
in his haste to retreat,
he left it open -
allowing all
manner of uninvited ill and evil
to enter my space.
I trusted
in his so-good intentions
and, mostly, they were
So good, until
he veered off course
blindly driven
by a violent surge of vengeful passion
that swept all reasoned purpose
aside
spinning us both around.
Unhinged
he was
swinging wildly
with each new shift in current,
first this way,
then that.
Rushing in one moment,
flying out, the next,
then turning back again.
An open, unlatched door
made easy,
unobstructed
that dizzying confusion of his
Until I tried to shut him out
only then discovering
the lock had seized up
Leaving me
to question
whether now
my heart lies halfway open
or halfway closed.
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We didn't have a place to live.
My father quit his job again
We were house hunting
As he scrambled for
his sanity..
Underground
St. James was our next stop.
We never did end up living there.
Still, the house was clean
Pretty to look at
Too good to be true.
Unbelievable
The structure stood one hundred years
Laughter found in every room
The yellow wallpaper peeled in the corner
A diamond grew where a doorknob once stood
Hope everlasting filled my young heart
Unloved
"I don't like this house."
"The wallpaper's too bright"
"I hate my life."
"It's all your fault I can't keep a job"
"Unlock this door or I'll knock it down for you"
Unlatched |
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Her name rests in my palm
A stroke, and five words wrestle with my day
Once again she blows confusion through common sense
Just five words, a cold statement of fact and
I’m left with the optician’s question
Better , or worse?
Walking to meet her feels like watching a kettle boil
Feet that cannot walk fast enough
lose the race to a foolish heart that’s already resting at her feet
Her slender fingers slipping through
the unhinged door she left behind two years ago
All too soon I see her
hand held across her eyes shielding the sun
I picture Rommel sighting the enemy through Ziess binoculars
I try to show indifference but the heart commands my mouth to smile
It’s been a week of sunshine and her arms are flooded with freckles
lines from my first poem of adoration spring from memory
“if all is all ,and life plays fair
I’ll kiss each freckle that you wear”
She speaks and screws fall from hinges long since seized
Small talk skips the gap between us
My bubble of contentment explodes into a thousand rainbows
We sit at opposite ends of the spectrum
She, taking the lead in a dance of friendship
as I bury love beneath a genuine smile
and eyes that dare not meet hers
And those freckles, damn those beautiful freckles
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It has the eye and the finger of old farmhouse
many layers of pale green paint
not too recently applied
and wrinkled in that time
Someone had been locked in
for a very long while
by a most curious door
bolted from the outside
He was not a builder by trade
a farmer who assembled a family house
never mind the arrangement of the door hardware
or was it the need to later change uses of the room
Maybe now
maybe just now
the confined has feebled away
from her yellow green past
beyond the forgotten latch
Who was it forgot
after all this time
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We walk, we watch
the silhouette of the new moon in our dreams
the memory of the perfect kiss
dancing so near our lips we shiver
we open and close doors
while we wait for the hands
that will fully caress our drums
that will draw the sounds out of our skins
effortlessly
sweet
like the nectar of honeysuckle from the tip of its flowers
the warm whisper of a summer wind in our bare necks
soft
as the linen shirt I will borrow from you someday
We live, we wait
you and I
for the mountains of moments
that will pass
before all of it happens
before our bodies collide
before the song of us begins
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The door is open, dear
And it is time for you to go
Do not be afraid, do not
Be afraid for beyond is
The life you hoped for
And the love you wanted
The door is open, dear
And this heartbreak will
Be mended in the usual way:
Infants playing and friends
Passing a bottle of wine
To fill our cups, toasting
The miracle that we are
Still alive. But you, dear
Have nothing left to toast.
All is as must be, free
From the blackened ruins
Of your past and your
Guilt, laid to rest in the
Flame that scorched you
Clean, sacrificial
Offering. Unable to
Give one hug or even touch
your burnt flesh, I stand whispering
By your hospital bed,
Prayers for your swift ascent,
The last words you will hear
From me: The door is open, dear.
Go home.
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This door wants to look beautiful
in its sleep, and show off its knob
in the dark, a diamond gleam.
The foot of the door wants to sleep.
Back and forth it struggles, let’s
put up for the night and sleep.
The foot is heavy with sleep.
As is the key hole’s eye.
It begs a lid to fall down
and everything outside it
collapse into sleep.
Like snow when it’s blown
into the doorstep’s corners.
A blanket pulled over the day.
A lamp turned out before bed.
This door could be the sky
collapsing into frigidity.
Only stars stay awake in the cold.
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Old stones, you know so much
say so little, for I will not listen
I take too much comfort
in my own voice, youthful and rebellious
I have my own ideals, and confounded beliefs,
do nothing but talk while you listen
but not to me, not to us humans
What do you hear in those subtle vibrations
for what song do you sit
so long and so still?
When you do speak, the wisdom locked
within your skull of limestone, granite, and quartz
is let out with a great bellow
And all the metal monuments I have built
as a testament to my fledgling knowledge
will bow |
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A disconnect occurs
between myself and the door.
My hand curls over the knob
makes a heart shape of flesh.
I never knew how we were -
how we were not isomorphic.
The chipping of paint only
pulls us farther apart,
as the idea of flaws make
us remember our own. Blows the little things
out of proportion.
I am afraid to be myself,
to unhook my legs from the frozen floor
and dance like a mop;
to eat sloppily with my hands,
covered in differences. |
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… one day the book looks back at you
from somewhere in the middle of the story
while your eye glides along,
never pausing
as if this will go on forever....
I couldn't decipher
a single word, page after page
in a language I didn't recognize, letters
painted with strokes of grainy ink
ground from lampblack and cuttlefish,
on vellum and parchment
from hides soaked for weeks,
polished with pumice—
letters brushed with water
onto a soft cream page...
...the book begins
with a hand-written sentence
on the front cover—words
crowd margin to margin
verbs pause, sound of e
in mute and elegant
I imagine the tale ending
in the middle of a sentence
on the back cover...
…suddenly you rise amid the pages
and walk slowly to the door…
I can't promise to return
like a dream of salmon passing
under a wooden bridge
or a handful
of flute-notes out of nowhere…
maybe in memories torn out of a book
or on the salty squirming tail of a poem
I was lucky enough to catch…
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