ALL RESPONSES |
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| Trinell Meyer is Gina Kelly's daughter. |
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Look back through glass, at raindrops.
Leave them behind for dry underground.
No ripples. No wet socks or cold feet.
You’re a silhouette, peering into yourself,
A little light that made it through windows.
This time you understand yourself well.
You swim in a lake, and sink until your toes
Touch black, slimy bottom and look up,
To see your face, distorted in waves,
Melting with overhanging firs and pine
And rain clouds that try to cover sun.
Wait a while. This is when visions come. |
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The best shoes ever for kids
brags the Chuck Taylor Converse
All-Star sneakers with soles that last
and uppers constructed of heavy canvas.
Washable high tops cover ankles and socks
so burrs and chiggers won’t needle in.
Shoes cool in their original black color
with white rubber toes that nose wet grass,
that aim into the oom-papa belly
of a dimpled red kickball, that walk
next to you, little sister whose feet
in tennies spank along
the wet sidewalks in the rain,
avoiding angleworms that your fingers
will airlift to the safety of soft dirt.
Come along, little feet strapped in
for the ride by easy-release Velcro belts.
One day, you, too, will be nestled inside
real tie-up shoes with two lines of white Xs
of long laces topped by loops tied, bowed
and knotted over twice.
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The shoes could matter
less, sneakers or ballet.
Stand at puddle’s edge.
Lean over.
See a recognizable world, sort of,
but one you can’t know all the way.
Clouds and sky, trees and birds
flattened out,
but somehow deeper.
The front door is a mirror to
display what’s inside, then
becomes a window for ghost
faces lifting treat bags,
heisting plastic orange pumpkins.
Smiles pepper the image,
thankyous punctuate.
Tonight the mirror world,
meeting the other side,
is happy.
Sugar and chocolate
sweeten the way
into November.
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We set out together
searching for rhyme:
such lofty ambition
for being young
We let our hair fly
We strike a pose
We regard age
as useless
We hang around,
hungry as pulled nails
We find our shadows, soak up
sunlight through a hundred wounds
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We were in the Bavarian Alps.
A lion ran loose.
We were in a house.
We were amazed, something
about heights inspires awe.
Something about color,
sky as frame.
And only six thousand miles away,
our plains, their tall cornstalks.
It turns out
the lion loose wasn’t hungry,
the rooms were at ease,
and nothing can top
the life of a mountain.
We kicked off our sneakers.
Yes, amazed.
Who knows how
thin the membrane–
the remembrance?–
between ourselves and the dead.
They remember nothing
but stone in their hearts,
the layers made by ascending.
The casualness of life
never fazes them,
nor a lion running loose.
We were amazed.
We stayed in the house.
No one but imagination
and hope lived there.
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When she looks at her
reflection
she sees her mother.
When she looks at her mother
she sees only her faults.
When she looks at her
reflection
she sees her mother. |
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When it was my four brothers and me
my head reeled with their noise.
I tried to elude them,
raced down city blocks
but they always followed.
I swerved away on white figure skates
but they flew ahead, hockey sticks
their wings, then returned on licks of ice.
In all the pictures I’m holding a baby
cranking up my heart
like my father’s old cars,
like my mother’s tongue,
carrying babies even though
I didn’t want them.
My brother who fought in Korea and screams at night
lost his job and couldn’t find another.
Take care of him my mother said before she died.
My brother who fought in Vietnam hallucinates faces
in the bushes outside the house where he hides.
Make sure he pays his taxes my father said.
My brother who teaches in China now, was so young
when he stole cars you couldn’t see him driving.
“Make him cut his hair for my funeral,” my mother said.
The brother who marched with me in 68 moved
to the country, leads treks to the Arctic, travels
from wild to wild, forgets the ones left home.
Even though I became a nun
to get away from them,
even though I later married,
even though I had my own children,
they are still
my brother and my brother
and my brother and my brother
and they are still me.
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Thoughts pass through me
into you as the only thing
that is solid. Fate
grown tall as a monster
inflicts its will
upon my life.
It wishes to take you away
make you taller
turn you into a stranger
and no matter how tightly
I cling,
the slow drift of time
must carry you
into another love;
another lifetime.
Will you remember
what you touched here?
The person who forever
tucked you in?
All that is sad and happy
balances
in a sort of requiem,
blades of grass are softly crushed
beneath our bodies
as we sit together; you are so small
your mouth opens and closes
with desire
fascination
Love
awe
the minutes of an hour drop like rain
beating on a body of water
it must join.
I have revelations
you were only a shadow
I thought of; a reflection
of all that is good. |
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I was just wondering if any of you ever put a lit candle in a microwave.
dreamt I prayed and I cried on on on , over in that church.
I had never seen you before. Have you worked all your life?
I’ve never been better, here pretend you don’t know me, as one does for a friend sometimes;
I think I will pretend you are someone else, a name you’ve never been,
How about your from Klaus from Germany?
I am Just in another big city here where anything and nothing is new.
“see that…” there is a bug who is a symphony of music playing)a Wagner epic theme – ,
concentrate on that oven.
I turned it over. how easily is stares up.
a candle is to buoyant/
the flame is to melting/
we are Keeping to the water and away from floating
toward bad apples like us switched at birth,
“more or less,” I said.
let’s go down into your neighbor’s vineyard, tonight:
happiness is up in the trees to climb them, lay down in the leaves
…unless you’re still a virgin.
What a circle they made. they put me down again I can feel me feet.
And it cost them nothing to do/ your legs leads me to the church You want."
at least She uncrossed them correctly.
What a circle I made to take the long way home, I confess the purity beat in my breast / costs me is nothing to do:
“She is the one who leads me to smile. I passed it along to her, my desire!”
my little smile in the corners / What a happy circle it made,
I climbed into her naked mouth, piled the leaves in.
O pain of regrets and at Dawn
squeezes on me as She does
Through my fault, my fault, through my most grievous fault
what had I done! and What had I failed to do. It did. It did.
I bubbled up inside her bursting through.
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Dead people often complain
the rest of us lack the skills
to keep them in the ground
They ready themselves to spend
eternity under memorials, tapping
quiet bone canes against impatience
until we come calling their names,
crying that the weight of memory
is too much for our future to survive
But as the slow caress of years
cultivates and carries our burdens,
we realize it’s not dead old folks
but our children who keep us alive |
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a storm of birds wrests
free from the soft ruffles of
dusk, scattering me |
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Robbing reflection of its light
the glacial chill of early death
spread deep shadows
across her life
Once as child,
again as woman
she dared to step over them –
the ghostly silhouettes of
her involuntary predecessors
laying claim, without malice,
to lives and loves
more rightfully theirs.
She did not seek to be
a shadow-stepper
this two-time beneficiary
of others’ mortal fate
No thief, no murderess,
no adulteress, she
begging forgiveness
for her unbidden thirst for light and life
for the randomness of her place
in the frozen stream of time.
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Stark white of shoelaces
against shiny wet gray pavement.
Purple legs, small feet, standing still,
watching hair flow in wind,
cold, dark day,
holding oneself at the waist,
embrace not out of love but cold.
You hold the reflection of a day kissed by rain.
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