Turning

I don’t understand 

  the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

       in one place.

  There is comfort

in an open door,

       a closed door--

  knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

       of somewhere.

  But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

       unsure when to exit.

  Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

       by the man two slots

  ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

       held together 

  by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

       I can’t decide if I  should follow him

or if he is following me.

Still Life

Fat fountain

becomes tilted jug,

spills water turned 

to wine by evening light

across concrete tablecloth.

Glass towers are bottles sparkling 

with reflections.

Sphere of setting sun,

an unpeeled orange.

No hand disturbs

the scene where silence slithers

between dishes set

for one. From the window, 

landscape is still life.

Changing Lanes

In the express lane, I frantically

count items. Ten only, ten only.

If I have eleven, will the clerk notice?

Will she humiliate me, declare

a bunch of grapes, a thousand items?

Store’s so hot,

the guy ahead of me steams.

Behind me, a woman with a dozen eggs

(how many items is that?)

shifts a baby from hip to hip.

The kid reaches for my hair with sticky fingers.

Grapes, toilet paper, bread, milk and peanut butter.

Lean Cuisine, mayonnaise, head of lettuce.

Can of peas, can of beans, shampoo.

Eleven essentials. One extra item,

only one. Let go of my hair!

As the clerk calls me next,

I change lanes.

On the freeway,

trapped between a Toyota

and a semi, I squint 

at the exit sign 300  yards ahead.

Names of streets

are doing a hula in the hot, yellow haze.

I turn on my signal,

squeeze a inch forward,

sneak a glance at the driver

in the turquoise Corolla.

He plays I Don’t See You,

keeps edging forward.

---he wants to shift left,

                   I want to shift right---

this ought to be easy.

Eggs over easy, one wrong move

wrecks breakfast. I hold my breath,

change lanes.

Home. Alone. Haven from choices.

No question where to park

in a one car garage.

Microwave Alfredo, peas in a sauce pan,

sit down to Judge Judy

in the only good chair.

I know this routine, bless its sweet boredom.

Tension uncoils as I sip my iced tea.

I pick up the frame,

study your photo, crinkles of laughter

framing your eyes. 

A picture in winter, still tanned from summer,

hair turning two-tone, still darker than mine.

I stick out my tongue--

half in jest , half in earnest--

at the face and its challenge to all I hold dear.

What the hell, one more time.

I’m changing lanes.

Pears

Lemons

Apples

Fruits

A new series of art images

Green Eyes

Happy Passings

in the South

we always say someone has passed

it’s a much kinder phrase than death

as a child I always imagined

the deceased drifting by

passing us as a parade float might

we could stand and watch

them smile and wave

on their way out of our everyday world

that’s why we were dressed up

because it was a party and afterwards 

people brought cake to the house

my grandmother passed

and in time my parents too

took that Rose Parade journey

though by that time I no longer expected

passing to be an occasion of joy

even if we do wrap it in flowers

the pageantry of death is grim

no bright streamers or balloons,

no raucous music with drums

we dress somberly

we speak softly as if we are trying

to keep the secret of their death from them

most often it is raining

though I have no idea

why that should be true

I rather hope the parade starts on the other side

that someone is as happy 

to see them arrive

as we are sad to see them go

that they get their brass band

and the chance to ride 

in the crepe paper carriage

my childhood fantasy

never followed the procession

farther than my own field of vision

the march was all about me waving goodbye

so where the passing ended up

was a just great mystery

it still is

pastel graphic portrait

Dream Pilot

the moon tumbles

into the refuse bin of morning

all dreams both large and small

contain a splinter

of truth, a chink of reality

which is why the comb 

seems to pull 

certain strands of light

from my hair as I blink

before the mirror

I spent the night flying--

a kite dragged across the sky

by an unseen string

dipping and curving, occasionally 

crashing back into my bed

in a dazed heap

of glowing sheets, luminous

pillows

I pick up my toothbrush

half-expecting 

to be pulled up through the ceiling

Drawing Blood

This won’t hurt a bit, they tell you

as they strangle your arm 

with a rubber tourniquet,

 begin slapping your flesh

to raise a vein.

The needle is small, as if to say 

Don’t fear my bite 

but I always look away at that point

I know it will burn, 

know they will likely withdraw,

stick again,

apologize

It’s like that

Don’t be fooled by cliche promises

Eat your vegetables and you’ll grow up tall.

study hard and you’ll succeed,

cheaters never win

Why can’t they just tell you

you’ll be a pint low after this

but don’t worry

there’s always more blood where this came from

And the series continues

one more....

These are proving to be quite fun.

More "Fema Art"

Art in works

I am working on a full series of art poster images created from Fema markings  on walls of homes post-Katrina in New Orleans. I think it would be cool to create something beautiful out of something intrinsically ugly. Here is an example of what I am going for.

Sunflowers in Glass

windows

titleless

Cold  hours

hugging the dark

Rainforest thunder, 

its grumbling bark

Morning runs barefoot

in the sleepwalk grasses

Sun thrusts fingers

through bird-studded branches

Dreams undress,

shed their meaning

I open my eyes

and hear the bread singing

Hopping on the poetry bus

From Karen's prompt: write about school or schooling

I walked home from school

in the days when a child could still do that

in the days before 

the wall-mounted telephone

fell in to disrepute

I carried my books in a plastic satchel

It was plaid with a red handle

and a metal clasp that looked like brass

but wasn’t

All the houses I passed on my 4 block trek 

were either white or gray

except one

tiny pink shotgun 

with a tumble-down porch

and screens full of holes

The lady there didn’t like kids 

to cut across her yard

with its patches of brown grass

sprinkled between the weeds

She glared

from the kitchen window

and sometimes

knocked on the glass

so I  would cross over to the other side of the road and quicken my steps till I was past that house

I crossed the street

without a crossing guard,

I walked home from school sometimes alone

or else I rode my bike

barefoot and without a helmet

with no fear at all

but for an old woman in a sad pink house

on a corner lot

of an old shell road

in a little town

were everyone knew my name

Title before the Poem/Egg before the Chicken???

I have this unfortunate talent for discovering a title before I can fully imagine the poem that goes with it. I woke up yesterday with such a title and ever since have been trying to come up with an opening line. Anyone else have this problem? Or am I uniquely insane?

Loved this One

I loved this. Funny and yet also beautiful.

been breathing too many fumes running after the poetry bus

Name on the Wall

graffiti

Babilu

Some workshopping going on on Babilu this week. Really gets to blood pounding.

Rising Sunflower

Secret countries rival

between the long-legged trees

crowned  with sunbursts,

the happiest orange

This field, 

a world enough of color

to overshadow all 

the dark-damp ground below

One head nods above, petals spread 

like arms of rising sun

Nautilus

A folded heart

thrown down on the sand

like abandoned love,

an exquisite exoskeleton:

its graceful curves

wrapped tight as fingers

in a worn-out glove

New poems

For the longest now I have posted more visual art than poetry. It is addictive working with images, deciding what they are after they are finished. It is a bit like automatic writing. I think I need to  put my pen to paper just move it around and around and see what emerged. For starters I am going to try to make poems to fit the images I have been posting. Lets see what happens.

Fresco

Perfect Sunset

Gems

Gems

Turquoise waves rushing ashore

evolve into emerald

when viewed from the long pier

The midday sky is sapphire, cloudless;

the sun, a hot gold coin 

with ruby edges

Gulls skim the surf, shaking 

diamond drops from their wings

and come to rest 

on sand so pale and shimmering,

the grains can be no less

than tiny seeds of pearl

A Study in Textures

Access and Barriers

Billion Dollar Sand Castle

Broken Shells

Sky and Surf

The Long Pier

Pensacola Moon

Islamorada Queen

Sunset at Islamorada

Hibiscus/Key West

Florida

Totally loving this trip. Expect pictures later.

Florida

Sitting in a hotel in Tallahassee listening to my husband snore. A long long day of driving and another tomorrow but great friends waiting at the end.

Visits

Had a great visit with my sister-in-law and her husband. And now we are eagerly getting ready for our Florida trip!!!

Rising Sunflower

Brown-eyed Susans

Eyes of Day

An old one

The daisy facts made me remember an old poem I wrote. It related to a list a friend gave me explaining the Victorian "symbolism of flowers" There was a whole list: a tulip, especially a yellow one meant deception. Foxgloves indicated infidelity. Accepting a flower with the right or left hand expressed a positive or negative response to a suitor. Hibiscus indicated desire; pansies, suspicion; daisies, dissembling. It was a very detailed code that everyone had to understand if they were to cultivate or give flowers. I found it  amusing as well as poetic.

The Symbolism of Flowers

Eyes of day, white-petaled

dissemblers. He loves me-loves me not,

with all those tactile promises.

And in their midst, a tulip

as yellow as a caution sign.

So much for the symbolism of flowers.

I carry my cuttings inside

and tell myself if he reaches

to take them with his right hand

that means yes, the left means no.

But he doesn’t look up from his copy

of Car and Driver.

In my youth I tucked pink hibiscus

behind my ear to signify

an amorous mood. In time

I pinned forget-me-nots

over my middle-aged heart. Lately

I cultivate pansies and suspicion.

I fancy he has slipped on foxgloves.

But perhaps it is just indifference.

I might be telling the story of a man

who fell asleep in a poppy field and forgot

the lover he was, maker of cardiac cadences.

We continue. We have a license.

I head to the kitchen in search of a vase,

an informal one for simple stems.

There my two-faced daisies litter

the tile in a mute heap,

rendered silent by a single bud.

The language of flowers may be obscure

      but everyone knows what a red rose means.

Facts About Daisies: found poem

Daisy Facts

Offered here with some minor editing

Facts about Daisies

They originated in western Europe

In Scotland they were known as Gools

A man there could be taxed if he had 

too many daisies growing in his fields

They are known to grow wild and cover whole meadows

They are very hardy, often considered a weed

But some people eat daisy leaves in a salad 

or brew herbal tea that is said to be medicinal

Many animals eat daisies but not pigs or cows

They are the eyes of day and grow best in sunlight,

a perennial returning year after year

Daisies bloom in the summer months, 

over 200 types of them: Africans, Shastas, 

Brown-Eyed-Susans and more

Children make daisy chains, girls pluck their petals

“He loves me , he loves me not” as if daisies knew

Legend says their numbers could predict

how long till a maiden wed

After 39 years its seed might still grow

Great one for the 4th

Great one for the 4th in this nation of immigrants.
Thanks, Rus, for this link!


Immigrants Picnic