haikuish or shortish, 3

walking on water
          try it and you get wet socks...
then comes the laundry

haikuish or shortish, 2

clear night sky
     our breaths rise
          to the thousand wishes
          burning overhead

throwaway poetry project, 6

i watch my children play in snow

it's wondrous stuff,
and beautiful,
with a weight
and the white
that lies right on the
dead earth.
they throw it up
over their heads
and let it come down
all around them.
they twirl in the flakes.
rediscovering each other,
they launch an assault,
the soft balls
falling from their bodies,
indistinguishable
on the drifts.
tiring of this,
they decide
to create
a man,
rolling up the parts,
and fashioning him
just exactly
the same
as them.
they come in from the snow
triumphant.
they watch over the man
through the windows,
all smiles
and red cheeks.
under the moon
i see him relax
back into the
white blanket,
loosing the parts
and stretching out,
indistinguishable
on the ground.

throwaway poetry project, 5

when writing an old-fashioned poem,

if you need to rhyme something with "orange,"

don't fret!  it's not true!

there's a word you can use!

there's a part of a plant called a "sporange!"

in similar cases of stymied poetics,

there's something for "purple's" defeating phonetics!

a word from the Scots,

it describes the lame hops

of one injured in rowdy athletics.

sporange:  

1. In botany, the case or sac in plants in which the spores, which are equivalent to the seeds of flowering plants, are produced or carried. Also sporangium.© The Philip Lief Group Inc.

hurple:

1. (Scottish) An impediment similar to a limp.-- Wiktionary
*note: does not pertain only to limps resulting from athletic injuries - ha

throwaway poetry project, 4

"my body is all eyes!"
and i know the god
of you

when they close
i tell myself there's
god there, too


*quote: Eliade's Shamanism (290), from an Inuit shaman's song

throwaway poetry project, 3

new post!
true post.
a blog
of logs,
cut through
rings of things
already past.
a mess of holes,
thirty-six poles,
it's an unfinished fence
leading nowhere fast,
charting only the bounds
of a soul territory --
the flags of times
lived in a single
life story.

throwaway poetry project, 2

zounds!
the hounds sound
hollow 'cross the heather.
walking there 'neath
violet clouds, swearing
violent weather,
a wind sends my cap
aloft and down, tipping
in a puddle.
tripping after o'er
the grassy mounds, my
fingers drip a wet hat red –
and strewth! there by my cap
i found blue figures in
the slipp'ry mud!
'sblood!

throwaway poetry project, 1

grass all yellow dry,
old and brittle,
folded, the kindled
flame dancing
Shiva for a fresh
earth, ash and
dirt, new shoot
cradle pinned in
old world vintage
photographs --
dead grass,
resurrected,
laughs

     I live in my mother's house.  She's gone.  Everyone I grew up with is gone.

     Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and my husband and I are packing up the kids and going to his grandmother's house.  Along with his grandparents, we'll be joining his mom, brother, aunt, uncle, great aunt, cousins, and all of the people who come with them.  This will be my second Thanksgiving with my husband's family.   Before last year, I cooked dinner with my mom.   Before then, my mom and I visited our family in Illinois.

     When I think of holiday dinners past, I'm at my grandmother's house, sitting around a table with Junior, Eric, Derek, Carol Ann, Wayne, Jan, Bob, Ron, my mom and Grandma Webb.  Ajax is under the table.   My great grandmother, Grandma Rose, is in the back bedroom, in a hospital-style bed.   I can't remember a time when she wasn't sleeping, but there are pictures of her holding me as a baby.  And once, I saw her open her eyes, just for a second.  They were bright, bright blue.   I was so shocked, and scared to see them.

     Grandma Rose was the first to die. And rightly so – she was very old, and very tired.   Then Ajax.   I had known him since he was a puppy.   Then Junior.  Then Bob.  Then Grandma Webb, Ron, and Carol Ann.   And then my mom.

     When I think of holiday dinners now, I'm sitting at that table, alone.  Grandma and Grandpa Webb are smiling inside of their big, pastel portrait over the piano.  Jesus is watching me from all angles, out of the eyes of paintings and figurines.  For one of her last birthdays, my mom and her brothers and sister bought Grandma a tall, glass, corner case for the big Jesus and all of the angels.   It lights up from the inside, making it look like the dining room shares a glass door border with Heaven.   On my side, small, framed photographs line the rest of the shelves and cabinets.  There are pictures of my mom as a little girl, and even one of me.   Even one of Ajax.   I can feel the shag carpeting beneath my feet, where he used to lay and wait for bits of food.  That ancient, brown carpet goes all through the house – there's a path worn into the next room, where the weather channel is blaring.

     My grandmother was near deaf.  In fact, at holiday dinners, the rest of the family would make good-humored jokes at her expense from behind their napkins, so she couldn't read their lips.  I never did, though, because I was sure she would be able to hear me, somehow.

     The rest of the house is deadly quiet.  The table is all clear – except for Junior's special napkin and spoon.  The spoon is too big for anyone to use without needing a special napkin, paralyzed or not.

     When we were all here together, everyone had a good time.  We just talked, and laughed, and ate, and played rummy.   My family loved cards.  I won our big game of rummy once.  I was so surprised and proud at my sheer dumb luck that my mom had to remind me of how impolite it is to brag.

     I feel so much a part of that memory.  My roots run all through it – around the table legs, under the shag carpeting, and down, through the basement and into the foundation below that old, oval table.  I go with my husband now, and feel so grateful to have such kind and wonderful in-laws, but when I think of holiday dinners, I'm still at that table, remembering the feeling of being surrounded by those faces, and feeling the weight of our family ghosts.

october air is thin.
my steps fall heavier.
shadows hang lower
and lower, just over my head.
you can't look them in the face.
they just watch, maybe touch
your hair.  it's hard to tell.


i had a tea party
in a yellow field
full of empty spaces.
the tea got cold
faster than i was 
expecting.  

one by one

i caught those loose

dancing skeleton men

and folded their bones

into the earth

planted roses in the dirt

better a garden

than a graveyard

i don't visit ever

sometimes i pass by

and it surprises me

how it's still alive

untended

how dense the greens

and dark the reds

origami

(a poem for children)

walking up the path

i found a great

paper house

astounding!

surrounded by folded

ferns and cedars

delicate cranes

and swans

and geese

hanging stars

swayed overhead

a slender boat rested

on rustling waves

and inside the house

were tables

and lamps

bowls

and boxes

and books

i unfolded them all

til morning

ah!

the sea of paper!

a mountain of

identical sheets!

and laughing

i reached

for the walls

with my own

creased

hands

the finished series:

stages of living

one

two

three

eighty-two

one evening

sitting alone inside

i caught a lit up stirring

below the dimness

of my mind

and turned in

and in

the cooling violet rivers

pooling around the pillars

still bent beneath

such heavy flesh

the sacrifice

left

behind

an older woman

new widow

maybe fifty to sixty

speaks to me

the lines on her papery skin

folding delicately

around every expression

careful illustrations for the twists

and tones of her story

nearly done

until she suddenly

implores of me

her age

demanding

that i guess

then interjecting

that No One

Ever

Guesses

Over

Forty.

mid-to-late thirties

perhaps

she hears the most

she sweated herself down to zero

percent body fat

wears the most fashionable clothes

and spends a fortune on her hair

but the men around here

only want a girl who's

twenty-two

she says

but those aren't really men

anyway

she says

and i wonder

who's making those men?

our boys

surely

we must have

some say

in it

a pome for Matt Rox and his cat, Acheron - hehe.

(inspired by Matt's love haiku for Ach)

Acheron, hell cat,

stenching sulfur tail

flicks

through tobacco

vapour trails,

stroking neon shapes

in darkness:

Love. Matt.

sketches on births

drums / the party going down in my soul

Takanakapsaluk, Mother of the Sea Beasts

Love

stabs me

from the inside out

as Manjushri's flaming swords

from the whites of Christ's seven eyes

and the next time it happens

i'll take two

and put my own eyes out

so i never fall asleep again

but always See

You

and

Me

and

Us

and

All

the beautiful

blinding Divine

shaman with drum

prepared for journey to the underworld

borders

snaking through

a bluegreen world

thrushes cluster

on a wire

family of Self portrait

self portrait 6/15/10

what a fuckup

skipping stones on a block

of asphalt

diving through

a dirt crack

in perfect form

the perfect ripples

of the heat

and beautiful shimmering

black tar ooze

vanished in the placid pool

dirty concrete tomb

drunken limerick U.S.A.

the gods here resemble confetti

the heroes? alarmingly petty

an abysmal abyss

full of ashes and piss

sucking in souls like spaghetti

at our wedding

when i walk to you

alone

and smile at all of the faces

i have come to know

and dearly love

on your side of the aisle

i want to glance at my side

just before i reach you

i want to glance

at a row of chairs on my side

for the dead

alcohol ink and STAMPS!

hehe

alcohol ink and alcohol ink blotter fuzz!

...and that was the end of my zebra pen ink.

"______"

why is it that there is

always

one bird singing at night?

as if he doesn't realize that his voice carries

for yards

like someone who doesn't know

that the whole house can hear you

when you sing in the shower

this is awkward.

i feel embarrassed for him.

i imagine him

in the daytime

listening to the other little birds

calling back and forth

having their little bird conversations

he's sitting in

and waiting for just the right moment

feels the adrenaline rush

his feathers fluff up

there's a sharp intake of air

and his chest puffs out

just as all the little birds fly away

a social reject bird.

it's sad.

now his song is halting

testing

as if to say

what's so bad about this, anyway?

it lapses into a trailing

lonely monotone

before he seems to

muster up some faith

and tries to sing again

i decide that we are more alike than not

as i suck the night air in

and watch the end of my cigarette burn

knock the ashes to the ground

mulling over conversations

i didn't have

words

i didn't get the chance to speak

but the bird defeats me

he is, at least, singing out loud

i hear you.

**

yes, a bird poem. ...it's like emily dickenson with bumblebees, except that it's everyone with birds. but this really happened. ;)

a divinely savage blow of pneumonia

and you were gone

it was a twelve hour death

two days after you met our newborn son

mother

take me back!

a fallen hero

cursed child mother of children

let us live in a land of ghosts

a cypress grove

dreamless fetal sleep

in folded boughs

our embryos

my molecules dissolve

into white light

with you