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