I am trying to get more confident in my language and more in depth with my meaning of each piece.
Last assignment I turned in "The Fallen"
I am always thankful for what readers have to say about my work and it helps me in my final decision on which one to turn in. Thanks all!!
Also I believe I did not tell you which word list poem I ended up picking.. I turned in "Release" and it was workshopped in class. My Prof. had a lot of good to say about this one and it really encouraged me to start being bolder with my language.
Poem #1—
Generational Likeness
Riddled in perplexities—
lost in mid-stream.
A voice, not his, calls to me
from the current
of the Mississippi.
The prismatic clears,
the abysmal blues,
and the pine staked greens
ripple across the driftwood
like anatomy.
The ice of my plea—
lost in mid-stream.
A girl of innocent lace,
threaded in the rigor mortis
of bloated wool,
attaches herself to the touch
of his last clipped curl
between fingers
of living flesh.
My identity—
lost in mid-stream.
A place holder
of pages—ripped from his anthologies
float in a basin of sulfuric acid
eating the meat:
of each word,
of each moment forward,
and of each lucid flash back.
The sparrow, perched alone—
lost in mid-flight.
I am awakened
by the salty touch
of a child,
and the face
of a child,
and the face
of the deceased.
Poem #2—
Variegation
The variegated yarn,
worsted wool
is like the seasons
of my soul.
A multiple ply
combined to make
one whole skein.
The muddy rust
bleeds into the cauliflower cream.
The turquoise pops
next to the dying grey.
It is the ring I wore
at 15
the year
my brother died.
It is the exact textile
of his curly nap
brushed
into a soft fuzz.
It is the lilac purple
of the receiving blanket
my daughter was wrapped in
when I was 28.
It is the muted blue
over the brown
of her
baby eye.
It is the auburn
of my husbands hair
at my grandfathers funeral
when I was 31.
It is the green of his Class A’s
and the pink of his eye
when the tear trembled at the brim
during taps.
It is the Antiqued
sequins
last year
in my sister’s bridal gown.
It is the black
of my mascara
meeting my quivering lip
as I toast
for peace and bliss.
The crimson reds
fade out of the flesh tone tans.
The greys
liven
the whites.
A skein
broken into plies
to piece out
the threads
of my soul.
My seasons
like worsted wool
are the variegated me.
Poem #3—
John
“It didn’t take much.” John said to me.
“Just a moment, when the fibers frayed
and life became fabrication.”
“I just left, mid-shift:
my job, my wife, my kids.”
The lunacy flickered in his callow eye,
the twitch of his lip, roughly twisted into a smile.
He
stands
in
line.
Counting
tin
foil
pans
by
ten.
The “clients” around him—
mentally disabled.
Mary—
rocks back and forth
muttering inaudible words under her breath.
Her eyes cast about, assiduous, diligent
untiring,
like a spy?
Rubel—
repeats my name
“Amber” 3 times.
“Did-you-know-Amber-is-a-yellowish-brown?
Amber, Amber, Amber
is-a-female-name. Tiffany-Amber-Thiessen! She-played-on-Saved-by-the-Bell I-saw-her-on-the-bus she-said-hi-to-me-she-is-so pretty-I-love-her-do-you-love-me? Amber, Amber, Amber is-a-fossil resin and-it-is-in a-song…”
He sings to me,
no longer
running on
“…amber waves of grain…”
Ray—
with poor English whispers
“I Love you”
3 meters from my face.
“Be careful,” they told me,
“One innocent gesture
can become
a love affair
in their world.”
Doc—
at 12:03 takes cover under his work table
“It’s Charlie!”
He screams
holding each palm
of his hand
to each ear.
At 12:21 he emerges
as if he had bent down
to tie his shoe.
Mark—
sits alone
with a black crayon
slashing
slashing
slashing, through barcodes
of crest. His face pinches,
contorts, as his eyes disappear
into his wrinkled
quivering
cheeks.
Salty droplets from his nose
crash
onto his work table.
“NO! I can’t do this!”
His bellowing sob of angst is like a whale song
to a mother’s breast.
His cries cease.
He is slashing
slashing
slashing
once more.
John interrupts, “They count,
they sort, they slash
I supervise.”
“Just one more promotion,
then I can leave.”
John’s smile
in his voice,
tells me—
“I can just leave, mid-shift:
no longer a ‘client’ of insanity.”
Poem #4—
Memorial
The Southern Red
and Scarlet Oak trees,
are nothing like the Weeping
Willow
of my memories.
The Lavender
and Wormwood herbs,
are nothing like the crystalized
hash
of his pipe.
Hannah Street
and Duane Drive addresses,
are nothing like Greenlawn
Memorial Park—
Plot number 74865316.
February 15th
and April 1st days,
are—
like the child birthed,
and the teen found dead.
Poem #5—
Mollification
My thirst
for the poisonous spoilage
mollifies the suffering
of my tongue. It does not quench
my pain. It does not stifle
my thirst.
The penis between
my thighs
mollifies the suffering
of my womb. Still unable
to moisten
my thirst.
Ink blots of mascara
cascading my shower wall
mollifies the suffering
of my depredation. Like my delusion
of a bourbon tongue
my thirst
mollifies the suffering.
Poem #6—
Reticence
My reticence fades
as the candied skull eyes
fix on me.
Cashmere quills
morph into flesh
my reticence fades
with bleeding words.
My own lip
fixes me.
A caddy Hatter, with childlike
chatter, with my vomit—
my reticence fades.
I am the slayer—in defense.
Words of abuse
have fixed me.
I believe
I am nothing.
My reticence must fade
to fix me.
Poem #2—
Variegation
The variegated yarn,
worsted wool
is like the seasons
of my soul.
A multiple ply
combined to make
one whole skein.
The muddy rust
bleeds into the cauliflower cream.
The turquoise pops
next to the dying grey.
It is the ring I wore
at 15
the year
my brother died.
It is the exact textile
of his curly nap
brushed
into a soft fuzz.
It is the lilac purple
of the receiving blanket
my daughter was wrapped in
when I was 28.
It is the muted blue
over the brown
of her
baby eye.
It is the auburn
of my husbands hair
at my grandfathers funeral
when I was 31.
It is the green of his Class A’s
and the pink of his eye
when the tear trembled at the brim
during taps.
It is the Antiqued
sequins
last year
in my sister’s bridal gown.
It is the black
of my mascara
meeting my quivering lip
as I toast
for peace and bliss.
The crimson reds
fade out of the flesh tone tans.
The greys
liven
the whites.
A skein
broken into plies
to piece out
the threads
of my soul.
My seasons
like worsted wool
are the variegated me.
Poem #3—
John
“It didn’t take much.” John said to me.
“Just a moment, when the fibers frayed
and life became fabrication.”
“I just left, mid-shift:
my job, my wife, my kids.”
The lunacy flickered in his callow eye,
the twitch of his lip, roughly twisted into a smile.
He
stands
in
line.
Counting
tin
foil
pans
by
ten.
The “clients” around him—
mentally disabled.
Mary—
rocks back and forth
muttering inaudible words under her breath.
Her eyes cast about, assiduous, diligent
untiring,
like a spy?
Rubel—
repeats my name
“Amber” 3 times.
“Did-you-know-Amber-is-a-yellowish-brown?
Amber, Amber, Amber
is-a-female-name. Tiffany-Amber-Thiessen! She-played-on-Saved-by-the-Bell I-saw-her-on-the-bus she-said-hi-to-me-she-is-so pretty-I-love-her-do-you-love-me? Amber, Amber, Amber is-a-fossil resin and-it-is-in a-song…”
He sings to me,
no longer
running on
“…amber waves of grain…”
Ray—
with poor English whispers
“I Love you”
3 meters from my face.
“Be careful,” they told me,
“One innocent gesture
can become
a love affair
in their world.”
Doc—
at 12:03 takes cover under his work table
“It’s Charlie!”
He screams
holding each palm
of his hand
to each ear.
At 12:21 he emerges
as if he had bent down
to tie his shoe.
Mark—
sits alone
with a black crayon
slashing
slashing
slashing, through barcodes
of crest. His face pinches,
contorts, as his eyes disappear
into his wrinkled
quivering
cheeks.
Salty droplets from his nose
crash
onto his work table.
“NO! I can’t do this!”
His bellowing sob of angst is like a whale song
to a mother’s breast.
His cries cease.
He is slashing
slashing
slashing
once more.
John interrupts, “They count,
they sort, they slash
I supervise.”
“Just one more promotion,
then I can leave.”
John’s smile
in his voice,
tells me—
“I can just leave, mid-shift:
no longer a ‘client’ of insanity.”
Poem #4—
Memorial
The Southern Red
and Scarlet Oak trees,
are nothing like the Weeping
Willow
of my memories.
The Lavender
and Wormwood herbs,
are nothing like the crystalized
hash
of his pipe.
Hannah Street
and Duane Drive addresses,
are nothing like Greenlawn
Memorial Park—
Plot number 74865316.
February 15th
and April 1st days,
are—
like the child birthed,
and the teen found dead.
Poem #5—
Mollification
My thirst
for the poisonous spoilage
mollifies the suffering
of my tongue. It does not quench
my pain. It does not stifle
my thirst.
The penis between
my thighs
mollifies the suffering
of my womb. Still unable
to moisten
my thirst.
Ink blots of mascara
cascading my shower wall
mollifies the suffering
of my depredation. Like my delusion
of a bourbon tongue
my thirst
mollifies the suffering.
Poem #6—
Reticence
My reticence fades
as the candied skull eyes
fix on me.
Cashmere quills
morph into flesh
my reticence fades
with bleeding words.
My own lip
fixes me.
A caddy Hatter, with childlike
chatter, with my vomit—
my reticence fades.
I am the slayer—in defense.
Words of abuse
have fixed me.
I believe
I am nothing.
My reticence must fade
to fix me.
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