Thursday, September 5, 2013
Oklahoma
I must turn the station
as a mother weeps
for her child.
The lost souls swept
unremittingly
in the blast.
My own woe bleats,
as Miranda’s sublime cry
bray’s out to the crowd.
“Mid-February,” and “only December”
slice into my quivering
disposition—
Miranda and Blake “remember.”
They remember Richie
just as I remember Brandon;
two brothers lost before their time.
Blake is only able to vocalize
one verse, with eyes shut:
“You went away.”
The victims anguish is conveyed,
(the one left to mourn):
It is not clear in his voice,
his strum of the guitar,
nor his words.
It is his intimacy,
and the internal grief
that proclaim his conviction—
and personify mine.
It is not just about a 24 year old young man,
or a 17 year-old boy.
This night,
it is sung for Oklahoma
and the lost children
of the tornado
that took Moore.
Miranda betrays the lyrics,
eyes shuttering
as she releases the words:
“when it’s so close to home.”
The “home” she sings for
is not just a geographic state—
It is also the pith of abandonment.
Maybe it is in the melody,
or the Southern twang:
it could be the simplicity in the lyrics,
or the memory that rests in Christmas day—
that make their voices feel like mine.
The truth, at the core—
the damage.
Unlike a passing tornado,
the fractured foundation
remains.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Agino
He swirls his burgundy glass,
tears fall back
like they always do.
A sunken, foreboding moan
release from his lip.
The spice of the abrusco,
trifle his tongue--
palpitating each pore
of his epithelium.
Brain receptors detonate,
like tannerite
to his passe palate.
It is that bittersweet memory
:the toast,
from the same burgundy glass,
with Elsea Corbin
(who died last November).
Every May 12th
he would uncork a bottle of Agino.
For 57years
they shared the last sip
on their lips.
The notes linger:
like a peppery bouquet,
held by a young girl in white lace.
The notes linger:
like the end key to Canon in D.
The notes linger:
like a samba
across a robust, crystal canvas.
The notes linger:
like the shadow
of an empty, burgundy glass.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar
My next assignment is to pair two known people who you would generally not associate the other with and create an encounter.
Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar
“Aren’t you that Mickey Ninja lady rapper?”
“Oh my gawd!
Crazy Eyes Si?
Darling, darling let me finger
your beard.”
Nicki rakes her long talons
through the brush
of the duck mans
facial mass.
“You know back in Nam
a man’d hafta pay a hooker
5 cents to stroke his beard.
Now ladies be payin me.”
“It’s like a fuzzy, matted,
nappy,
straw set weave.”
Nicki starts dancing around Si,
pink and jade beard hair
bouncing on her head.
“I feel like I am six years old
in Tobago.”
Si grabs the ladies hand,
twirling her bouncing body
off of his desert tan
crinoline tutu.
“I used ta live in a
Winnebago—
Daddy made me dig my own crapper.”
“Me too Papa Smurf, but I said Tobago!”
Winnebago, Tobago,
Tai Chi, Sweet Tea,
same difference
don’t ya think?”
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Peace and War
Peace and War
She was a girl, 18 years old.
It was an innocent question:
“Where were you for 9/11?”
“I was in second grade,” she replied.
The hair on my arm
penetrated my frail sleeve—
the breath in my lungs dropped
like and IED.
The tear of my sorrow
remained dry.
I was 20 years old the day the Twin Towers
went down.
I watched Flight 11 at 8:46 am
crash into the North Tower
behind Katie Couric.
I drove to Ravenscroft Beauty Collage
where I attended school.
The TV in the commons
at 9:03 am
broadcasted Flight 175 crashing
into the South Tower.
All of the differences
that once separated people
diminished
as we held hands in prayer.
Camille and her sister Avril sang
the Hymn— “There’ll Be No Dark Valley.”
I stood, hands clasped, head bowed
too petrified
to sob.
I came from peace.
I came from the Clinton administration
and Bush comedy reels on SNL.
This girl, 18 years old, has lived
mostly during war time
not peace.
My friend’s fathers did not die in Iraq
when I was in second grade.
When I was 15, brothers
didn’t fly home in aluminum
transfer cases
with draped flags.
When I was in second grade
my friends step-father had raped her
and her sister.
I held her as her mother
chose a molester, a rapist,
over her own children.
When I was 15
my friend held me
as my brother
flew home from Mississippi
in a 20 gauge steel-box
draped in my mother’s tears.
My hairs prickled on my arm,
and my voice quivered in its desire
to mourn
for this 18 year-old girl—
because all she knows is war—
what I honestly want to cry for,
is me,
because in that moment it occurred
at 18 all I knew
was war.
Monday, February 25, 2013
The next poetry assignment is a free write... Let me know which one you like best.
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 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.
Grey and Death
Grey and Death
There was no color
on the 93rd floor
when those bastard boys
abducted me.
The other’s
like me,
6 years old
in their desks.
The teacher blind
to the heist.
Those bastard boys
placed a ladder
from my window
to the next,
across the way.
It was me
on the roof
when those bastard
boys
pushed me.
Didn’t you see?
I fell
to the ground
without a touch
to the brick
streaming
concrete.
Those bastard boys
gone
the school kids
looking
to the ground.
Those bastard boys
killed me!
No, I am alive!
I am right here!
Don’t you see me?
There was no color
on the 93rd floor
when those bastard boys
abducted me.
The other’s
like me,
6 years old
in their desks.
The teacher blind
to the heist.
Those bastard boys
placed a ladder
from my window
to the next,
across the way.
It was me
on the roof
when those bastard
boys
pushed me.
Didn’t you see?
I fell
to the ground
without a touch
to the brick
streaming
concrete.
Those bastard boys
gone
the school kids
looking
to the ground.
Those bastard boys
killed me!
No, I am alive!
I am right here!
Don’t you see me?
Monday, February 11, 2013
The Fallen—Poem
Tell me what you think... This weeks poem. If you are/were a service member and have anything to add ( like if I did not represent something correctly) please give me your feed back. I write this stuff because I love you all and would like nothing more than to be able to honor you all in my writing :)
The Fallen
That funeral is tomorrow.
I pull out my Full Dress Whites,
and fold his mothers flag, like an infantry man.
He was in my brigade my first tour.
My Class A Greens are wearing thin,
that funeral is tomorrow.
I remember when he was eleven
he said, “Daddy, I want to be like you,”
as I laced up my boots, like an infantry man.
I heard it on the news,
he was a boy from my own town.
"That funeral is tomorrow,”
I cried. Where are my Dress Blues?
I shaved my face and stood at the gate
holding the American flag, like an infantry man.
Others came too, each with their own flag in hand.
We were silenced and striped in white, green and blue.
That funeral is tomorrow.
We all lace our boots like infantry men do.
The Fallen
That funeral is tomorrow.
I pull out my Full Dress Whites,
and fold his mothers flag, like an infantry man.
He was in my brigade my first tour.
My Class A Greens are wearing thin,
that funeral is tomorrow.
I remember when he was eleven
he said, “Daddy, I want to be like you,”
as I laced up my boots, like an infantry man.
I heard it on the news,
he was a boy from my own town.
"That funeral is tomorrow,”
I cried. Where are my Dress Blues?
I shaved my face and stood at the gate
holding the American flag, like an infantry man.
Others came too, each with their own flag in hand.
We were silenced and striped in white, green and blue.
That funeral is tomorrow.
We all lace our boots like infantry men do.
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