This poem was about a particularly haunting incident early on in my professional career.  For some reason, I thought of it this morning.

Papers

I brought them to the house

to be signed, a stranger

entering a vigil,

surrounded by shiny eyes.

I walked behind a preteen boy

who skulked like a lion,

he bristled, his grief an open wound

that could not scab over.

She sat listless across from me,

and the little man took her arm

so she stood, terrycloth robe falling open

spilling the remnants from the funeral.

We walked to the table in silence

as the boy collected her dignity, neatly

tying the robe in a graceful silent move

as the papers were fanned on the table.

Two short ones, inspired by the cold rain.

Creeping Death

Fear, unknown
Fever, gnawing
Quaking, uncertainty
Leaning, inward
Crushing, bones
Penetrating, viscera
Piercing, duodenum
Pressing, organs
Squeezing, lungs
Heart, arrested

In Plain Sight

Its easier to hide behind
hyperbole and metaphor,
mask myself in allegory,
ease the ache with a parable.
Words are simple when they are written
and yet confound and ridicule
when they need a voice.

Fear

Another entry for the December Project. The Muse for this poem is an old friend from college, a sweet girl who sings like an angel and speaks Japanese (which I think is wicked cool.) Here’s your poem, Jessica:

In the by and by

Green is what they were
and they were too young to be
any other color.
In an alternative dimension
they would have been
exploring the slope of
the other’s shoulders,
comparing the respective curves
of their breasts,
filling their hands
with fleshy hips,
tasting their own sweetness
on the other’s lips.
Instead they looked on
with eyes of green
into pools of longing,
mouths filled with unspoken green
hearts girly pink and flecked with green
for green is what they were
and they were too young to be
any other color.

Got a little behind on the project but catching up tonight, it certainly gives me an excuse to write. The important thing is to get back to the goal and my friend Suzanne gave me the pep talk I need. The inspiration, thinking about the color red and it went all stream of consciousness. So….here it is, and its a bit saucy.

It wasn’t at all like the movies,
fists tight like round red balls
on either side of the thrashing head
and the red shirt was not removed as
the wrists were held down
so the button fly was released
with the use of arching limber hips,
the toes gripped and popped
and hooked themselves on the waistband,
freed the cotton Hanes
emancipated the erection,
shimmied the jeans
down the back of the thigh and calf
until they collected crumpled
around the ankles and tennis shoes
with a “Whoop!” of surprise
and the gossamer silk gathered
at the navel, one hand still holding
the willing wrists, the other
pushing aside tights and
a sheer slip of satin,
plaid and pink silk
slick and sticky with sweat
clinging to their chests
and they made love on the floor
with their shirts on.

It seems my musician friends are great at giving me writing prompts.  This poem for my December project is courtesy of Suzanne Levinson, a flute player.  She gave me a great list of words, and I may draw from them again later in the month. 

This poem is very short, but when I stopped to pause, it seemed complete somehow.  I think it needs a title, but I can’t think of one just yet.  I am open to suggestions.

Anyway, without further adieu, here is the December 4th poem.

The mix of snow and slush

falls like bullets in a war zone,

distorting the view of faces

looking through windows

as their train passes by.

The flickering facades

blink out like dollar store

Christmas lights, a moment

of shimmer, a flash of blue

and green, then gone.

If only the light could be held

or this moment transfixed,

this small blaze of ordinary,

faces on a train suspended

in rain, caught in mid air.

Here is my poem from December 3 for my personal poem-a-day for this last month of 2012.  The writing prompt was courtesy of Cynthia Dougherty, a talented actress and knock-’em-sock-’em powerhouse vocalist that I have had the pleasure of working with in Pittsburgh.  She gave me the word “epitome” and here is what I came up with.

Epitome

There are moments

so exquisite, so precious,

they are locked away

in the quietude of a heart,

tucked secretly

into the dark corners,

folded like expensive silk

to be kept for good,

and those fleeting minutes

continue on like burning coals

long after the fading fire of the night

Here’s the second entry for my poem-a-day for December 2012.  This one is courtesy of Robyn Peterson, a good friend of mine that I love to sing with.  She gave me some great prompts, which I included in this poem.  Not to mention, I think this really captures who she is, and I’m glad to know her!

For Robyn

Don’t hide

and let every thought you have

be luscious

and let every dream you have

be exquisite

Don’t hide

and let every feeling you have

be decadent

and let every pleasure you feel

be like sapphires.

Don’t hide

and let every idea you have

be unapologetic

and let your creativity

engulf the air around you.

Don’t hide

and let your love and genius

guide your own world.

Assuming the world doesn’t actually end, my goal is to write 31 poems. My Muse for this poem is my friend Joan, who sent me a quote today from Gilda Radner. This is what seizing life looks like to me.

GYPSY

Life begins where
the road disappears
and the gravel and dust spit
against a red and painted desert.

Life is the song we make together
the pavement and rubber
humming beneath the stars
and my tires in the rain.

How many dreamers
have spent their wishes here?
How many poems and
stories were conceived?

Let us travel with the forgotten on
the long open road
with its wigwams, neon greasy spoons,
and peerless midnight skies.

Give me the roadside prophets
with their rambling philosophies.
Give me the seekers of fortune
with their tainted sensibilities.

I have not posted a poem in a long time.  I have also let a 3 months go by without writing one as I had been in musician mode.  Sometimes a poem takes on a life of its own and surprises you.  This is one of those times.  I am not sure what it means, except that I am sure that I meant it.

I thought about

writing a poem today

but I am feeling unsure.

How many more of my words

do you deserve?

Will they bounce off your ear

in an inaudible “pop”,

a blown bubble

from a plastic stick,

Will they jump off

the cliff of my brain

and fall like

a heavy lump of lead,

Will the poem hurl itself

like stinging nettles or

barbs, sticking into

overly tenderized flesh?

Perhaps it is best not to try

my words are dangerous today,

thick with venom

so very viscous,

and so very tired.

Just wrote this about an hour ago. I am not sure yet what I meant, but I like the way I tried to say it.

Lost in Translation

We are sometimes like the Codetalkers,
scrambling the circuits of our enemies
by speaking in the native tongue,
the sound full of clarity and relevance
but so much noise somehow,
incomprehensible babble, and silly.
The words swirl in the air
a shaft of smoke and cloud
ricocheting off the bruised skull
leaving the scalps dangling
as they fling themselves like
abandoned eagle feathers
their ancient chants a mute echo
limbs flailing in a forgotten dance
the bodies rocking with
a feeling I can no longer name.