poetry
the old man carried piglets
It’s the last day of National Poetry Month, and I find looking at a photograph can inspire. Here’s my last one for…
Learning To See
April is National Poetry Month, so I’m sharing words in a different way. There was only one crayon I liked in the…
The First Taste
We started with childhood innocence and then we moved to adolescent shame. Now we are getting a little more mature. Since everyone…
Adolescence: Learning Shame
I hadn’t wanted to go. Parents pulled me from ants and pebbles, the solidity of bark, leaf and wall to hear breathing…
An Unconventional List of My Transgressions
Once I shared my fears with you and you supported me. As I move toward Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement,…
The Piano Lesson
I wrote this poem along with students in a poetry writing workshop that I conducted several years ago. …
Puddle Wonderful
There are so many things I love, few things more than a fabulous sun shower….
On the day we met, we were damaged.
Bruised fruit, I heard someone say,
and yet I could see how delicious
we could be, if we focused
on our sweet parts. And, for a time, we did.
Each morning after coffee and canned peaches, we
paced the perimeter,
with each step I learned more about
the nature of your heart. So broken,
both of us, there, in captivity,
love-notes, plopped clumsily
into my hands, your lap,
the perfect place for a head to rest,
if only we could have tabled together, found a patch of green
under that hot Arizona sun.
At least we had popcorn and iced tea,
that one full moon,
when our bellies pressed
against each other, gleaming
side by side. That night, I imagined
eating chocolate animal crackers
on Wednesdays
the sifting sun
through your windows
an old denim couch
in an endless summer, the two of us
cool and cuddled for hours
back rubs on bad days
when you would kiss
the freckles on my shoulders.
Now look at us.
Me, a shadow in your life:
A lonely girl on a lonely journey
In a land peopled by strangers.
I could be holding your dusty hand
Laughing and loving so greatly
But you asked me to let you go
And not wanting to violate
your boundaries, I did.
Still, I can’t help hoping
That someday I’ll convince you
It’s better to enjoy one bruised piece of fruit,
Than no sweetness at all.
Did you ever have an unrequited romance? Do you still think of that person? That moment? How long has it been? And how do you let it go?
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It’s the last day of National Poetry Month, and I find looking at a photograph can inspire. Here’s my last one for a while. Probably.
The old man carried piglets in his arms
under his armpits, actually
like two plump packages filled with
good things, they
squealed obediently, smelling
of earth and excrement, they
squealed curling and uncurling their
pink pig-tails, knowing
that the old farmer loved them
that a field of purple flowers was
waiting, patiently like a lover
the man walked many miles, or
what felt like many miles
(for what does a pig know
of distance
more than from sty to trough)
so he walked many miles, this man
setting one foot after the other, squish squash
squish squashing into the moistness
below his feet, and the pigs
snorted happily, short gruff grunts
as if they had just eaten a plate
full of scraps, short gruff grunts
confident that there would be lilacs
at the end of their journey, so sure
of his love, so sure of his love
he clutched them tightly around their middles
and they felt warm and safe
beneath the dark wool that made up his sweater
home, and they squealed
as he entered with them still
under his arms, still
not struggling, still believing
ever faithful
as he sliced off their heads
one, two
for his sweet sausage stew.
Have you ever experienced betrayal? Felt like someone was cutting your head off for their delight?
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April is National Poetry Month, so I’m sharing words in a different way.
There was only one crayon
I liked in the whole box,
a cracked black Crayola,
and I settled beside a coloring book —
gray outlines on white pages, scribbling
until I noticed Grandma pulling on
walking shoes, heavy
with stiff laces, brown like snakes.
Down the shaded walk I followed
until the lawn stopped
and weeds grew wild, sloppy and carefree.
Gardening gloves parted prickly shoots
to step inside, swallowed
I followed, tripped on rocks
and roots, got stuck
on sticky burrs while Grandma cooed
soft water words
wintergreen
witch hazel
windflowers
words which sounded like colors
from my crayon box, words
which until then I thought strange and
separate from me.
Later, I took my crayons outside, filled
my lap with colors
drew giant spotted, all-color polka dotted
butterflies, purple and red winged smears
dipping and soaring, winding, rising transparent
as April air, until one little one
found its way above gnarled branches
and swirled
right off the page.
What are you looking forward to this Spring?
We started with childhood innocence and then we moved to adolescent shame. Now we are getting a little more mature. Since everyone is getting all Halloweenishy, I figured I would, too. So picture two young lovers in the dark one October night. This is what happens the day after at school.
wanting them to see
wanting everyone to see
bright purple hickies on my neck
wanting everyone to see
that someone could want me that much
that someone would leave proof, undisputed
right there
on my neck.
i wasn’t embarrassed
and refused high collars,
wanting everyone to see
those purple circles
where lips met skin
and tasted blood.
Tell me one of your (real or fictional) acts of adolescent rebellion. Or just tell me about how you feel about hickies. 🙂
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I hadn’t wanted to go.
Parents pulled me
from ants and pebbles, the solidity
of bark, leaf and wall
to hear breathing statues,
the silence of paintings, and
Perhaps.
To three sculpted boys, nude
and playing soccer. They looked
so real, their knees
eternally bent, mid-kick.
My green eyes wandered
around the dark curves of body,
thin fingers reached
towards the smooth skin
the color of wet clay, and
I remembered sarsparilla
gingersnaps, fresh licorice
chocolate cakes.
Short fingers seeking
shapes and shadow-colors
caught in mid-air
in father’s hand trap,
No no, he said,
Don’t touch.
NOTE: I wish I had the actual image of the “Three Boys Playing Soccer” by John De Andrea. Seeing his sculpture is my earliest and most vivid memory of going to a museum. And while I searched everywhere to find a photo of it, I cold find none. It is spectacular and I urge people to see this lifelike work at the Everson Museum in Syracuse, New York.
What is your first memory of visiting a museum? How old were you? Who were you with? Were you inspired? Bored? Something else? What is the best museum you have ever visited?
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Once I shared my fears with you and you supported me. As I move toward Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, I thought I would share a list of my transgressions. I know many of you think of me as the sparkly girl, and I am that. But I am other things, too. I am not proud of all of my parts. I am working on being a better me. Each year, a little better. Maybe.
i am inappropriately dressed in beat-up cowboy boots.
i am a weeping willow with dandelion roots.
i am a scarlet candle burning at both ends.
i’m a will that never bends.
i am a fancy cage
a terrible shopper
a binder clip
a pillow proper.
i am lowercase and broken, i am
scared and missing pieces.
i am rumpled
i am crumpled
i am wrinkled in the creases.
i’m a Scorpio in a garden of misery.
i’m a cockroach, a ladybug, and a bumblebee.
i’m an elbow.
i’m a knee.
a taker of things, i am squalor.
i am a spike at your collar.
i am a dying tree.
i am hyperbole.
i am indignant and misguided,
i am useless, undecided.
i am bossy.
i am needy.
i am cruel.
i am eternal summer.
too lush and hot and wild.
i am not a good enough mother.
and i am an ungrateful child.
i am an eye and a hand, recording what i see.
i am too many plates, stacked precariously.
i am a closed library.
i am relentless.
i am wordy.
i am repentant.
please forgive me.
What is one thing that you don’t like about yourself? What part of you would you like to slough off or change?
This week we were challenged to integrate 3 words into our pieces: “candlestick,” scarlet” and “library” — in 250 words.
It kind of worked for me.
Sitting circle,
waiting for his hand
to duck-duck-goose-me
knowing that he might
but there are
soooo many heads between us
soooo many heads to tap
soooo many heads to
tap lightly with fingertips
and he rounds the circle
DUCK DUCK
and he rounds the circle
DUCK DUCK
and I see rainbows in his hair
and water in his eyes
flexing my calves
with anticipation
DUCK
ready to jump
DUCK
ready to jump
DUCK
read to jump
because his palm is on my hair
warm and lingering
l i n g e r i n g
and it is almost off
and I am almost disappointed
gOoSe!
all elbows and knees, i stumble to start
but he is sure-footed and fast
our friends are a noisy blur, shouting
RUN RUN
and I want to run
my arms are open
like my smile
like my eyes are open
so I see when he looks back
slightly slowing, waiting
wanting me to catch him
wanting me
to catch him
and i want to keep panting
want to keep panting
want to
ruffle his sweet soft feathers.
What are your earliest memories of young love?
• • •
The first time I died
was in the hands
of a good friend.
I’d been bragging
about my new car, slick
and black as blood
while she stood tall
as redwood, a queen
in an apron, preparing
tea. Setting down the silver
kettle, she took my hand
to her cheek, soft as peaches
and like a school-girl cried,
My dear child,
Don’t you know
every toy
breaks
in the end.
• • •
Ever have someone tell you something simple that positively rocked your world? What was it?
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She was comfortable at the piano
playing for yellow palomino manes
for rains and the wet-kiss of storm,
for doughy clouds which gather, become houses
and horses, and are dispersed again.
She kept her own time
until
he stood behind her
like somebody’s older brother, with one hand
pressing her shoulder
trying to get her in sync
with the tick-tick-ticking pendulum
so she sits up
straight, fingers
stumbled across keys, caught
in cracks. She falls in after them.
He never smiles, only rakes
pointed fingers through greasy hair
and like a snake sliding
on a purple belly, extends
a flickering black tongue.
She wonders why
she must change
her beat
to his.
Can you guess what my instructions to this assignment were?
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Last week I wrote a piece “On Sons & Thunderstorms.” Several people commented that they liked the line “puddling with joy.” That made me smile because I actually borrowed that line from myself. In fact, that piece was inspired by a poem I wrote a long time ago. I thought I would share it with you.
What is a Sun Shower?
the heavy too-sweet scent of
woman’s perfume dribbling from gray skies
or a bumblebee, fat and
zig-zagging through air, cutting the
wetness with buzzing certainty;
a black string pulled too tight, too
tight to
the b r e a k i n g p o i n t, expectant with
tension, an invisible pulse or
heartbeat crashing around ears and
trees. too close when your teeth buzz, it is
too far when you are trapped in bed, sweet yellow galoshes squeezed in a dark closet.
it is luck before a wedding,
a bath for my umbrella.
nothing more than G-d’s tears.
nothing less than the earth gone mint-chocolate mud, gurgling,
and puddling
with joy.
What makes you puddle with joy?