poems
Puddle Wonderful
There are so many things I love, few things more than a fabulous sun shower….
In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m committing poetry.
While other girls, afraid
of their own soft hands hid
behind masks, under rocks, dreamed
of boys in tight Levi’s
we met under a rotting pavilion
after roller-skating: Neither of us knew how
to start so he stretched out, nervously
into my lap, settled
into thighs, exposed earlier
only to the hands of the sun.
His chest was jasmine
and we pressed together
silent, holding
our breath, in my hands
a slender purple flower.
Later, the girls squealed, begged
to hear about a single snake
pressing against the temple door
but I had learned to hold hands
with the night, listen
to the lunatic song of crossing winds,
to admire purple flowers
without words.
What do you remember about your first time? Or how do you wish it went?
tweet me @rasjacobson
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?