Poetry: Leisure

Here is poem #15 for the poetry pledge drive. Can it be I've really made it halfway?? . . . I don't know whether to be proud of myself for getting this far or overwhelmed by the thought that I've got another two weeks to go. Maybe it's best if I not think about it too much . . .


Leisure

Sleeping in my favorite chair,
As I work, whiskers twitching,
A curl of fur, head turned
Upside down, like an artist trying
To get new perspective,
In her dreams. She has
The full benefit of leisure.

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Poetry: Ghost Eyes

Here is poem #14 for the poetry pledge drive. This one was a tough one to write because I kept getting all choked up. Nothing like poetry to dredge up all kinds of feelings and memories. Seriously, therapy and prescription drugs are overrated. Just go write yourself some poetry and have a glass of wine.


Ghost Eyes

People often ask me about the ring I put on
For special occasions - convex and sparkling, two
Strange ghost eyes set side by side. I would stare
As my grandmother carefully held her teacup
And me, gesturing with animated fingers, usually

To punctuate a curse. She promised me the ring
Because I'd always liked it, but I didn't
Feel right about it. I never

Will. It was given to me
As a surprise for my birthday -
Two eyes in a box staring up at me two years
Too soon, because she wasn't going to make it
To my graduation.

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Poetry: Between My Toes

I'm on my way out the door, so I'm going to post this poem # 11 for the poetry pledge drive quickly. I hate to keep apologizing for each of my poetry posts, but I am genuinely not happy with this one. If I weren't in such a hurry, I'd spend a little more time with it before posting. Thankfully, I'm getting a little more used to letting go with these though, which I suppose is part of the purpose of making yourself participate in one of these sorts of things - you're forced to give the perfectionism a rest and just get writing.

Between My Toes

We were told not to
Let the sprinkler sit
In the same spot to long,
Or the grass would get
Too slippery. But we were
Kids, and kids don't

Listen when the sun is out.
My bathing suit was on, and
The thought of the first cold touch
Of water held me

Suspended.

I focused on the water
Undulating in the air, my eyes
Half-closed anticipating the jolt
Of freezing streams
On my little limbs, not the grass

Wet between my toes. When I landed
On the sprinkler, the plastic snapped
In half. Opened end to end, my foot
Had caught one
Of the sharp edges.

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Poetry: How to Whistle in Prison

Poem #10 for the poetry pledge drive comes from a commonly told family story about the time I first met my uncle. For some back story on him, you can read one of my earlier posts.


How to Whistle in Prison

What I thought I had was a memory
Of the day I met my uncle
For the first time; however, what I have is what must be
A collection of what other people have shared with me
Over the years. Each thread has merged
Into a single colorful yarn with repeated narrative

Patterns, shared images - the amusing combination
Of my candy-sticky little fingers and the tinsel;
How I carefully tried to place it back
On the tree, again and again and again,
But gave up with a sigh, and, after giving
A quick look around, swept it under the skirt

With my foot; in Mary Janes and my dress,
How I looked just like a China doll, dainty and
Neat; how my uncle ambitiously set out to teach me
How to blow bubbles with my gum and whistle that day.

Now I just think it's fun to be able to
Tell people I learned how to whistle in prison.

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Poetry: Poking the Dead

As for yesterday's poem, I found inspiration for today's poem from an old photograph. The picture below, which I've shared on here before in an earlier post, is of me and my father. I think I'm holding up the fish by myself; my father just wants me in the picture to document how big the fish is. Looking at that picture again got me to thinking of summers in my grandparents' backyard where he and my grandfather would fillet dozens and dozens of fish they caught the same day out on my grandfather's boat. The memories are full of strong images and stir up a lot of warm fuzzy nostalgia despite the gruesome subject. I'm looking forward to expanding and revising this one in the future, but, for now, it's poem # 9 for the poetry pledge drive.


Poking the Dead

They would catch them by the barrelful and bring them home,
Cut them up in the backyard on big stained boards. I would
Nose around the reeking buckets, watch the lips
Moving breathlessly. I'd run

My fingers with and against the grain
Of the scales, then marvel at the discarded
Guts glimmering in the sun. I'd muster the courage
To poke at the dead

Eyes, trying to figure out how
The translucent lids worked, unblinking
When the flies landed.

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