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I decay
like moist
poison
coursing through one's veins,
releasing its contents
to a greater system.

Be brave!
Set your summer language
beneath your fingertips
and let it lick pages,
fiddling its own way.

Do not let your words
die.
Sweat and scream
ugly whispers into the fog.
Let your tongue fight the
bitter taste of death
and indifference.

Tulip

This yellow tulip
grows among its flock of spring flowers.
They blanket the ground:
spring and yellow beauty
stretching to sky,
reaching for sunlight
kissing their petals
with golden hues.

A single petal droops.
This tulip
opens more than the others,
exposing her
precious nectar.
Her petal bends down,
as the brim of a hat
faded with age.
Her edges
fringed.
A passing
pant leg
grazes it, or a
coattail, or
spring dress.
She remains
alive
still stretching
for sunlight.

Soon,
she will fall,
sooner than the others;
but for now,
this tulip remains
outstretched.

Included.

blanketing the ground.

Cigar

My lungs are still hot,
burning within,
from last night when I smoked the dirty, little, brown cigar.
Its wrinkled skin fascinated me,
as I gnawed off the end
(my jaw is still sore).
I finally lit it correctly,
so it burns hot, deep within, and
my lungs are still hot.

While my hands were numb
from the cold;
my lungs stayed warm
as the hot ash and smoke permeated
our surroundings.
I am sure the rough bark and innumerable
leaves still reek of our celebration.
The celebration's over, but
I still stink.

What smelled hot and sweet,
now leaves a white film at the corners of my dry mouth.
My breath smells of grandfathers and construction.
I tried to cleanse myself,
so as not to stink my bedsheets, but
my lungs are still hot.

It was cold, freezing cold last night,
but the sun is beginning to warm the day.
Today, the air will smell sweet
and last forever.

 

On Writing Poetry

I lie awake (sweat in my eyes)
waiting for images.
I sit in coffee shops
(though I cannot stomach coffee's bitterness);
at breakfast tables,
thinking between crossword clues.

I search for wisdom, inspiration:
Sandburg, Hughes, Bishop, Pound, Williams
and Whitman! (Oh, leaves of grass I walk upon,
looking under each step!)

Bending the pages of these poems,
I try to absorb their passions,
words.
I write about love,
always love!

I have been defacing American poetry.
Spitting in the eyes of greatness
and expecting inspiration!
I have crushed leaves of grass
instead of placing my ear on their tips
and listening to their songs.
It is time to read, write, read, write!
Sitting in my chair,
writing instead
of waiting.

Proctoring the Exam

Weight blankets the room
compressing thoughts,
creativity,
breath.

Young learning,
forced onto an
8.5 by 11 inch
bound
test booklet.

I can feel it in me:
my lower back aches;
my legs and feet throb;
this creates a sort of malaise
for my heart: a weakness.

I want thoughts to run free,
questions, ideas, excitement,
clumsily tramping down
the frosted grass,
sleeked with freezing drizzle.
The Earth is strong, though;
She can take it,
blooming again next month.

The students, too, (although
only children) can take it.
Stronger because of the system
to which they are
forced to
learn in,
play in,
grow in.

I know this because
they come back
again and again,
tomorrow and
always.

This poem is still VERY rough.  I would appreciate any and all feedback.

The Candle's Flame

The candle's flame
flickering in its bowl,
flashes a butterfly's shadow
upon the wall.
Its patterned wings flutter.
The rim of the bowl
curves the butterfly's wings
making an arched span.
Simple in beauty, hovering on the wall,
complex in details,
I admire it,
until a gust of wind
extinguishes the butterfly's flight
(it's soul rises up, pours into the sky, and
disappears).

Night

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in space of night.
I feel warm here,
waiting to envelop the night and hug the sky.
There are plenty of stars
shining on me,
so I extend my arms and reach outward
until the smell of the evening lingers on my
fingertips.

Starry Night in Rhone by Vincent Van Gogh

For Claire

It's usually late Fall when we embrace
the cold of the dark morning,
gather the assortment of dried rose petals
we have been collecting since this time last year,
and visit your mountainside.

I knew you before I was introduced to
this ritual;
your visit.
When your sister asked me to join,
I cried.

The past two years,
you have been this untouchable,
beautiful force.
undaunted and innocent,
you are in every conversation,
every dinner, every picture,
every day, and
I cried when I realized:
now,
you are in me.

I never thought I deserved you
(still, I do not),
but you embrace me
and surround my life.

So, in late Fall,
when the sun and moon are
arguing for presence in the sky,
we visit.
I have never felt
such bitter cold and warmth
simultaneously.
It smells clean
on your mountainside and
I can't help but smile
because this is no memorial for loves lost;
it is a memorial for life.

Rose petals
piled in my mittened hand
ttake flight and dance in your whispers.
Can you taste the metallic underwater
of dried petals?
They shine like a new watch
before they swirl downstream,
pin balling against your rocks.

Your sisters are beautiful and playful
as they skip across your mossy meadow.
Mike compares us to animals:
children frolic first
for exploration, and
the watchful mother surveys
and protects.
Mike asked me to join him in the rear
as part of the male watch.
I was honored, but still wanted to play.

We are a family.
The cold
soon disappears,
but the wind picks up
the more excited you get.
We laugh, play, and sometimes cry,
but we always take a picture
so we can tell others (less fortunate)
about your mountainside.

Rain

Rain begins to fall.
I hold her in my arms.
The cool drops
tickle and dance over warm skin.

Inside,
desire dances.
My body is hot.

Outside,
water beads off bodies,
and collects on the ground.

I taste lips,
and feel warmth
pouring in me.
Tight, wet cotton
sticks to her skin.
I can see the pink
of her nipples.
Our bodies

hard.

We embrace
that evening
as if to never see each other again.
I cannot feel rain.
I forget my body.
No longer me

and her,

but us.

Empty

All the while,
my notebook remains empty.

I hate the way my handwriting
looks when I first begin to write.
It's awkward,
clumsy;
I grip the pen tightly,
too tight,
and relearn the skill.

My words clamber
across the page,
tripping over themselves,
any my rough fingerprints.

My hand aches.
I'm out of shape.

I remember being scared,
too scared to write.

I plan to fill this notebook,
digital or otherwise,
until
no
more
comes.

Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.

Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.

Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.

I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter.  Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.

I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.

Missing

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrent one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;

and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.

Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;

But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.

Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.

Moon

Like a sickle of ice
glowing in the night sky

it just
pierces the black canvas
draped across my body,
my life.

Full moons are adored,
written about,
sung to,
sighed to,
and asked questions to.

I prefer the lasting
crescent
to the bloated moon
sleeked with gluttonous grease.

Life

Alas, life has once again blockaded my writing. I have been writing down snip-its of good lines I am reading, but nothing substantial.  I am sure that once things slow down, I will be able to write more.  Will life ever slow down?  Natalie Goldberg would most definitely say NO!  I need to block out a section of my life dedicated for writing.  The only problem is that I have run out of sections.  I have a section for work, family time, graduate school, eating meals, washing dishes, and sleeping.  Oh, I almost forgot driving to and from work!

Well, in a few seconds, I will resume my job of shaping the minds of today's youth.