Author: poetryfest

On lonely summer evenings
when she cannot stand to be
there are three owls who watch my
mother from high up in a tree.

Three small owls like gray thumbs
perched, eyes round as silver plates
they hold until the light is gone
and watch her smoking cigarettes.

Three beings gazing far into the dark
as though prepared to swoop and dive
to hunt the spreading bruise of grass
and then return into the sky.

Suppose they know that she is tired
of sleeping sick throughout the day
they know she locks the bedroom door
and will not listen to her name.

Her pale athenaic statuettes
of bodied smoke and hidden leaves
sit mute and solomonic
almost too still to believe.

Three small owls watching her
depressed headaches, her spirit hands
that rise to catch her falling face
as softly as the locusts land.

His mother taught him
when punched – punch, to raise
not a victim, but a response
He’s such a good student
the first step could be skipped

His friend taught him
at sixteen, to tie his shoes
that had mimicked the bow, the knot
but unravelled not at a tug, but a touch
gentle as his jokes
about parents, teachers, strangers in trucks
their fists, their rulers, their school rides

He claimed not to know how he learnt
to sleep open-eyed show a sliver of whites never wide-eyed
enough for clear sight.
But as not a fool, but a child
he jumped from the third-floor balcony for fun
for days not knowing
the arm was broken
for years not knowing
someone should have noticed

He taught himself
to think – right in front – of me:
in the hallway to the kitchen, not moving
with the seconds, a beginner
speaking not with curiosity, but with apprehension:
Would you like a glass too?
Stepping into water I had never thirsted for more.

He taught me
how little one needs
to know to keep someone
beautiful, how his hand curled in
my white-knuckle grip, marking my tongue
when he moved northwest
giving not a warning, but a vow
to share not a word, but a place
with the mother, the truckers, the friends

He said he had learnt
some fucked up love
so I guess his warmth to me
was a lack thereof.

No matter where I live, It follows;
The Ghost of His extant soul.
I have moved so many times,
lived so many lives,
but I can never seem to
bury Him (or the hatchet).

Like the beat up box of old formal plates
thrown into the back of a truck,
He always comes with to the next iteration.

But when they inevitably break,
no good luck is offered,
and they are cast aside as we once were
(does that make us broken too?)

I liked those plates;
they had a nice gold rim.
Not practical for everyday use,
but rarely brought out
even when company came.
(Much like His smile.)
Once displayed in the high cabinet,
Now lay forgotten at the bottom of a landfill,
somewhere in the Midwest

I think the plates were His wife’s;
passed down along with the Melancholy.
A bitter side dish.

I’d like to believe She bought them to bring the Sun inside,
And that she bequeathed them to Him
to dispel the clouds behind His eyes.
But the clouds only got darker,
and We were all caught in the torrential downpour.

Is that why His face is so blurred in my mind?
Why the good memories are so hazy?
Did the rain-flood wash Him away?
Did He try to join Her in an early, watery grave?

who decides when we are truly dead?

You wish me happy birthday each year,

But it only began three candles ago.
Each year I blow them out,
and wish that I knew how to respond.

I know in my bones that You’re trying
Though it doesn’t feel fair, doesn’t feel true
But for me this reconciliation must be fair,
because this is a war of love.
Is it a love of war for You instead?

If so, when should I raise the white flag?
Give You my pride as a consolation prize?
What were we fighting for, all this time?
(I don’t even know how it began)
will You help me end it?
Or will You turn Your back once more?

I call for an armistice instead.
I grab a shovel, and start digging:
“thank you. i miss you, too.”

do I mean it?
God alone knows.
(though He too, is a Benedict Arnold)
how do we know when it is truly over?

When We see Hyades in the sky.

I’ll make my last wishes and
meet You where the roots of the (family) tree grip tight,
where Our transgressions are washed away,
where We are all equal as fungal fodder.
And I will have finally found my forever home,
will pack my bags and move no more.
We’ll sit side-by-side on the porch-swing,
looking out over the freshly planted Poppies,
and We’ll watch the Sun rise, together.

Forget a jury of my peers,
I’d rather we planned for a
handful of peers—six or so—
to carry my coffin to the grave.

My grandfather could have gathered
a team of old woodsmen, children
of the Depression, their horses
tied up at the rail, big men
who talk slow and mean every word.
Eyeing the stand of timber at cemetery’s
edge, talking of boardfeet. A place
to bring in a sawmill. Men who knew
how to put an edge to a crosscut and
how to rig a spar tree. Dip some snoose.
Caulk boots so no one slips carrying the box.

My father could have counted on his
dairyman neighbors—Bud, Joe, Norbert
and Jim. The service held between milkings.
Sunburnt men talking corn this high,
hands in pockets in their dress clothes.
Tractor deaf and carrying the coffin,
swaying like cattle, single file.

For me I demand a scrum of poets,
easily found, I’m sure. I’ll provide
the drink as they flit and bother,
each composing a sonnet, a requiem.
Oh, dear death, ink like tears as
another book is compiled, each
lamentation treasured and sung.
Pity no one buys the volume,
despite rich imagery, slant rhyme,
semicolons galore. Argue what verse
is to be chiseled in my stone.
I don’t care.
I know I’ll never get planted, ever,
as a herd of poets, wailing and wan,
can never be coaxed to order.
Not made to work together, no,
not even for one of their kind.

His wife offered to take me to see him where he lives now at the Veterans Home.
She said, “I’ll be surprised if he recognizes you.”
“Well, I’ll be,” He said. “How long has it been,” when he turned and and saw me.
I burst into tears. I hugged him, burrowed into his shoulder.
He patted my back. I patted his eyes as clear and blue as I remembered.
He looked healthy, his voice the same.
Slightly bent back, stooped yes but still tall, slender, dressed neat and clean.
He was just so real.
I shake my head at this swell of emotion; not regrets, but confusion.
I met him when the military sent him through Vo-tech training on the GI Bill.
He became a wage-earning contributing member of society. training in order to become a wage-
I took training as well to become contributing member of society as well.
He told me stories about his Viet Nam tour of duty
Of how, “the Military dog did all the work,” guarding the camp perimeter.
Stories. Trench foot from feet that never dry.
He showed up for a date on a motorcycle, me dressed in a floor length evening gown.
Do all night janitors hoist their honey, their hussy, their chippy up on the boss’ desk,
when she shows up wearing only a fake fur coat?
Do they leave their DNA on the navy blue dress? Lights out when they leave? Do all
custodians offer marriage after the abortion?
I try to remember why I said no when he asked me to marry.
He was too bossy. Said he was going to rid of any reminders of mee–the quilt I made for him.
He was the one who put my kids’ bikes together one Christmas.
I would send cards on remember his birthday. We were the same age.
He phoned my daughter to ask about me.
Was that jingle, “For better or worse”?
Marriage is a highway with pot holes, bad drivers, road signs, and toll booths demanding money.
His room at the VA was neat orderly, precise you might say.
His wife said, “That’s his Military background,” austere but bare except for grooming items.
“Careful. Watch for ice,” He said as we walked from her car to a restaurant.
He covered whatever dementia he had with comebacks, “Hm-m-m,” or “I don’t know.”
Confused about the limits. Tears now that he is hers. Violate her borders?
Rubbed his shoulders as he sat in a chair. As we toured we held hands.
He paused to remove the wedding ring from his left hand as he held my right.
His wife introduced me to people there as his girlfriend.
Back in the day I objected to calling them boyfriend. They were not boys, they were men.
A man we know whose wife is in early onset senility said “It’s like raising a kid!”
It was time for me to leave. He said thank you. So did I.
While she waited outside in her car
He and I watched the elevator doors slide slowly shut between us.
Did he kiss the top of my head? Did I just imagine it?
Or was he just hungry for warm touch?
We’re over the hill, not down the drain.
*&*&*&

who expected me to know how to raise a daughter? i’m no father. this isn’t me fishing for a compliment; i know i’m undeserving of one. nonetheless, to my credit, i loved this little girl, the way she meshed her hands in the net, pulling out slimy kelp bits and throwing them on the deck where they landed and were not moved and the sun beat down and plastered them to the wood, and all the while in my mind i watched her age and plaster herself to a boy, leaving muddy footprints in each other’s rooms all winter that i would pretend not to see and his parents would yell at him for, saying those aren’t your feet son, and all the while the two of them will fall into the dark they don’t understand, hunting, breathless, chasing the light they hope they’ll find, and all my wisest words of caution will never make sense to her. but ah me, all that could have been in the future, and she was still my baby, my little girl who loved me, who loved life, who loved everything and nothing, who delighted in the mundane in a way i now cannot.

but back to the past, my nightly dream, my bittersweet memory on the boat – i smiled down at her and she was all glow, all golden brown hair and skin and eyes, all beautiful and small and easy to protect. it will never be that way again, and i will never be able to remember that day in all its perfection, as it really was. i was losing her beat by beat, measure by measure, to this sickening game we all play called life, and the orchestra was getting frantic while i tore my hair out piece by piece. the problems were always in my head, only in my head. i held out my arms out and she wanted to snuggle in, wanted me to make everything all right, but i always knew the day would come when she finally understood I could not, and still to this day years later i never have and never will.

is it true that love is sacrifice, or is it just selfishness, because you know you’d rather let someone go than watch them slowly realize how you’ve failed them? i believe this took a turn. let me go, boys, for i’m an excuse for a man. let me live to die, because i have no other way to live without her. i’m already marching to my own funeral drum, and i’ve made the casket.

giving her up –
the papers
signed in bloodred ink

The tallest tree among thousands
In life stood tall and proud
Now fallen as it rattles the forest
The answer to that age old question found
Silent did it fall but loud was the crash
How different the world will be now
O great oak tree, you stood so tall
The tallest tree among among thousands
Clip-clop clip-clop
Go the hooves against the prairies
Indents beat into the path
That would define the coming generations
Clip-clop clip-clop clip-
The plow pulled by an iron heart
Seeds planted by a caring soul
Bells toll for the Clydesdale
They toll also for the oak tree
Hearts beat in unison and hands link together
Retired from the farm and carried from the woods
The flowers bloom and carry memories
Every petal a different story
The oak trees grow taller like
They aim to reach the heavens
Chatter chatter mumble mumble
In the room they can’t stop speaking
Not in sorrow or in vain
Because the joy those flowers bring
And the pride the forest holds
Even with the oak and horse gone
Their stories will always be told

Aliens
Humans
Is your need for purity worth more than our need for survival?

Criminals
People
Who lives in fear of the other?

Dealers
Dreamers
Were you taken at 5?

Thieves
Laborers
Who else is willing to do the work?

Murderers
Parents
How can a child be tortured and lost to time?

Illegals
Immigrants
Is it you or I hiding from the truth?

We despise you
We just need to survive

Pink, glossy lipstick on the rim of
A plastic lid.
The jingle of jewelry
& the confident, steady
clicking of boots.
Sweaters with small
crystalline snowflakes
melting between the threads.

When I think of you, Mom,
I think of watching
Jaws
for the fifteenth time.
Your enthusiasm for
wild things
and tomatoes.
I think of the way you put
Everyone
At ease.

Aim to please.

& yet,
Another gift you have is
Being comfortable
By yourself. Making a home
for yourself
Inside of yourself.
& protecting it.

Today I recognize
That luxury:
To massage my own feet.
To re-pot the plant.
To notice my curiosity
in my own head
or in the trailhead marked
“Jump Off Canyon”
& following it.

You walk balance &
bravery like a Trapeze Swinger
trust falling,
flailing,
& suspended
between one life
and into another.
I think of that unknowing.
That sacrifice.

When I think of you, I think of
Coffee rings on newspaper,
Alanis Morisette on tape cassette,
& a room
At the center
of me.

I live there today.
Because you showed
Me how.

The first full moon comes on my 16th birthday – clandestine
the Fates have a cruel sense of humor like that it’s funny
to them; the would-be-witch unaware of the were
coursing through bones that are ready to be broken
by the violence of a creature lurking under the skin
of a girl who barely knew how to do her eyeliner
there were no snapping jaws or ragged claws and bloodlust
is the hallmark of one broken-in to womanhood – the hair
the hair was the first sign

It sprouted from everywhere it wasn’t supposed to – creeping
like kudzu down legs that can’t run fast enough a coat of maggots
infesting the rotten corpse of the girl that never got to be – a razor
is no substitute for a scalpel but self-efficacy quickly transforms
to self-harm and aesthetic modification isn’t as permanent as an autopsy
what is alive will grow back even if it wishes it was dead
and hair is no exception

There’s nothing exceptional about living in fear of full moons
lunacy descending with the ascension of every lunar cycle
bones bend at all the wrong angles hip bones sharp and jutting
godless reminders gnashing like teeth snarling the message
that this girl is not as she’s intended to be – a temple
to the most unholy of deities: the bastardization
of the divine feminine

There is no goddess to beseech for freedom from this – Artemis
wouldn’t taint an arrow with the blood of one so unsightly
your misery is unworthy of being put out and you’re out
of concealer so what’s the point? Dry the tears and put a muzzle on it
no one wants to hear the girl who cried wolf especially when she’s crying
about her own damn reflection – don’t you know what they do
to girls like you who slip up and let themselves
be seen?

You want to be a woman? Crack your bones back into place
rip the hair from your flesh and blush your cheeks with the blood
performing humanity is a performance all the same and you are far
from the only grotesque creature in these woods – Howl
and they’ll keep you company until the sun returns – no one else
will hear; men never listen to anything less beastly than themselves
and even you could never best the beast of all beasts

You may be made a wolf by night and maybe
the raised hackles mistake you for a man but at least
you’ll never be one of them in the daylight.