#155
May 10, 2012 § 22 Comments
We
are the High Horse Army
but far
more
dangerous
We harness
all the horsepower
of a Ford Explorer.
A jalopy of judgment,
long car rides provide
endless time for speculation
and we
the inexperienced erudite
the osmosed wise
the jaded jury –
We
dissect
the honestly less-
than-impressive
daily-doings of our
equal-in-age
but inferior-in-decision
counterparts:
Do
as we say – Not
as we have never done.
The perfect science
of theory untested.
This post-college
pre-marriage
totally un-
(for us) charted
territory triggers
an ever-growing
artillery
of gossip-worthy
drama moments –
posted
for the world’s scrutiny:
the un-private
uninvited
world of technology
books of faces and
beaks of birds speaking
of your indiscretion
we are never low
on ammunition
but somehow
always lacking
for opponents
of our own
Hard, really
to find people
to bruise and abuse
to be used by and
confused by
from way up here
on these high high
horses.
Perhaps
the problem
is our uniforms
aren’t pretty enough.
#154
May 3, 2012 § 33 Comments
“What is Love?”
A poet would not write such a thing.
She will simply tell you that this morning
when he kissed her
gravity
got stronger
that it pulled the blood through her veins
like those swirling
soda pop bottle
tornadoes
She will tell you
that his fingers
are tied
to stars
like balloon strings
because when she holds them
the sky
draws closer
She will tell you
of the perfect
shape
of his pockets
and the notch
just below
his right shoulder
She will tell you
she does not know
how long
she has known him,
can no longer distinguish
dark from light
and the calendar counts days
in black and white
She will not pretend
to comprehend
what “love is”
She will simply tell you
she no longer remembers
what it felt like
to need
to breathe
#153
May 2, 2012 § 5 Comments
“The great slumber”
they call it
as though
this
is real
and what’s to come
is the dream
#152
April 27, 2012 § 13 Comments
Clouds
painting
pavement
like a
watercolor
Pollock
Soil
stained
streaky
by the
strokes of
sliding
raindrops
#151
April 25, 2012 § 6 Comments
I read letters
you never sent me
The ones you script, dear playwright
line by line – yours
and mine
Captive conversations
you’ve held me in –
I have no say
but play
a marionette
A dangly
dancy
incarnation
The imagined life
of wood
and plastic
Swirling like cream
in the ridges of my
mug of tea, I see
the evidence swept
like the leaves left
when the dregs
are drank
I read
the future as you see it –
Seeking
stability in your divination
I’m reaching
for the roots
that screw you to
the ground because
no matter how tightly
you hold the ropes
as they are fraying,
dear playwright, please remember
that still
my feet are swaying
#150
March 26, 2012 § 13 Comments
The illogic of
the agnostic:
he hits the ground
screaming
to know if You’re true
raising arms
pleading –
for an answer from You
#149
February 23, 2012 § 12 Comments
Smile is the sculptor
who carved with care
those creases
that lined your eyes
with laughter
and you
erase them?
You could write a book
on beauty
and perhaps you should –
so the pages of your life
can crinkle
since the biography
beneath your eyes
will not
#148
February 10, 2012 § 9 Comments
Do you remember
pouring tequila over poetry?
Margarita mix and ice softening
the blow of decades
that had licked the salt from wounds
of adolescent friendship
We sat cross-legged
on a carpet laced
with the paper-mache remains
of everything nine year olds
had believed to be true
(and maybe a hint
of things we’d known weren’t, too)
Gel pen recollections
of dreams
and loves
and puddle-depth
pre-teen
introspection
We burned the letters that night
figuratively, perhaps – I’m not sure
(you were the one with the lighter)
but it was more
than that
that went up in flames
We’d been chipping away
at the imaginary leg
of a tilted friendship triangle
and that night, those straws
of Jose Cuervo
broke
the spine of our self-penned
elementary
manifestos
our graphite scratches
a last thread tied, trying
to hold what adulthood needed to pry
apart
We had strings, strung
and life ropes wrapped
too tight and far too long
until that
final
wave
crashed.
I didn’t feel it snap
that night, but looking back
we’ve not spoken since
and I know
we’re fine with that.
Military battalions
and graduating classes
make a point to reconvene
each decade
and you and me? Well, we
are somewhere in between
So in ten years,
girl, meet me here
and we’ll compare the notes
we wrote of womanhood.
Thirty-three.
Older than we’d ever
dreamed that we would be
if you know what I mean…
and I know that you do –
because even when friendship withers
it doesn’t mean memories die too.
—
For more from the “Do You Remember” series, click any of the links below:
#124
#109
#107
#147
February 2, 2012 § 8 Comments
The sun spilled
winter-golden vinegar
sending baking soda snow
cascading
over mountains
and the edges
of the oceans
swelled
bubble bath tides
of soapy waves
licking the dirt away
from untouched coasts
like rinsing muddy
castle ashes
from marching
toddler toes
#146
January 27, 2012 § 9 Comments
You thumb
subconsciously
at the collar of your cable-knit sweater and I
smile
The parents were here tonight.
Khaki pants and loafers let me know
this must have been
recital night.
Normally
you teach in those holey-kneed jeans and
droopy flannel, like
a lumberjack at the keys
Ha! Confrey*
should have written that
instead.
I wonder how you’d sound to him?
Giant fingers that never seem
to tickle the ivories –
For rarely
have I heard your piano laugh
No,
your hands
against those keys
are more like trains to rails
powerful rattling pounding
with increasing speed
and I imagine that
is how it would look to me –
a steam engine
shiny black
clattering
against unfinished hardwood
Imagine – because I have yet to see.
I wish those stairs weren’t so creaky
The halls of that old church house
funnel so much sound at me
all the little ones learning violin
(and you know how musical that is!)
beneath it all, I hear the rumblings
the way you feel that distant train
beneath your feet
but when I get close enough
to hear you clearly
(the kind of hearing I could only do
when you don’t know I’m nearing)
I hit that wooden landing,
that bottom creaky step
and instead of locomotive
melodic emotion
all I hear instead is
“Jessica, come on in.”
*Reference to “Kitten on the Keys,” composed by Zez Confrey.
Authored Angioplasty 