Poetry
Haiku, free verse, songs, whatevers.
For Want of a Do, For Lack of a Show
I gathered up all of his Says
I tried to find a use for them.
They were light as feathers, so I thought -
maybe -
a pillow?
I stuffed them in a case
I sewed it shut
But when I put my head down
There wasn't much support after all.
I looked closer
I sorted them into piles:
Shoulds and Wills and Want Tos
were Good Intentions
Redolent at first
Their scent and color quickly faded though. :(
Compliments and Praise
I weighed against Honesty,
and Honesty launched them across the room
where they settled
in a pretty (useless) heap.
Anger found me then,
So I grabbed up the pillow
I slammed it on the bed
(this is a recommended therapy on many fine advice-doling websites)
But I've never been good at keeping things together
so the seams burst.
Feather-says flew everywhere.
The dog raised an eyebrow.
I shrugged at him.
Together we watched my mess rain down.
And as they floated to the floor, I realized
their usefulness
as breadcrumbs
leading me back to where I shouldn't go again.
She is Like a Cat
She is like a cat.
She is like a cat that you desperately want to call your own, for a little while.
You put out food, hoping to lure her close.
She takes the food (and is grateful for it).
Then she slinks back out of reach, jumping on the fence, balancing one foot in front of the other.
Never looking down, or left, or right.
From this distance, in this light, she is glorious to you.
Radiant fur, shining amber eyes full of heat.
She must be so soft. She must be so warm, to hold.
You want her to stop circling your legs.
You want, finally, to feel her climb into your lap.
Then, oh then. What you would do.
We both know what you would do.
And she would stretch herself luxuriously, under your touch.
And you would hear her purr, which is as rich and loud as you've imagined.
But also, after a little while, you would notice that she is not that glorious.
You would feel the grit in her fur. (She's been outside a long time.)
You would see, up close, that the shine and heat in her eyes is actually low-simmering fear.
And then, maybe, you would stop feeding her.
And she would feel the pinch of hunger more keenly than you would feel the loss of a temporary pet.
That is why it is hard for her to trade your legs for your lap.
Not that she wouldn't.
Not that she won't.
Fifty Irons In the Fire: An Irish Drinking Song
Young Patrick was preoccupied with his perfect plan--
"Gonna make a masterpiece, gonna be the man!"
Never did a lick of work, all he did was talk--
But talk's no match 'gainst the ticking of the clock!
Oh, let's raise a glass to the uninspiring ones!
To the losers and the quitters who will never get it done!
They poke, they stoke, fifty irons in the fire--
Naught gets done, but the flames get higher!
Now, Natty was a boastful boy, music was his thing--
"Just you wait until I'm done! All the world will sing!"
Meanwhile he just lay about, lazy to the last,
Jealous of the symphonies that his friends amassed!
Let's raise a glass to the uninspiring ones!
To the losers and the quitters who will never get it done!
They start, they stop, to succeed they do aspire--
But all they've got are fifty irons in the fire!
Then there was old Flannery, locked himself away--
Spent an hour on his craft, every single day!
Word by word and page by page, a novel did appear--
"It's wonderful what you can do, with eighty-seven years!"
So spare a thought for the uninspiring ones!
For the losers and the quitters who never got it done!
Years went by and the legend they acquired
Was thirty, forty, fifty useless irons in the fire!
Chicago Winter Haiku
1.
boot beaten, wheel whipped--
curb slush of black-tipped meringue
March's melt begins
2.
sidewalks get swallowed
by the soundlessness of snow
heel clicks and claps, hushed
3.
brittle bare twig trees
whisper of a wardrobe change:
floral dresses soon
4.
icicles at noon
give up drop after bright drop
brace yourself, sidewalk
5.
tail tucked, head hung low
elevator ride to doom
not all dogs love snow
6.
quarter-sized snowflakes
sifted from grey cloudshakers
one would fill a spoon
7.
pound ice to powder
blow it off your mittened palm
December's pollen
8.
slapping, choppy froth
someone is shaking the lake
spilling imminent
9.
pause in the foyer,
button up against the cold;
revolving doors whoosh
10.
the geese took the park
not even pit bulls go near
let's just surrender
11.
what are the skies like?
take cinderblocks soaked in milk
freeze, then thaw. voilà.
12.
bright bits of wool knits
mirrored in the silver bean
just don't lick it, please
13.
public ice skating:
teetering, staggering crowds;
handful of showoffs
14.
it comes down to this:
Ear Muffs, Hat, or Hooded Coat
find your team, players
Chicago Spring Haiku
1.
Overnight scene change--
Tulips. Tulips everywhere.
Crayon-bright bulbs flash.
2.
snow, winter's clean sheets
someone yanked off the covers
green grass grins, awakening
3.
on Wacker, LaSalle:
striped cafe awnings shudder,
shaking off frost's dust
4.
two yellow kayaks--
banana peels skimming by
Riverwalkers watch
5.
Pale Shoulder Seeks Sun
for no-strings spring freckling
Will u be my UV?
6.
gnat swarms at the lake
gulped happily by sparrows
by me, not so much
7.
branches in blossom
flirt with every passerby--
You know you want a photo.
Exhortation
Padlock of crystal sugar
dissolves
at the touch of your tongue.
Yours the sweeter gift by far,
unwrapped, I’m rapt,
here to be taught.
Violate the minutes.
Pin them down and
pull them like taffy.
Work them under
the heat of your palms —
— stretch them out.
We’ll call them hours,
and they’ll wear the lie
like a blindfold.
A torrent of answers to pour
out
in
words
or whispers
or screams.
Compatibility Chart
On a storm grey beach, beside the dark deep blue
I hug my knees in tight, let my thoughts swim through
You're just up coast, you're just a walk away
If the walk was walkable and not forty days
And the moon is pulling, and the tide is pushing
And I have no choice, despite all my wishing
There's five thousand stars, bright buttons in a clear black sky
But just one gem in the sand, waiting and sitting
And wondering why
They say you're the balance
They say you're the beauty
But I weigh what you say against what you do
And neither of me understands you
Every day the constellations are a map that I can trace
From the cross streets of my memory, where no lines have changed your face
And I know it's silly, and I know it's fake
But when it seems to fit it somehow stops the ache
They say we are right
They say we belong
But I can't write a duet solo
You have to sing along
Winter Nest
Thoughts of him
are a nest I can build in secret.
Twigs and string and downy feathers plucked from a winter coat.
High, high up. High-altitude hopes leave you little extra breath.
Still: enough to laugh.
I only allow myself night visits.
I climb up, up, up close to the disinterested stars that won't betray me.
Have to be careful. He could find it, easily. Child's play to him, such sleuthing.
Thoughts of him
are a nest I can sleep in at night.
Curled up tight, I'll fold my wings around the glow of a smile
that is a new source of warmth in this frozen wonderland.
The branches are bare except for this nest.
(Deciduous: it's all they sell around here.)
If I can just ride out the winter, come spring the buds and blooms will camouflage me
as, maybe, I bloom along with them.
Because You Didn’t, I Did
I'm staring at the white space bottom left of my last blue
But there's no three dots, no grey bubble transmission coming through
And the basket with your boxers doesn't have as much to say
As the snapshots that you strung above the pillows where we played
And the tie dye that you twisted stained a lot more than my shirt
Like checkered shoes, pacific eyes, like blackouts soft and blurred
I've been waiting for so long to hear the song I thought I earned
But it seems there's none forthcoming, so this is what I've learned
All the things you love
And all the things you hate
Stay bottled up until it's bottoms up
And then it's much too late
And you can buy more keyboards
And you can remix lies
But what's the point of keeping up
A songwriter's disguise?
You packed up all your baggies, took your Herschels and my heart
Found a forest cold and clean where you can make a brand new start
And someday maybe sunshine and my love will bring you back
Until then here's to finding and then writing a new track
Cuz all the things you love
And all the things you hate
Stay bottled up until it's bottoms up
And you can't think or see straight
And you can stitch new patches
On pants you've long outgrown
But you're much too good a tailor
To tear up what’s been sewn
In a Day
A toddler leans out of his stroller, pointing and shouting,
delighted with something he sees or
demanding directions at his nanny --
I'm not sure which.
His grey-haired guardian,
unrelated but nevertheless tethered to the tiny tyrant,
leans in to listen. To accommodate his mood.
An old woman boards the bus, all in white.
Like a bride coming down the aisle she moves past us
looking only at an empty seat in the back.
We twist our bodies to give her room.
Graceful solitude: carrying all that she needs within her.
And me.
Some days I feel invisible
because I've made myself that way, and it is a relief.
Other days I'd like to point the way
and have someone drive and listen and accommodate.
