the god of winter

It's very cold in deep south

Texas tonight---a place noted

more for its totally uncalled for

summer heat. They say it may

freeze tonight. The following is

from another winter here, eight

years ago.

I rush from my car
to reach the refuge
of my cozy little house

wind blows coldness

up against my soul

layers and layers
of clothing

skin and bone and fat

no defense against this

biting visitor

trampling downcast leaves
beneath my feet
golden yellow
mottled brown
discouraged green
I hurry up the path
but still can't help
but notice

the butter yellow

papaya flowers fallen

sadly to the ground

potential destroyed

fruit unborn

sacrificed on an icy altar
to the cruel god of winter...

* * * * * * *

doing dishes

This was inspired by a friend, a much older woman, who had endured a fifty year marriage. She had a bit of a temper, and there were just times...well, when she found it extremely helpful to hurl a dish against the stone wall of her little house. She told me that she'd buy cheap plates at the thrift store, just to have them on hand for this purpose so she wouldn't have to waste her good ones.

go break a dish

go throw a dish

against the wall

and let it shower

you in a satisfying

barrage of destruction

you can't take your life

(or your marriage)

and hurl it with all

your might

against a wall

or throw it over a cliff

or put it down the garbage disposal

so, go throw a dish

or two or three

or more

and enjoy what you can...

* * * * * * *

best friends

and so they jumped

off the golden gate

knowing they'd meet again

somewhere

maybe in hell

maybe in a movie

or maybe in a book

like thelma and louise

they were outlaws

but just hadn't broken

any laws yet

except the unwritten law

which says

you must be good girls

you must be bland girls

you must be

life support systems

for the only thing you own

that really matters

and so they jumped

off the golden gate

leaving giant bras

and licorice cats

and fountain pens

and plastic dishes

and old old dolls

and mountains

of things behind them

their legacy of things collected

piled up around them

as the emptiness stayed

inside them...

* * * * * * *

Back in 2002, my friend Linda Sue,

who lives at the opposite end of

the country, and I exchanged a ton

of emails, playing with poetry, testing

our wings. We both bought and sold

things on ebay, like the things mentioned

in the poem and we were both inveterate

collectors of all manner of junk! Neither one

of us ever intended real suicide.

the poetry closet

(click on photo to enlarge)

i opened the door
of the closet
ever-so-slowly
taking care
not to awaken
the sleeping voice
of a rusty hinge
making sure
there was nothing
too dangerous
lurking outside
waiting to
snap me up
crush me
grind me
into pulp
in the grip
of yellow teeth

my hiding place
was dark
filled with the
musty odor
of poems
too long
held inside
and the
dusty air
made it hard
for me
to breathe

through the
tiny opening
i quickly noticed
that there
seemed to be
nothing or no one
paying the
slightest attention
to that
sturdy
closet door

so, with only
the slightest hesitation
i threw
the door open
letting the light
pour in
on me
and the
dusty treasures
i had guarded
for so long

then i stepped
in the most
determined way
out of that
gloomy
sanctuary
(or had it
been a prison?)
and came
out of the closet
at last...

* * * * * * *

green stamps

she dreamed of redemption
wondering if she could
dig out all her old memories
(nearly forgotten
in a drawer somewhere
curled
and discolored
with age
some of them stuck
together in layers)
and like so many
S & H green stamps
put them all together
in neat little books
and trade them in
for something better...

* * * * * *

For of those of you too young to
remember, green stamps
were given away at grocery stores,
gas stations, and the like back in
the fifties and sixties. People
saved them up and redeemed them
for all sorts of useful (and not so

useful) things.

roses again

her petals had fallen
but her spirit still rose
unbidden
at the drop
of a leaf
the flight of a raven
the scent of wood smoke
wafting
wafting
wafting
through her soul

the chill of autumn
promising more
the turning
of seasons
reminding her
of seasons turning
before
the passing away
of summer's dubious gifts
and resurrection
of calmness
and quiet

rose hips
plump
promising more
roses would bloom
and then blow away
petals dropping
curling
decaying
spirits rising
roses again...

* * * * * * *

the goldfish

i planted him today
fishy eye
staring as usual
how horrible
to spend your life
lidless
unable to shut out
unpleasantness
or to sleep in darkness

but he sleeps in
the dark now
buried
along with a cousin of his
beneath a bristly fern
ready to give
what is left
of himself
to a new life
just beginning

his body swims in
the dirt now
once-fluid tail
stiffened like
a corn husk
once-glimmering armor
tarnished and dull

out of his element
out of his body
I wonder if he's
paddling serenely
somewhere now
without the
delicate
little oars
he left behind...

* * * * * * *

tea towel blues

yeah, i got the tea towel blues
wondering who needs such things
so badly
and charming little
doggy and sailor
laundry bags
to give
to their wonderful
child who's going away
to college
never to return
to mama's lap again
only to discover
drugs and alcohol
and sexually transmitted
diseases

but let's be nice
and make our little play
worlds cuter
and more reassuring
by feathering our little
nesties
with all manner of things
no bird would have

let's listen to the buena vista
social club sing lushly
romantic bluesy
boozy
cigarette smokey roomy
cuban songs
with voices
aged
and
polished by
poverty

and let's be happy
for the small things
while they last
while we're here
and there
and still able
to feel...

* * * * * * *

sometimes ever after

This is about a place that my dear friend, Linda Sue, and I dreamed about going to in August, 2002.

They carried their bags
full of rocks and seashells,
driftwood and ocean-polished glass
and their shoes full of sand home,
where they decided to make
a magical wall with what
they had found on the beach.

It wouldn't be high, 
just a demarcation
of their territory,
a notice to all that this was theirs.
 
The magic would keep out
anyone who did not possess a key
to their minds and hearts,
but would allow entry to all
 
who aspired to gentleness,
who practiced kindness,
who spoke softly and let
their dogs carry the big sticks
for them.

Cats of every color
would sit on the wall,
and sleep on it,
and sing on it at night,
celebrating the moon
and their catness,
eyes glowing in the dark
with visions human eyes
failed to perceive,
feelings human hearts
could not contain.

People would sit there too,
and drink champagne from
chipped coffee mugs
and talk about
a different world,
a beautiful place
and laugh and pet the cats
and hope to live
happily sometimes
ever after...

* * * * * *