transparent
Every time it rains
I want to be
a child again.
I want to believe
that I can dodge
the starting drops
and not get wet.
I open my arms
to the sky
and soak it in.
Twirling,
I conjure
the days
before experience
made magic
transparent.
30 November 2009
29 November 2009
oneword #29 cello
cello
Many years ago,
Freeman Butts canvassed nudes
in his loft above Bozeman’s Main Street.
Forty years of practice heralded
this outlining of bold young
women in minutes
for gallery shows,
for commissions,
for sale.
Forty years
of legs, arms, heads and torsos
necks going this way, tilting just so.
He called Kate’s back a cello
while painting her yogic form
in bold cyan strokes.
Her brown hair curled
beneath a bowler
and a smile slowly spread
between her cheeks.
Freeman’s wife Daisy
brewed cranberry tea
and served cookies
halfway through
each sitting.
That day,
her eyes twinkled
as she revealed
Freeman’s expertise
with the cello,
giving surface
to the depth
of their love.
Many years ago,
Freeman Butts canvassed nudes
in his loft above Bozeman’s Main Street.
Forty years of practice heralded
this outlining of bold young
women in minutes
for gallery shows,
for commissions,
for sale.
Forty years
of legs, arms, heads and torsos
necks going this way, tilting just so.
He called Kate’s back a cello
while painting her yogic form
in bold cyan strokes.
Her brown hair curled
beneath a bowler
and a smile slowly spread
between her cheeks.
Freeman’s wife Daisy
brewed cranberry tea
and served cookies
halfway through
each sitting.
That day,
her eyes twinkled
as she revealed
Freeman’s expertise
with the cello,
giving surface
to the depth
of their love.
28 November 2009
oneword #28 slipper
slipper
The storyteller fabricates
a fairy godmother
to make dreams come true.
Readers believe in magic
as Cinderella is swept to the ball.
Everything runs smooth as silk
until the clock strikes midnight
and our princess loses a crystal pump
in a rush to catch the coach before it
reverts to its squashy self.
Suddenly the story turns peculiar
when the Prince tempts foot after foot
across the kingdom into this glass slipper.
It is tricky to believe in a Prince who
hopes to recognize his one true love
not through her magic pulsing presence
but by perfect fit of foot to shoe.
What is a girl to do?
The storyteller fabricates
a fairy godmother
to make dreams come true.
Readers believe in magic
as Cinderella is swept to the ball.
Everything runs smooth as silk
until the clock strikes midnight
and our princess loses a crystal pump
in a rush to catch the coach before it
reverts to its squashy self.
Suddenly the story turns peculiar
when the Prince tempts foot after foot
across the kingdom into this glass slipper.
It is tricky to believe in a Prince who
hopes to recognize his one true love
not through her magic pulsing presence
but by perfect fit of foot to shoe.
What is a girl to do?
27 November 2009
oneword #27 pumpkins
pumpkins
Pumpkins are coaches
and poor girls wed princes.
Mermaids grow legs
and mice clean the dishes.
Fairytale females
need fixes and wishes
to take them away from
a life that is princeless.
Fairytale males
use powerful kisses
to wake feeble girls
and make them their Mrs.
Pumpkins are coaches
and poor girls wed princes.
Mermaids grow legs
and mice clean the dishes.
Fairytale females
need fixes and wishes
to take them away from
a life that is princeless.
Fairytale males
use powerful kisses
to wake feeble girls
and make them their Mrs.
26 November 2009
oneword #26 thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
the past is part of the present
the future is part of the present
~John Trudell
It was during the week of my 48th Thanksgiving
that I read about English colonists
digging up a basket of Wampanoag corn
and taking it home with them.
My education brought
brown construction paper headbands
sporting colorful feathers.
Black buckled hats topped
the heads of the conquerors.
Consider this:
Pilgrims seek religious freedom.
English colonists impose rule upon a people.
Aggressors or persecuted seekers of freedom?
Guilt incites indignance.
It’s not our fault, it happened over a century ago.
English colonists intentionally began a process of elimination.
Its insidious residue poisons and persists.
Kill the Indian, Save the Child!
Turn them into the shadows of white kids
copies of the ethnic rich.
It lives in you. It lives in me.
Listen for it. Be aware.
The past is part of the present.
The present is part of the future.
Colonists, dirty corn thieves, pilgrims, you, me.
Us.
Them.
the past is part of the present
the future is part of the present
~John Trudell
It was during the week of my 48th Thanksgiving
that I read about English colonists
digging up a basket of Wampanoag corn
and taking it home with them.
My education brought
brown construction paper headbands
sporting colorful feathers.
Black buckled hats topped
the heads of the conquerors.
Consider this:
Pilgrims seek religious freedom.
English colonists impose rule upon a people.
Aggressors or persecuted seekers of freedom?
Guilt incites indignance.
It’s not our fault, it happened over a century ago.
English colonists intentionally began a process of elimination.
Its insidious residue poisons and persists.
Kill the Indian, Save the Child!
Turn them into the shadows of white kids
copies of the ethnic rich.
It lives in you. It lives in me.
Listen for it. Be aware.
The past is part of the present.
The present is part of the future.
Colonists, dirty corn thieves, pilgrims, you, me.
Us.
Them.
25 November 2009
oneword #25 banjo
banjo
Rojo plays a banjo
his talons pull the strings
and every time the music starts
young Maria sings.
Rojo learns a new song
as Maria combs her hair.
She hears a twang of sorrow
from a bird inside a lair.
Maria feels the pain he plays.
She slowly lifts the latch,
then opens doors and windows
setting free her catch.
Rojo looks her in the eye,
his pupils shrink and grow.
He says hello, I love you
and then he says Freak Show.
She closes up the windows
and she closes up the doors.
She loves Rojo, he makes her glow,
he snores her papa’s snores.
Rojo plays a banjo
his talons pull the strings
and every time the music starts
young Maria sings.
Rojo plays a banjo
his talons pull the strings
and every time the music starts
young Maria sings.
Rojo learns a new song
as Maria combs her hair.
She hears a twang of sorrow
from a bird inside a lair.
Maria feels the pain he plays.
She slowly lifts the latch,
then opens doors and windows
setting free her catch.
Rojo looks her in the eye,
his pupils shrink and grow.
He says hello, I love you
and then he says Freak Show.
She closes up the windows
and she closes up the doors.
She loves Rojo, he makes her glow,
he snores her papa’s snores.
Rojo plays a banjo
his talons pull the strings
and every time the music starts
young Maria sings.
oneword #24 needle
needle
Roost inside your quilt of love
hide deep within its folds
the quilt will start to fill you up
and resurrect your soul.
Needle me a quilt of love
to wrap around my breast,
craft it from the articles
inside my cedar chest.
Jackets from my childhood,
the dress you used to wear,
when Joseph was a soldier
and you taught me about prayer.
Clothing that we wore through
days we never thought we’d see,
days of fire and brimstone,
days depleted of all glee,
days we loved each other,
days we walked the trails,
deep into the forest
where the deer and fox prevailed.
Use some of the hair I saved
from Joseph’s long black braid
stitch it in the batting
of the quilt you never made.
Take pieces of the red dress
the undertaker used
to lay you in your casket
your rouged cheeks looking bruised.
Thread them in the center
of a radiating sun
to wrap me up in silence
when another day is done.
This is what you told me,
this is what you said
about the power of a quilt of love
and now you lie there, dead.
Roost inside your quilt of love
hide deep within its folds
the quilt will start to fill you up
and resurrect your soul.
Roost inside your quilt of love
hide deep within its folds
the quilt will start to fill you up
and resurrect your soul.
Needle me a quilt of love
to wrap around my breast,
craft it from the articles
inside my cedar chest.
Jackets from my childhood,
the dress you used to wear,
when Joseph was a soldier
and you taught me about prayer.
Clothing that we wore through
days we never thought we’d see,
days of fire and brimstone,
days depleted of all glee,
days we loved each other,
days we walked the trails,
deep into the forest
where the deer and fox prevailed.
Use some of the hair I saved
from Joseph’s long black braid
stitch it in the batting
of the quilt you never made.
Take pieces of the red dress
the undertaker used
to lay you in your casket
your rouged cheeks looking bruised.
Thread them in the center
of a radiating sun
to wrap me up in silence
when another day is done.
This is what you told me,
this is what you said
about the power of a quilt of love
and now you lie there, dead.
Roost inside your quilt of love
hide deep within its folds
the quilt will start to fill you up
and resurrect your soul.
23 November 2009
oneword #23 stripes
stripes
Rows of bugs
rise in rainbow stripes
splicing the draw up
highway 87
with yellow red arcs
the wipers spread.
Rows of bugs
rise in rainbow stripes
splicing the draw up
highway 87
with yellow red arcs
the wipers spread.
22 November 2009
oneword #22 windmill
windmill
The body’s windmill
is a soul turbine
swirling a cadenza
of zephyrs and tornadoes
that spin out from
solar plexus centered blades.
Leitmotifs,
they rotate
life's resonance.
The body’s windmill
is a soul turbine
swirling a cadenza
of zephyrs and tornadoes
that spin out from
solar plexus centered blades.
Leitmotifs,
they rotate
life's resonance.
21 November 2009
oneword # 21 overflowing
Overflowing
for m. l. smoker
The Poet moves
through the room
wearing a glove of numbers
devastating to her people.
Again and again
her hands hit the mic
clipped to her neckline
bumping words
as she weaves a trail
of misery and injustice.
Some words cannot be spoken.
Her tears cover us
with American Indian suicide statistics
for children in our state.
Eighteen, last year.
Totals arrived at
in rooms behind doors,
take shape in faces
forgotten, not seen.
Lives swept under rugs.
Visages swim
through the room,
diving into the saltwater sea of guilt
held at bay with centuries
of deliberate diseducation
designed to drown voices,
designed to make dead.
The Poet glimmers
beneath numbers,
opening channels
for hope to flow.
for m. l. smoker
The Poet moves
through the room
wearing a glove of numbers
devastating to her people.
Again and again
her hands hit the mic
clipped to her neckline
bumping words
as she weaves a trail
of misery and injustice.
Some words cannot be spoken.
Her tears cover us
with American Indian suicide statistics
for children in our state.
Eighteen, last year.
Totals arrived at
in rooms behind doors,
take shape in faces
forgotten, not seen.
Lives swept under rugs.
Visages swim
through the room,
diving into the saltwater sea of guilt
held at bay with centuries
of deliberate diseducation
designed to drown voices,
designed to make dead.
The Poet glimmers
beneath numbers,
opening channels
for hope to flow.
20 November 2009
oneword #20 handle
handle
Banish that bulging love handle!
Debag those eyes!
Wish it! See it! Be it!
Fashion a physical facade.
A beauty drug—
an empty aesthetic
that sculpts on demand.
The canvas approaches genius.
Reflections’ impressions weld mirrored eyes,
transforming imperfections.
Go ahead,
focus on frivolity.
Supplant self with appearance.
Banish that bulging love handle!
Debag those eyes!
Wish it! See it! Be it!
Fashion a physical facade.
A beauty drug—
an empty aesthetic
that sculpts on demand.
The canvas approaches genius.
Reflections’ impressions weld mirrored eyes,
transforming imperfections.
Go ahead,
focus on frivolity.
Supplant self with appearance.
19 November 2009
oneword #19 eternal
eternal
practice optimism
to salve adversity
disseminate it
through your pores
positive thoughts
plague the pessimist
illuminating darkness
reverberating deep in bones
unleashing the eternal
practice optimism
to salve adversity
disseminate it
through your pores
positive thoughts
plague the pessimist
illuminating darkness
reverberating deep in bones
unleashing the eternal
17 November 2009
oneword #18 lane
lane
lane becomes leap
when rocks crop up
sending lovers over the edge
relinquishing the other
in hopes to cruise the lane again
with a brand new lover
lane becomes leap
when rocks crop up
sending lovers over the edge
relinquishing the other
in hopes to cruise the lane again
with a brand new lover
15 November 2009
oneword # 16 sugar
Sugar
sugar and spice
and a throw of the dice
circumstance comes with a price
fate and chance
a push-and-pull dance
actions transform happenstance
sugar and spice
and a throw of the dice
circumstance comes with a price
fate and chance
a push-and-pull dance
actions transform happenstance
14 November 2009
oneword # 15 chicken
chicken
Cheryl’s constant attack on the others
made wringing her neck easy.
That left sweet Sheila, Gita,
funny little Francis, and Mabel.
Yadi did not have the heart for more slaughter.
Gita’s eyes held reproach,
Francis ran circles round his feet,
Sheila shuddered on the passenger seat.
Screeching, Mabel charged Yadi.
She was the next to go.
Grabbing her by the neck
with both hands, Yadi
stepped out of the bus
and wrung it.
Two down, three to go.
Five years earlier Randy, Jim and Pryor
converted Phil’s old VW bus
into a coop for the chickens
each roommate purchased
and named for his mother.
Since that day, Randy and Yadi
turned cooking eggs into art.
Every day the men devoured eggs.
Strata, soufflés, quiche, and frittatas
scrambled, over easy, and baked.
When the city condemned their house,
they chose to make a meal of their momma hens.
Randy, Jim, and Phil held the three remaining girls.
Yadi and Pryor sang a whacked out version
of the Ozark Mountain Darevdevil’s Chicken Train
while three necks twisted then
simultaneously snapped.
The men settled in to plucking the birds
and telling tales
about these five feathered friends.
Too much wine with dinner
led to turn-taking
with sledge hammers
to bash the bus in.
Randy squawked
a fine imitation of Francis,
flapping his arms
and dancing circles
through their yard.
Yadi chanted and started a fire in the pit.
The five of them sat
facing flame, feeding it,
filling it with wood and stories,
watching one another
drum the earth
until dawn
colored the edges
of the sky.
Two days later,
right before dusk,
the fire department
burned their house
to the ground.
From across the street,
the men watched it disappear.
Yadi said,
“If I was God,
I would be fire.
Fire keeps people humble.
Fire leaves only ash.
Fire annihilates with no remorse.”
Then his voice broke.
Yadi grabbed his head in both hands and said,
“I cannot tell my mother I ate Gita for dinner.”
Cheryl’s constant attack on the others
made wringing her neck easy.
That left sweet Sheila, Gita,
funny little Francis, and Mabel.
Yadi did not have the heart for more slaughter.
Gita’s eyes held reproach,
Francis ran circles round his feet,
Sheila shuddered on the passenger seat.
Screeching, Mabel charged Yadi.
She was the next to go.
Grabbing her by the neck
with both hands, Yadi
stepped out of the bus
and wrung it.
Two down, three to go.
Five years earlier Randy, Jim and Pryor
converted Phil’s old VW bus
into a coop for the chickens
each roommate purchased
and named for his mother.
Since that day, Randy and Yadi
turned cooking eggs into art.
Every day the men devoured eggs.
Strata, soufflés, quiche, and frittatas
scrambled, over easy, and baked.
When the city condemned their house,
they chose to make a meal of their momma hens.
Randy, Jim, and Phil held the three remaining girls.
Yadi and Pryor sang a whacked out version
of the Ozark Mountain Darevdevil’s Chicken Train
while three necks twisted then
simultaneously snapped.
The men settled in to plucking the birds
and telling tales
about these five feathered friends.
Too much wine with dinner
led to turn-taking
with sledge hammers
to bash the bus in.
Randy squawked
a fine imitation of Francis,
flapping his arms
and dancing circles
through their yard.
Yadi chanted and started a fire in the pit.
The five of them sat
facing flame, feeding it,
filling it with wood and stories,
watching one another
drum the earth
until dawn
colored the edges
of the sky.
Two days later,
right before dusk,
the fire department
burned their house
to the ground.
From across the street,
the men watched it disappear.
Yadi said,
“If I was God,
I would be fire.
Fire keeps people humble.
Fire leaves only ash.
Fire annihilates with no remorse.”
Then his voice broke.
Yadi grabbed his head in both hands and said,
“I cannot tell my mother I ate Gita for dinner.”
13 November 2009
oneword #14 kraal
This is a piece that I wrote last November. I'd love to know what you think of it, so I thought I'd send it for a ride on the Monday Poetry Train.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For this oneword, I let my trusty purple dictionary fall open to a page, and blindly placed my finger upon an entry.
kraal
Seven elephant calves
came together in Mboro’s kraal.
Rivers ran from eyes
through day’s dust
on rough gray skin.
Men who smelt of salt and shit
pulled and pushed them miles
with talk of a traveling circus
running along the beaches of the Indian Ocean
away from their vanishing parade of female Elders.
Who would teach them to be elephants?
The young ones’ trunks
snaked each other’s hides
ears flapping to the wind-garbled
trumpet of the Matriarch
as she gathered a battalion of Cows to rescue
the children of their murdered cousins.
The Ladies encircled the grass hut
in which every man was sleeping off
a wild night’s whiskey—dead to the world
The Madams moved in.
They stomped the men
until their carcasses combined
with soil, and thatching grass,
becoming one flattened mass.
The oldest Cows freed the seven young elephants
pulling boards from the walls of the kraal.
Stopping miles from men,
the Crons' trunks caress
every inch of the seven rescued ones
liberated this night the wind
carried stories through the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For this oneword, I let my trusty purple dictionary fall open to a page, and blindly placed my finger upon an entry.
kraal
Seven elephant calves
came together in Mboro’s kraal.
Rivers ran from eyes
through day’s dust
on rough gray skin.
Men who smelt of salt and shit
pulled and pushed them miles
with talk of a traveling circus
running along the beaches of the Indian Ocean
away from their vanishing parade of female Elders.
Who would teach them to be elephants?
The young ones’ trunks
snaked each other’s hides
ears flapping to the wind-garbled
trumpet of the Matriarch
as she gathered a battalion of Cows to rescue
the children of their murdered cousins.
The Ladies encircled the grass hut
in which every man was sleeping off
a wild night’s whiskey—dead to the world
The Madams moved in.
They stomped the men
until their carcasses combined
with soil, and thatching grass,
becoming one flattened mass.
The oldest Cows freed the seven young elephants
pulling boards from the walls of the kraal.
Stopping miles from men,
the Crons' trunks caress
every inch of the seven rescued ones
liberated this night the wind
carried stories through the sky.
12 November 2009
oneword # 13 virtual
Virtual
This blog’s fish are not actual fish.
Virtual fish don’t need food
yet some of you find yourselves
furiously clicking the waters
of the feed the fish app
where virtual fish
rise to the surface in virtual ripples
as they virtually devour
the little black specks
your clicking creates on the screen.
What is it that makes you keep clicking?
Virtual gratification?
This blog’s fish are not actual fish.
Virtual fish don’t need food
yet some of you find yourselves
furiously clicking the waters
of the feed the fish app
where virtual fish
rise to the surface in virtual ripples
as they virtually devour
the little black specks
your clicking creates on the screen.
What is it that makes you keep clicking?
Virtual gratification?
11 November 2009
oneword #12 cone
Cone
disown Simone
lone roan Cone
bone tone alone, drone
bemoan
atone
postpone lone
telephone zone
groan, Cone, moan
condone cologne
Simone shone
throne Simone
disown Simone
lone roan Cone
bone tone alone, drone
bemoan
atone
postpone lone
telephone zone
groan, Cone, moan
condone cologne
Simone shone
throne Simone
10 November 2009
oneword #11 gallop
gallop
ecto my hyster
take my womb from me
its wander is a gallop
and its bleeding is too free
ecto my hyster
take my womb from me
its wander is a gallop
and its bleeding is too free
09 November 2009
oneword #10 headband
Headband
Jenny ran her hand through her hair.
She was late, again.
Rummaging through the bathroom drawer,
she found a leather-tooled headband
and ran out the door.
Driving across town, she considered and reconsidered
her decision to love Jason until the end of time.
She parked at the group home, turned off the car
and felt the headache launch.
It intensified on her way into work.
Marnie Zent noticed her first.
“You!” she said, flinging a claw-like fist in the air.
Marnie got up real close, and peered into Jenny’s eyes.
She backed away, then thrust her arm out again. “You!”
With her head in her hands, Jenny said,
“Something’s wrong. My head feels like it going to explode!”
It was determined that Jenny should not drive.
Jason arrived 15 minutes later,
“You”, Marnie Zent said, flinging her fist toward Jason.
Jenny collapsed into Jason’s arms,
lamenting the excruciating ache.
She worried about the future,
and if she would even live to see it.
Maybe she should stay with Jason,
Maybe this was a sign.
She settled into the passenger seat of his BMW
and procured the comb from her visor.
The moment that Jenny
took off her headband
to run the comb through her hair,
the searing pain ceased.
After some time passed,
Jenny and Jason split the sheets.
Jenny won the coveted title of Miss Gay Missoula,
and later married a long hair
with small holes tattooed on his jugular vein.
They moved to Las Vegas
where she currently teaches third grade.
Jenny ran her hand through her hair.
She was late, again.
Rummaging through the bathroom drawer,
she found a leather-tooled headband
and ran out the door.
Driving across town, she considered and reconsidered
her decision to love Jason until the end of time.
She parked at the group home, turned off the car
and felt the headache launch.
It intensified on her way into work.
Marnie Zent noticed her first.
“You!” she said, flinging a claw-like fist in the air.
Marnie got up real close, and peered into Jenny’s eyes.
She backed away, then thrust her arm out again. “You!”
With her head in her hands, Jenny said,
“Something’s wrong. My head feels like it going to explode!”
It was determined that Jenny should not drive.
Jason arrived 15 minutes later,
“You”, Marnie Zent said, flinging her fist toward Jason.
Jenny collapsed into Jason’s arms,
lamenting the excruciating ache.
She worried about the future,
and if she would even live to see it.
Maybe she should stay with Jason,
Maybe this was a sign.
She settled into the passenger seat of his BMW
and procured the comb from her visor.
The moment that Jenny
took off her headband
to run the comb through her hair,
the searing pain ceased.
After some time passed,
Jenny and Jason split the sheets.
Jenny won the coveted title of Miss Gay Missoula,
and later married a long hair
with small holes tattooed on his jugular vein.
They moved to Las Vegas
where she currently teaches third grade.
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