Hello, Kitty,

sitting on a teardrop toolbench,

a hammer for the heart,

and one other for the eardrum.

A mallet for the toes to keep on feet and then run round.

A tape measure for the heartstrings, from heart down to ring finger.

Hello Kitty,

Hello, dear.

A glass for keeping eyes in -

No, a face as perfect as glass.

No hammer yet can break it,

But that of the Iron Man

Duct tape for the blood cells

for fixing holes for swimming

No crashing

crashing

crashing dandies

Lovely in their clothes.

What would you have to eat, sir?

One choice, not two, but one?

This one, or the other?

Still one it is, and one will choose, unless one chooses not

No, not

Choose not and you have no choice but to choose one

There's nothing

Nothing better than the umbrella that you carry

To keep in the sun

As a bowl keeps water
Oh, mine music, that sings only like puzzles can

And then tables tip
And left alone again is the teardrop
And left alone again is the toolbench...

One look was all it took. I didn’t want to look away. Even when the cart next over creaked as it turned and caught on wood, I didn’t want to. But I had my book in my hands, and had no more excuses. So I turned away with my fantasy, away from my real one.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead.
Left on the doorstep,
with one newspaper in hand.
Laughing at her!
All of the children laugh with me.
What a thing to say to them, too!
“My, my, my,” says she,
“What a pretty doggie! Yes!”

They sat together on the park bench with a backpack in between them.
“So, what do you think you’ll do now?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know… maybe write some, under a pen name. Maybe paint.”
“That’s all good, but… what about the cops?”
“Screw them. They can’t have my backpack.”

To Celebrate

Two women, bundled
and swaddled like newborns
celebrate,
alike in structure and in
disposition,
the day that light finally
held them and fed them
bread
baked in the dark.

(Inspired by Sleeping Twins by Odd Nerdrum)

All the smiles betray me.

LOL

One nodding,
on one desk lolling.
One          plus          one
                         is 2.
The voice tells them to --
Rub out the chocolate
curses, with salt
on their thumbs,
from their temples.
Granite feet, weighty
and dripping white
on their foreheads;
a temple built over
the temple ground.
Sacred secretions.
   What
happened?
A nod means yes.
   Up, down;
a nod means
       Yes.
But is it not strong to refuse?
To be with them when
they blot out   blue

tears

in the paper
of consciousness.
I refused the lol
-lipop
for a day of classes.

We Be Catching Giants

We pull and gasp, in short, an introduction

to sing the fray our tender ropes will burn.

Descendants ought to put their hands to function,

but never they the splitting end discern.

We shout of those we capture; lay at rest

when yet we still have not ourselves found peace.

In searching out the wave, we miss the crest,

And sit and stretch while eating false release.

Of power drunk’dness, say our foes, we are,

but blurry vision keeps our ears yet deaf.

The fires burn their truths, and seeing stars,

there’s nothing bright as black in charcoal left.

                Our reins are taut on broadly shouldered giants.

                The final pulls will be our dark’ning lights.

This is just a first draft of a sonnet for creative writing two. I won't tell you what I meant by it, because I will not always be present for my readers! But, yes. I think I will like this class.

In the Glory of the Morning

I bend over her

and watch her in bed.

Aaron taught me to be patient –

that the blue sticky umbrella petal

will always refuse to be rushed.

She sounds like an Eskimo kiss

with the slightest nuzzle of star ends,

and before even I can prepare,

hours seem like minutes

and I can taste Ipomoea purpurea

in the early sun-warmed air.

 

Exposed

At the height of spring,

there were seven eggs for me.

Hiding under the old great pine –

that I never thought would be gone,

but now is –

that was the best spot

if you had something

that you wouldn’t want found.

The needles stab at kids’ feet,

but it’s worth it even if there are no eggs

because that’s where the pink paper

walls hang from their roof

with the fluid clinging

of a pretty bleeding heart. 

 

Abortion

Mine is a gentle pull

on waves of royal blue

over a still, solid bottom.

I catch the ocean

in my cupped palm

and drink in liquid gold

from the heavens.

My greed is my demise,

but my children smile

because I have made them

whole again.

Until they are salty tears

of a mere sunflower,

they are alive.

 

In the tool shed!

He’d call to me,

with garden gloves

shaking stalks of –

something or other.

Sure as sun found sky,

he would make things grow.

I brought him scissors

in the summertime

to watch him shear away

sordid suckers of life,

the dandelions.

Dandy Lions

I pucker my lips

as they growl,

the panthers of the garden.

They are strong at root

and weak at seed.

It makes me feel strong,

just as they’d like.

A bowtie flies off too,

with a dandy flippancy.

These are "flower poems" from lit mag that I just found (looking for my best writing to submit to a competition tomorrow -- nervous!).  I really don't like them much, but I've decided to post them anyway because I like to have all of my writing in one place, where I can go back and revise it wherever I am. The last two I don't believe I ever turned in for credit, but they were just more fun for me.

Winged Regality

Somehow, she holds
a delicate balance in the air.
Not graceful—
she tips as if filled
with sloshing, sweet water—
but she stays above the dirt
until she's found her niche
in a colorful shoot that blooms
for her.
Still someday it will find itself
as a part of the honey-like soil
that breeds the air
of her flicker.