Upstairs room
Past the fright
Tiptoe quiet on this hungry night
Three small heads find their way without light
Down to the kitchen
into the fridge
Black is bright
Bathed in light
Toddle as they do
They make do
Cherry pie tonight.
All of us tight,
bunk bed sized room
blocking the only window light
string pulled tooth for her tonight.
Will she come,
‘Fraid not, she won’t fit.
Shelf in the kitchen will have to be it.
Bedtime is at eight
on every school night.
Hum of the TV and its glowing light
call us from our dreams
quiet as we might,
to sleep in the hall
just out of sight.
In between the kitchen
the living room
the hall and the laundry room,
is the Dinning room corner.
I spent most of my 11th summer there.
I don’t remember why
but the choice was clear,
busted rear
or the dinning room corner.
I used to gaze out the back door
at the yard sunshine bright
glimpses of brothers running with delight.
So entranced I was by the heavenly sight,
I didn’t notice my kid sister, stage right.
Her mouth opened wide
and the sound that ensued
shattered dreams of tomorrows
joining the brood.
Brothers
I had two.
As 9 came they were gone.
First one - then the other.
The first went to friends.
They treated him like a guest.
The second went to strangers.
They treated him like he was.
Dispatched like the creatures they were.
Mourned by the only heart that cared.
Just kids,
To know what’s right.
I promise, not to fight.
I’ll be good
I can stay out of sight.
Don’t send me away
Into that dark night.
Tears are full
And my chest is tight.
I’m very old now
And not afraid of the night.
Sometimes I wish
I had gone too.
Then I might not miss
The both of you.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Laundry
How did we beat the rock
to rinse from our skins
the days toils
to hunt and stretch more skins,
wanderer of lands, hunters
of the means of existence
aside brother, mother, son, or not,
all family of survival?
How did we scrub the cloth that clothed us;
in tubs on boards,
stretched out on glowing days
to catch sweet breezes
kissed by lavender and rose,
the same day as our neighbor,
shared baskets of time and space,
gossip and companionship?
A lost hour and a half,
forced by comforters and blankets
to stand alone
in a crowded laundry mat.
Machines horded with
hampers standing sentinel,
ancient rituals forgotten
to our invisible bubbles
that never touch.
Private worlds crammed
into front loading washers,
slaves to necessity,
woolen grime of poverty,
heavy blankets of shame,
baked in glass ovens,
sanitizing autoclaves.
Eyes that never rise
above the turning worlds within
to see our world around.
to rinse from our skins
the days toils
to hunt and stretch more skins,
wanderer of lands, hunters
of the means of existence
aside brother, mother, son, or not,
all family of survival?
How did we scrub the cloth that clothed us;
in tubs on boards,
stretched out on glowing days
to catch sweet breezes
kissed by lavender and rose,
the same day as our neighbor,
shared baskets of time and space,
gossip and companionship?
A lost hour and a half,
forced by comforters and blankets
to stand alone
in a crowded laundry mat.
Machines horded with
hampers standing sentinel,
ancient rituals forgotten
to our invisible bubbles
that never touch.
Private worlds crammed
into front loading washers,
slaves to necessity,
woolen grime of poverty,
heavy blankets of shame,
baked in glass ovens,
sanitizing autoclaves.
Eyes that never rise
above the turning worlds within
to see our world around.
Fall
So beautiful
are those distant hills,
washed red
and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins
of green, bristle
like a mans
unshaven face. Curves
softened by the damp
haze of clouds and mist, cool
air, quiet - the soft touch
of rain drops finding
the path to their very own
leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms
twisted together in knots,
older crowding out younger.
Young ones reaching thin bodies
higher to see the light, feel
the air, taste
the rain.
How many drops touch
my tongue
before I’m blinded
by the rain.
All I want to do is feel
the touch
on my face,
imagine each as a kiss, moist
lips follow a joyful tear,
But they’re cold,
And I’m old.
I can’t see those summer clouds anymore,
wonder about their softness.
what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.
So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills.
Could I fit them between my breasts?
are those distant hills,
washed red
and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins
of green, bristle
like a mans
unshaven face. Curves
softened by the damp
haze of clouds and mist, cool
air, quiet - the soft touch
of rain drops finding
the path to their very own
leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms
twisted together in knots,
older crowding out younger.
Young ones reaching thin bodies
higher to see the light, feel
the air, taste
the rain.
How many drops touch
my tongue
before I’m blinded
by the rain.
All I want to do is feel
the touch
on my face,
imagine each as a kiss, moist
lips follow a joyful tear,
But they’re cold,
And I’m old.
I can’t see those summer clouds anymore,
wonder about their softness.
what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.
So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills.
Could I fit them between my breasts?
The Shave
“Relax.”
When they were first married,
she sat on the counter as he lathered,
and made faces in the mirror,
She watched -
curious,
interested, wanting
to be part of it. Watched
as he piled thick cream in his hand, spread
with fingertips down his jaw, across
his chin, as he buried the weekend’s passion
beneath the purity of white.
She watched –
As he folded
lips together; sensitive explorers that travel softly
over hills and valleys, backed by blades,
tenuous threats,
mounting tension.
She watched –
As he warmed his razor beneath the stream of hot
water. Mourned each whisker
as it washed down the drain, gently caressed
his face;
the smooth skin,
the occasional errant whisker,
stretched up to take in his clean scent
hand studied against his chest,
his soul drawn to the radiant warmth
spread
past the bonds of time, as he searches
her wondering eyes.
Resonance of remembrance reaches deep.
“It might be fun.”
Eyes closed,
Her warm hands test,
light touch fondles the stubble of growth,
gently massages the skin.
Her shadow circles his chair;
to be at her mercy,
the echo of her touch clings like a warm breeze.
“shhhhhh”, water in the sink; her breathy
whisper,
she holds a warm moist
cloth to his face,
cradling him between her hands,
As she has always held him;
between breaths.
he can feel the press of her legs
at his knees
and opens
to give her more room, breathes
in the moist
air with the scent of her hair -
so close.
his hands
pat nervously on his thighs
feeling their own mind, a strand of her hair
tickles his cheek as she leans in, her lips
soft and delicate, still holding his face.
His hands find themselves on the back of her thighs,
still reaching as she backs away.
“Relax”.
When they were first married,
she sat on the counter as he lathered,
and made faces in the mirror,
She watched -
curious,
interested, wanting
to be part of it. Watched
as he piled thick cream in his hand, spread
with fingertips down his jaw, across
his chin, as he buried the weekend’s passion
beneath the purity of white.
She watched –
As he folded
lips together; sensitive explorers that travel softly
over hills and valleys, backed by blades,
tenuous threats,
mounting tension.
She watched –
As he warmed his razor beneath the stream of hot
water. Mourned each whisker
as it washed down the drain, gently caressed
his face;
the smooth skin,
the occasional errant whisker,
stretched up to take in his clean scent
hand studied against his chest,
his soul drawn to the radiant warmth
spread
past the bonds of time, as he searches
her wondering eyes.
Resonance of remembrance reaches deep.
“It might be fun.”
Eyes closed,
Her warm hands test,
light touch fondles the stubble of growth,
gently massages the skin.
Her shadow circles his chair;
to be at her mercy,
the echo of her touch clings like a warm breeze.
“shhhhhh”, water in the sink; her breathy
whisper,
she holds a warm moist
cloth to his face,
cradling him between her hands,
As she has always held him;
between breaths.
he can feel the press of her legs
at his knees
and opens
to give her more room, breathes
in the moist
air with the scent of her hair -
so close.
his hands
pat nervously on his thighs
feeling their own mind, a strand of her hair
tickles his cheek as she leans in, her lips
soft and delicate, still holding his face.
His hands find themselves on the back of her thighs,
still reaching as she backs away.
“Relax”.
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