When Bibliobella turned 29
the villagers whispered Old Maid behind
her back, too cowardly to look into
her eyes and say it to her face. But, she
knew the secrets of the seasons. She knew
what herbs to use during childbirth. They've seen
her look at the moon like an accomplice.
They feared, yet were grateful for her whispers.
She lived resigned to knowledge and wisdom.
Paolo tended monastery grounds
pruning each tree as if it was a gift
wrapped in ribbons of sunlight. Bella first
saw him touching the leaves of a basil
plant reverently. He smelled hazelnuts
she hid in her pockets before he saw
her shadow, which moved when he noticed
a couple squirrels run past him. When they stood
separated by a row of basil
Bella saw eyes incomparably dark.
He placed a leaf in each palm. He cupped his
hands as if to hold a bowl. She bent her
head slowly and entered his pool of scent.
She murmured his name in three syllables.
They shared the arts of colors and stillness.
They shared their prayers, their herbs, and their essence.
When the Inquisition burned Bella's books
and forbade the villagers to ask her
for assistance, Bella ran to a row
of rocks. She started to recite a poem
three times in three different languages.
If she had finished her heart would have turned
over to pure revenge. Paolo sensed
this doom and drew birds flying in circles
to distract her. Embarrassed, sad, she ran
destined to live each moment as her last.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Bibliobella the Air Harmonica-ist
If Bibliobella hunches over
the stove while cooking pasta, Wonderpup
Rick knows instinctually what cures her.
He drops his red rubber ball, and brings her
an old invisible harmonica.
Bella unsleeves Rosalita vinyl.
When the needle touches the grooves she hears,
BRUUUUUUCE loud and long before her niece appears.
Sophia Superniece freezes into
John Travolta Saturday Night Fever
stance. Once the song starts she moonwalks. Aunt-B
blows the song as if born on E Street.
She holds her niece under her arms and swings
Sophia off the floor until she curls
into a ball on an air trampoline.
They turn tight sommersaults off the ceiling.
Ricky Wonderpup of the golden heart
basks in the sun on the front lawn. His ears
flap to the music as evidenced by
two grass patches, two feet apart, bouncing.
the stove while cooking pasta, Wonderpup
Rick knows instinctually what cures her.
He drops his red rubber ball, and brings her
an old invisible harmonica.
Bella unsleeves Rosalita vinyl.
When the needle touches the grooves she hears,
BRUUUUUUCE loud and long before her niece appears.
Sophia Superniece freezes into
John Travolta Saturday Night Fever
stance. Once the song starts she moonwalks. Aunt-B
blows the song as if born on E Street.
She holds her niece under her arms and swings
Sophia off the floor until she curls
into a ball on an air trampoline.
They turn tight sommersaults off the ceiling.
Ricky Wonderpup of the golden heart
basks in the sun on the front lawn. His ears
flap to the music as evidenced by
two grass patches, two feet apart, bouncing.
Bibliobella Before the Beginning
Bibliobella waited at the stake.
Her hands tied behind her back. Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from under her feet. A young girl
cried. Bibliobella heard a dog roar.
She met her fate screaming at an evil man
promoting the virtues of stupidity
to win an inquisitive position
about 500 or so years ago.
Before the smoke choked her she mouthed a poem
three times in three different languages.
A poem about herbs, knowledge, and magic.
When she stopped her eyes darkened as pure night.
In an alley drawing furiously
crouched a man with vestments of the clergy.
First, he outlined a painting. Then he drew
Bibliobella with bread in her hair.
Then he drew a symbol for great fire.
Next he drew a symbol for carved wood.
The crowd stirred as flames curved towards the clouds.
The crowd howled as blood-red sparks flew in waves.
Behind the chaos Bibliobella
melted from the stake hidden safely in
a drawing rolled into a tube and kissed twice.
Within the chaos the man threw the tube
next to the wooden effigy which smelled
of basil. He walked towards their village.
Her hands tied behind her back. Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from under her feet. A young girl
cried. Bibliobella heard a dog roar.
She met her fate screaming at an evil man
promoting the virtues of stupidity
to win an inquisitive position
about 500 or so years ago.
Before the smoke choked her she mouthed a poem
three times in three different languages.
A poem about herbs, knowledge, and magic.
When she stopped her eyes darkened as pure night.
In an alley drawing furiously
crouched a man with vestments of the clergy.
First, he outlined a painting. Then he drew
Bibliobella with bread in her hair.
Then he drew a symbol for great fire.
Next he drew a symbol for carved wood.
The crowd stirred as flames curved towards the clouds.
The crowd howled as blood-red sparks flew in waves.
Behind the chaos Bibliobella
melted from the stake hidden safely in
a drawing rolled into a tube and kissed twice.
Within the chaos the man threw the tube
next to the wooden effigy which smelled
of basil. He walked towards their village.
Bibliobella's Wonderpup
When Bibliobella dropped from canvas
nerves raw as if just birthed, a red rubber
ball trotted over to her. It wiggled
in mid-air as if attached to 20
pounds of happy wagging tail. Confused by
Ricky the Wonderpup's ghost appearance
she asked the taxi driver for answers.
He met his fate chasing the long black car
of an evil man promoting virtues
of stupidity to win elections.
Bella stared as she threw the ball again.
Buy, Ricky Wonderpup distracted her
from anger. Ricky Wonderpup grabbed her
attention at work. When she searched for hours
on the web for the key to happiness
she stoped to chase a ball through the book stacks.
Library patrons may feel a wagging
tail against their calves, but they won't mention it.
Sometimes when apathy tries to crowd her
she sits on her bedroom floor with her back
against bedposts and starts to throw the ball
against the wall. Emboldened by her sighs
Ricky Wonderpup rummages inside
the pantry for cookie sheets he brings her.
nerves raw as if just birthed, a red rubber
ball trotted over to her. It wiggled
in mid-air as if attached to 20
pounds of happy wagging tail. Confused by
Ricky the Wonderpup's ghost appearance
she asked the taxi driver for answers.
He met his fate chasing the long black car
of an evil man promoting virtues
of stupidity to win elections.
Bella stared as she threw the ball again.
Buy, Ricky Wonderpup distracted her
from anger. Ricky Wonderpup grabbed her
attention at work. When she searched for hours
on the web for the key to happiness
she stoped to chase a ball through the book stacks.
Library patrons may feel a wagging
tail against their calves, but they won't mention it.
Sometimes when apathy tries to crowd her
she sits on her bedroom floor with her back
against bedposts and starts to throw the ball
against the wall. Emboldened by her sighs
Ricky Wonderpup rummages inside
the pantry for cookie sheets he brings her.
Bibliobella's Superniece
When Bibliobella reshelves books she
hears the, Bend it Like Beckham soundtrack
as a soccer ball covered in stickers
barrels past her head and lands in children's
fiction. Between the L's and M's out hops
Sophia Superniece covered in mud
with dark brown eyes like a forest morning.
Bibliobella reads an instruction
manual for soccer as Sophia
practices hip-hop moves she learned at school.
Sophia is able to hop through books
because Aunt Bella informed the taxi
driver of family obligations.
With goal posts up they both run towards the ball.
hears the, Bend it Like Beckham soundtrack
as a soccer ball covered in stickers
barrels past her head and lands in children's
fiction. Between the L's and M's out hops
Sophia Superniece covered in mud
with dark brown eyes like a forest morning.
Bibliobella reads an instruction
manual for soccer as Sophia
practices hip-hop moves she learned at school.
Sophia is able to hop through books
because Aunt Bella informed the taxi
driver of family obligations.
With goal posts up they both run towards the ball.
Bibliobella the Comic Strip
Hanging inside Macrina Bakery
is a painting of a woman with bread
in her hair. She wears large gold earrings.
Her dark eyes are full of direct answers
and a new day's hot strike on the ocean.
Her first look is always out the window.
Late one night, when bread sponges rise, along
flies a worried woman behind the winged
wheel of a petite taxi cab. She's one
part Emily Dickinson one part
Tinkerbell. The Macrina painting winks,
shocks. The driver concludes her frantic search.
Imagine Mary Poppins in her cape.
Imagine Sophia Loren staring.
Imagine a mix of these two then welcome
Bibliobella, the SUPERHERO
LIBRARIAN. Freed from the dry confines
of canvas she scooters on a vespa
offering helpful hints about the card
catalog and best internet searches.
When alone she may remember basil.
When alone she wonders if first row seats
to Yankees games might be the better plan,
but what superhero doesn't daydream?
Her quest to save the world from apathy -
be Library of Congress champion.
is a painting of a woman with bread
in her hair. She wears large gold earrings.
Her dark eyes are full of direct answers
and a new day's hot strike on the ocean.
Her first look is always out the window.
Late one night, when bread sponges rise, along
flies a worried woman behind the winged
wheel of a petite taxi cab. She's one
part Emily Dickinson one part
Tinkerbell. The Macrina painting winks,
shocks. The driver concludes her frantic search.
Imagine Mary Poppins in her cape.
Imagine Sophia Loren staring.
Imagine a mix of these two then welcome
Bibliobella, the SUPERHERO
LIBRARIAN. Freed from the dry confines
of canvas she scooters on a vespa
offering helpful hints about the card
catalog and best internet searches.
When alone she may remember basil.
When alone she wonders if first row seats
to Yankees games might be the better plan,
but what superhero doesn't daydream?
Her quest to save the world from apathy -
be Library of Congress champion.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Gee Whiz Coffee Company - 1925 5th Avenue
Rainy said, God, I'm tired.
The same tired I feel each year
because you make me birth children
you turn into lawn chairs.
She continued, God, I'm tired
of your contractors feeding me fertility drugs
the same time each year
to make me birth children
you turn into lawn chairs.
She paused, looked south, and in a louder voice,
God, I'm angry
that your contractors cut me deep
and deeper each year,
rip all that almost grows from under my skin
leave me a cracked and dusty 'has been.'
God, Helen was angry.
She screamed so loud the earth shook.
When it's my turn to scream from the bruises
and scabs you forget, I won't just scream
I'll bleed.
The same tired I feel each year
because you make me birth children
you turn into lawn chairs.
She continued, God, I'm tired
of your contractors feeding me fertility drugs
the same time each year
to make me birth children
you turn into lawn chairs.
She paused, looked south, and in a louder voice,
God, I'm angry
that your contractors cut me deep
and deeper each year,
rip all that almost grows from under my skin
leave me a cracked and dusty 'has been.'
God, Helen was angry.
She screamed so loud the earth shook.
When it's my turn to scream from the bruises
and scabs you forget, I won't just scream
I'll bleed.
Bravo Espresso Court - Outside Tower Records Lower Queen Anne
For four months I stuck my gift certificate to my refrigerator
because for four months I knew this day would come.
I used planning and patience, an honest appraisal of my finances,
and a daily ritual of listening to 107.7 THE END.
I finally spend this gift certificate received
as a volunteer at Denny Place Homeless Youth Shelter.
Before most fans started their jobs
I had Pearl Jam's NO CODE in my walkman.
because for four months I knew this day would come.
I used planning and patience, an honest appraisal of my finances,
and a daily ritual of listening to 107.7 THE END.
I finally spend this gift certificate received
as a volunteer at Denny Place Homeless Youth Shelter.
Before most fans started their jobs
I had Pearl Jam's NO CODE in my walkman.
Bus Stop Espresso - 800 NE 65th
One day the sun drove her Alfa Romeo Spider convertible
with the top down
all over Seattle.
The clouds decided by consensus
that Sunny's brilliance was quite attractive.
They packed their drums and brass horns
into an old volkswagen van and followed her.
When Sunny saw them she sped behind the Cascade Mountains
because she never found security with musicians.
In their grief the clouds cried.
See their tears on the pavement
underneath rush hour traffic.
with the top down
all over Seattle.
The clouds decided by consensus
that Sunny's brilliance was quite attractive.
They packed their drums and brass horns
into an old volkswagen van and followed her.
When Sunny saw them she sped behind the Cascade Mountains
because she never found security with musicians.
In their grief the clouds cried.
See their tears on the pavement
underneath rush hour traffic.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
My Friend's Coffee House - 1619 Harbor Avenue
Before I walk in
I see the birdhouse
with the inscription,
For my best friend.
Inside the cafe
I see on the wall,
Sandwich of the Day -
Chicken.
I see the birdhouse
with the inscription,
For my best friend.
Inside the cafe
I see on the wall,
Sandwich of the Day -
Chicken.
A La Francaise - 415 1st Avenue South
Father Time's watch strikes 12
as Mother Nature inhales the aroma
of freshly baked bread.
I try to ignore them
since they argue about me.
They're loud and repetitious;
I blush, I'm embarrassed!
He thinks I need a career.
He thinks I must pay loans.
He thinks I need a house.
He thinks I must save and invest.
Mother Nature laughs in his face,
Find a career today - it will change tomorrow.
Pay off loans, but then where's the challenge?
Buying a house can only bring worries,
and since when is 'living' defined as 'saving.'
She needs to feel the sun warm her face,
dance among glorious Spring flowers,
sing with the birds, hop on a ferry boat,
and breathe each breath as if it's her first.
My embarrassment leaves as I stare at her
identifying a loaf based on smell.
I wish my senses could be so sharp,
and hope one day I'll be as the Mother.
as Mother Nature inhales the aroma
of freshly baked bread.
I try to ignore them
since they argue about me.
They're loud and repetitious;
I blush, I'm embarrassed!
He thinks I need a career.
He thinks I must pay loans.
He thinks I need a house.
He thinks I must save and invest.
Mother Nature laughs in his face,
Find a career today - it will change tomorrow.
Pay off loans, but then where's the challenge?
Buying a house can only bring worries,
and since when is 'living' defined as 'saving.'
She needs to feel the sun warm her face,
dance among glorious Spring flowers,
sing with the birds, hop on a ferry boat,
and breathe each breath as if it's her first.
My embarrassment leaves as I stare at her
identifying a loaf based on smell.
I wish my senses could be so sharp,
and hope one day I'll be as the Mother.
Espresso Roma - 4201 University Way NE
As I watch the barista pour
a latte with hazelnut syrup,
I don't know he's pouring
a mistake for me.
A tasty mistake,
but next time I'll ask,
So, the hazelnut syrup . . . is it free?
a latte with hazelnut syrup,
I don't know he's pouring
a mistake for me.
A tasty mistake,
but next time I'll ask,
So, the hazelnut syrup . . . is it free?
Parkside News Cafe - 2735 California Avenue SW
Art to someone
is a big purple nose
bigger than an espresso menu
and hanging on the wall.
I wonder at it's meaning
as I hear Oasis sing,
Wonderwall.
is a big purple nose
bigger than an espresso menu
and hanging on the wall.
I wonder at it's meaning
as I hear Oasis sing,
Wonderwall.
Diva's 7916 Greenwood Avenue North
I dismiss all rules of etiquette
and lean my head back while
the last luscious drop of latte foam
slithers down my throat.
I feel like a dahlia in July
waiting for rain
anticipating sweet
rejuvenation.
and lean my head back while
the last luscious drop of latte foam
slithers down my throat.
I feel like a dahlia in July
waiting for rain
anticipating sweet
rejuvenation.
Suicide Shorty
leaves the shelter at 10.
The night her dark stocking cap.
Her decision like a ripped hacky-sack.
Her future like the moon hidden by clouds;
some labeled memories, some adolescence.
On the bus Suicide eyes a generic
Help the Homeless sign and hears a loud
sarcastic man complain about property taxes.
She shivers.
The shelter staff ask, "What Will Happen?"
Suicide Shorty's friends hang out at motels.
They forget her real name
or what type of suicide she's tried.
She's good to look at and feel
when they're bored. They decided she's
a bedroom token: body fluids on sheets,
cigarettes burning in an ashtray.
The shelter staff ask, "What are your options?"
She waits for the sun to rise.
Scratches her head and picks a scab from her legs.
Suicide dreams of money, twinkies, an empty room,
and a black sports car,
the color of the For Sale sign
branded to her jogging outfit.
With a car she'll travel to cities
where reflections from skyscraper windows
blind her; travel to the suburbs
where fences and flowers guard her from
neighbors; across the country
stopping at quick serves to buy
coffee and three stale donuts; or travel across
the border where children would smile
and politely forget her;
a kind gesture.
A car to help her be
what she was promised
as a beautiful baby.
The shelter staff as, "What about safety?"
The night her dark stocking cap.
Her decision like a ripped hacky-sack.
Her future like the moon hidden by clouds;
some labeled memories, some adolescence.
On the bus Suicide eyes a generic
Help the Homeless sign and hears a loud
sarcastic man complain about property taxes.
She shivers.
The shelter staff ask, "What Will Happen?"
Suicide Shorty's friends hang out at motels.
They forget her real name
or what type of suicide she's tried.
She's good to look at and feel
when they're bored. They decided she's
a bedroom token: body fluids on sheets,
cigarettes burning in an ashtray.
The shelter staff ask, "What are your options?"
She waits for the sun to rise.
Scratches her head and picks a scab from her legs.
Suicide dreams of money, twinkies, an empty room,
and a black sports car,
the color of the For Sale sign
branded to her jogging outfit.
With a car she'll travel to cities
where reflections from skyscraper windows
blind her; travel to the suburbs
where fences and flowers guard her from
neighbors; across the country
stopping at quick serves to buy
coffee and three stale donuts; or travel across
the border where children would smile
and politely forget her;
a kind gesture.
A car to help her be
what she was promised
as a beautiful baby.
The shelter staff as, "What about safety?"
Better Than the Legal System
You didn't think
strength grew from your wife's
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to it's entombment.
You didn't hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.
They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.
Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women's bodies searching.
A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.
A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.
What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
It was my father.
And they said,
You are not your father.
And you said,
It was my mother.
And they said,
You are not your mother.
And you said,
It was my son.
And they said,
Your son wasn't there. He died in utero the third time you beat her.
When they released their grip they promised,
You will look behind.
You will want someone to understand
the fear of censure of predatory hands.
Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.
strength grew from your wife's
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to it's entombment.
You didn't hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.
They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.
Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women's bodies searching.
A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.
A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.
What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
It was my father.
And they said,
You are not your father.
And you said,
It was my mother.
And they said,
You are not your mother.
And you said,
It was my son.
And they said,
Your son wasn't there. He died in utero the third time you beat her.
When they released their grip they promised,
You will look behind.
You will want someone to understand
the fear of censure of predatory hands.
Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Fremont Place Book Company December 18, 2002
Once a shrouded man walled in by secrets
flew through the door to replace his stolen
book, Empire. I couldn't see his eyes.
He paid by cash leaving no trace behind.
He asked for enlightenment, and I thought
architecture. For the record Penguin's
Portable Enlightenment Reader could
have been ordered. We discussed rows,
columns, epochs, decades all in one book
he hadn't finished. His wall crumbled with
an exhalation. I stared and I saw
blue fire that anyone would row towards.
As he left I was handed a written
post-it, remember, remember these eyes.
flew through the door to replace his stolen
book, Empire. I couldn't see his eyes.
He paid by cash leaving no trace behind.
He asked for enlightenment, and I thought
architecture. For the record Penguin's
Portable Enlightenment Reader could
have been ordered. We discussed rows,
columns, epochs, decades all in one book
he hadn't finished. His wall crumbled with
an exhalation. I stared and I saw
blue fire that anyone would row towards.
As he left I was handed a written
post-it, remember, remember these eyes.
On My Road I met Three Wise Women
for Ingrid, Helen, and Kim
Through my window I saw the sun's rays shift
quickly behind my garden to the gate
door covered in mint and blackberries. I
ran to catch it. I ran past street signs named
insignificantly. I carried three
rosebuds each wrapped separately in gold
cloth. Roses the color of my red heart
opened for stories tempered with kindness.
In return I received a bouquet wrapped
in paper colored by changing seasons.
Gingerly I sprinted home with my herbs.
I sun dried the lemon thyme for tarts. I
sprinkled oregano on my pizza.
I rubbed lavender on my aging hands.
Through my window I saw the sun's rays shift
quickly behind my garden to the gate
door covered in mint and blackberries. I
ran to catch it. I ran past street signs named
insignificantly. I carried three
rosebuds each wrapped separately in gold
cloth. Roses the color of my red heart
opened for stories tempered with kindness.
In return I received a bouquet wrapped
in paper colored by changing seasons.
Gingerly I sprinted home with my herbs.
I sun dried the lemon thyme for tarts. I
sprinkled oregano on my pizza.
I rubbed lavender on my aging hands.
Harvest Moon October 2001
Finally, as lovers similar in
thought and breath these two made a vow within
the moon's light reflected off the river.
They shared a plum. They set a formation
of stones to elucidate their return.
One sough out sunrise. One sought out sunset.
But, jealousy scratched a curse into two
trees. Each leaf represents a year before
the lovers find the lighted paths home. Leaves
falling from these mottling trees turn away.
Cubs scratch lightly at the marks. With sustained
strength the wind lifts rocks to efface the curse.
And, sometimes she writes words she never speaks.
Sometimes, she waits for words she never hears.
thought and breath these two made a vow within
the moon's light reflected off the river.
They shared a plum. They set a formation
of stones to elucidate their return.
One sough out sunrise. One sought out sunset.
But, jealousy scratched a curse into two
trees. Each leaf represents a year before
the lovers find the lighted paths home. Leaves
falling from these mottling trees turn away.
Cubs scratch lightly at the marks. With sustained
strength the wind lifts rocks to efface the curse.
And, sometimes she writes words she never speaks.
Sometimes, she waits for words she never hears.
Inspired by Georgia O'Keefe's Shell and Shingle VI, 1926
Wind moves within mist attaching itself
to an aimless, floating branch reconciled
to an increased heaviness of waves as
they search the shore for an empty seashell
to fill with a new secret, but only
shells with small mouths that will not repeat it.
Wind stretches it's fingers beneath mist's light
gray scarf scented by undulating sprays
of wild blackberries. Exposed by flashed light
as it covers the empty seashells, mist
rubs pieces of sand. A superstition
to stop revelations. Hopping on top
of an empty seashell a small cricket
plays it's song which echoes beyond the morning.
to an aimless, floating branch reconciled
to an increased heaviness of waves as
they search the shore for an empty seashell
to fill with a new secret, but only
shells with small mouths that will not repeat it.
Wind stretches it's fingers beneath mist's light
gray scarf scented by undulating sprays
of wild blackberries. Exposed by flashed light
as it covers the empty seashells, mist
rubs pieces of sand. A superstition
to stop revelations. Hopping on top
of an empty seashell a small cricket
plays it's song which echoes beyond the morning.
Inspired by a Paco Pena CD (Azahara)
I drink juice of three lemons, strained into
hot water. The acidity is pure
intention, sun's sober welcome. Yellow
so soft the sun must be twice reflected
from a white stone house through empty sidewalks.
There must be days when I wear a light coat
made from sounds of waves receding further
from my home. When sun's heat touches my face
reminding me there is more to air than breath.
When the wind carries songs from cloistered trees
to a beach lightened by the smell of saffron.
Sand sifts through fingers to be cupped again
and again. Once still then one more breath as
fingers lightly touch along jaw to chin.
hot water. The acidity is pure
intention, sun's sober welcome. Yellow
so soft the sun must be twice reflected
from a white stone house through empty sidewalks.
There must be days when I wear a light coat
made from sounds of waves receding further
from my home. When sun's heat touches my face
reminding me there is more to air than breath.
When the wind carries songs from cloistered trees
to a beach lightened by the smell of saffron.
Sand sifts through fingers to be cupped again
and again. Once still then one more breath as
fingers lightly touch along jaw to chin.
Democracy Exists When All who Can Vote Do Vote
August 26, 1920, Passing of the 19th Amendment, Women's Right to Vote
He taught me men's weakness. He taught punches.
He held the punching bag while I practiced.
He didn't threaten to quit the force like
he did the other times he bailed me out.
His buddies always laughed at him. The cop
with the wife jailed for inciting riots.
At least I won't be arrested this time,
and I will walk without police escort.
I will walk in broad daylight with my friends
to the room with the opened voting box.
We will walk there in groups. We will hold signs
strategically at our sides to shield
us from flying fruit. Our skirts won't hinder
our progress up democracy's steps.
He taught me men's weakness. He taught punches.
He held the punching bag while I practiced.
He didn't threaten to quit the force like
he did the other times he bailed me out.
His buddies always laughed at him. The cop
with the wife jailed for inciting riots.
At least I won't be arrested this time,
and I will walk without police escort.
I will walk in broad daylight with my friends
to the room with the opened voting box.
We will walk there in groups. We will hold signs
strategically at our sides to shield
us from flying fruit. Our skirts won't hinder
our progress up democracy's steps.
Inspired by a Kate Bush CD (Hounds of Love)
When you played your music I placed my hands
on the ground feeling for an answer. When
you played your music I ran against wind
that seized the leaves on lower branches. When
your fingers moved they illumined the town
until thick clouds incarcerated it.
When it was time for your release, and you
did not return, I hid behind the trees
sheltered beneath a watchful canopy.
At dawn's first light I climbed covered in rain.
I climbed to touch the wind this one last time.
I climbed to feel it's vortex, feel it's grace.
I tasted the rain soaked in bark. I stuck
my tongue out and tasted new pools of salt.
on the ground feeling for an answer. When
you played your music I ran against wind
that seized the leaves on lower branches. When
your fingers moved they illumined the town
until thick clouds incarcerated it.
When it was time for your release, and you
did not return, I hid behind the trees
sheltered beneath a watchful canopy.
At dawn's first light I climbed covered in rain.
I climbed to touch the wind this one last time.
I climbed to feel it's vortex, feel it's grace.
I tasted the rain soaked in bark. I stuck
my tongue out and tasted new pools of salt.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's War Series No. 6, 1946
My ears are stuffed with vibrating
air attacking from all sides of this room,
but the only sounds are reliable
clocks, empty school buses, afternoon birds.
He's sliding away from me like heavy
snow cascading down mountains. He's flowing
away from me like rain down a sewer.
He's hidden now - a treasure ship among
more treasure ships that continue to sink.
What are the numbers to call? Here's printed
pages of useful information pinned
to a cork board next to unopened mail.
I clear unwanted salt off the table
and place this crisp official letter down.
air attacking from all sides of this room,
but the only sounds are reliable
clocks, empty school buses, afternoon birds.
He's sliding away from me like heavy
snow cascading down mountains. He's flowing
away from me like rain down a sewer.
He's hidden now - a treasure ship among
more treasure ships that continue to sink.
What are the numbers to call? Here's printed
pages of useful information pinned
to a cork board next to unopened mail.
I clear unwanted salt off the table
and place this crisp official letter down.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's War Series No. 2, 1947
It's not the pain that blooms until it flows
down my shirt. It's a hole filling with blood
faster than the one strike for 1 o'clock.
Slow was when I dug my feet in the sand
and watched the sun set. Slow was days after
a winter storm drinking hot tea for warmth.
Slow was a flat tire before a concert.
I'll lay down slowly and stretch my legs out.
I'll remember the slow movements of wet
worms that would be home in this foxhole.
I'll count to 10 repeat, and then inhale.
Shock is quick. I rip my shirt to shield blood
from dust, cup my hand and push the blood back.
If I hold my breath the bleeding will stop.
down my shirt. It's a hole filling with blood
faster than the one strike for 1 o'clock.
Slow was when I dug my feet in the sand
and watched the sun set. Slow was days after
a winter storm drinking hot tea for warmth.
Slow was a flat tire before a concert.
I'll lay down slowly and stretch my legs out.
I'll remember the slow movements of wet
worms that would be home in this foxhole.
I'll count to 10 repeat, and then inhale.
Shock is quick. I rip my shirt to shield blood
from dust, cup my hand and push the blood back.
If I hold my breath the bleeding will stop.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Dreams No. 2: Memories, 1965
I hold a secret whispered in darkness
between the wooden walled rooms of dreams. Light
as the scent of a neighbor's fresh baked cake
it's force of memories weighs on my chest,
and I wake up sweating, gasping for air.
All those years happiness flowed through the marked
rows of our lives and bloomed spectacular
fireworks of color. We tilled. We kept
the harvest to ourselves. All thos years we
watched the parched lives of others blown confused
and barren. Cartographic divisions
of love's vast land based on who is willing.
My secret is behind this public smile.
Only his portion of land is reclaimed.
between the wooden walled rooms of dreams. Light
as the scent of a neighbor's fresh baked cake
it's force of memories weighs on my chest,
and I wake up sweating, gasping for air.
All those years happiness flowed through the marked
rows of our lives and bloomed spectacular
fireworks of color. We tilled. We kept
the harvest to ourselves. All thos years we
watched the parched lives of others blown confused
and barren. Cartographic divisions
of love's vast land based on who is willing.
My secret is behind this public smile.
Only his portion of land is reclaimed.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Sedation, 1950
The clock is ticking again. So much sound
from the second hand that wants to ecape.
The second hand is faster than the speed
of light and wants to fly to the white white
moon. The nurse moves closer to stop the clock.
This wall doesn't want me. I fall away
from it. This chair doesn't want me, and I
fall away from it. This floor doesn't want
me, and I crawl crawl lifted to the gurney.
But the ticking wants to escape. No more straps
on my arms. Do not strap my arms down. Do
not strap my legs down. No more straps. No more.
Where is second hand? It was force fed rest.
When it sleeps the hours stand in formation.
from the second hand that wants to ecape.
The second hand is faster than the speed
of light and wants to fly to the white white
moon. The nurse moves closer to stop the clock.
This wall doesn't want me. I fall away
from it. This chair doesn't want me, and I
fall away from it. This floor doesn't want
me, and I crawl crawl lifted to the gurney.
But the ticking wants to escape. No more straps
on my arms. Do not strap my arms down. Do
not strap my legs down. No more straps. No more.
Where is second hand? It was force fed rest.
When it sleeps the hours stand in formation.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Ironers, 1943
My child woke with a scream last night. She clawed
the air until I held her close. I hummed
slow songs until her breathing stabilized.
She never screamed so fearfully before.
My child walked to school dragging her lunchbox.
She forgot to blow me a kiss to catch
and place on my cheek. I whispered words
to the clear sky to keep my daughter safe.
At work we work rhythmically. We stretch
our minds to ease the forced monotony.
Usually, I'll devise a scheme. I'm
the crossword puzzle queen, a word machine.
Instead I'm thinking if she screams I'll jump
into her nightmare and face her demon.
the air until I held her close. I hummed
slow songs until her breathing stabilized.
She never screamed so fearfully before.
My child walked to school dragging her lunchbox.
She forgot to blow me a kiss to catch
and place on my cheek. I whispered words
to the clear sky to keep my daughter safe.
At work we work rhythmically. We stretch
our minds to ease the forced monotony.
Usually, I'll devise a scheme. I'm
the crossword puzzle queen, a word machine.
Instead I'm thinking if she screams I'll jump
into her nightmare and face her demon.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Play Street, 1942
Sweet and slow moving summertime; slowly
ending like penny candy we suck on.
We sit under trees for hours; make-believe
conversations between the leaves until
a cool breeze follows us home from the park.
Sweetly soaking summertime. We run down
the street in a wave of children, our arms
raised towards the two tall-standing sprinklers.
My parents step briskly towards the door.
They hide their faces behind briefcases
and do not look beyond. Slowly, I turn
in swirls and circles until I'm dizzy.
Stopping to catch my breath, looking up I
see my parents near the window circling.
ending like penny candy we suck on.
We sit under trees for hours; make-believe
conversations between the leaves until
a cool breeze follows us home from the park.
Sweetly soaking summertime. We run down
the street in a wave of children, our arms
raised towards the two tall-standing sprinklers.
My parents step briskly towards the door.
They hide their faces behind briefcases
and do not look beyond. Slowly, I turn
in swirls and circles until I'm dizzy.
Stopping to catch my breath, looking up I
see my parents near the window circling.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Paper Boats, 1949
My aunt gave us colored paper from her
advertising agency. A pre-paid
client left the states unexpectedly.
We folded exceptional paper boats
anticipating a long summer rain.
The sunrise has not warmed the streets; floating
paper boats. Sunrise has not warmed the streets;
soggy, dirty paper boats. My brother
rests his hands on his knees dejectedly.
Our neighbor pushes his boat wistfully.
My two little boats, Splendid and Brilliant,
are stuck in the sewer warped and capsized.
A hot dry day expected. Perfect for
folding exceptional paper airplanes.
advertising agency. A pre-paid
client left the states unexpectedly.
We folded exceptional paper boats
anticipating a long summer rain.
The sunrise has not warmed the streets; floating
paper boats. Sunrise has not warmed the streets;
soggy, dirty paper boats. My brother
rests his hands on his knees dejectedly.
Our neighbor pushes his boat wistfully.
My two little boats, Splendid and Brilliant,
are stuck in the sewer warped and capsized.
A hot dry day expected. Perfect for
folding exceptional paper airplanes.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Woman Sewing, 1948
I lay the cloth upon the wooden floor.
I unfold the pattern and pin it down.
The lamps near mirrors echo each other.
The moonless darkness forced to leave this room.
I sew a design like a spider's web
on the cloth that will become a new quilt.
Each ring of incandescent silver silk
represents a completed turn of life.
No spider exists in this web, only
images of what I catch at moments
of inspiration. I sew the table
on which I started my poetry book.
The last line I sew a syringe. A flash
of pain. This breathing illness frustrated.
I unfold the pattern and pin it down.
The lamps near mirrors echo each other.
The moonless darkness forced to leave this room.
I sew a design like a spider's web
on the cloth that will become a new quilt.
Each ring of incandescent silver silk
represents a completed turn of life.
No spider exists in this web, only
images of what I catch at moments
of inspiration. I sew the table
on which I started my poetry book.
The last line I sew a syringe. A flash
of pain. This breathing illness frustrated.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Gamblers, 1954
We sit, primped, at the time of a quick life
and a prayer for a good hand. Flowers
as red as the ace of hears in my hair.
White flowers, white as poker chips, in your
buttonhole. The gun hidden beneath your
coat matches the night, a hertz, and lampposts.
I'm known as slow when I lay my hand down.
This slowness aggravates them; lead to plays
too quick for their money. Money flows out
their pockes into mine at the right speed.
He lived a quick life. Too quick to pray, Please
help me win. His best friend pulled the trigger,
quickly leaving the cinema into
a barrage of my counsin's quick temper.
and a prayer for a good hand. Flowers
as red as the ace of hears in my hair.
White flowers, white as poker chips, in your
buttonhole. The gun hidden beneath your
coat matches the night, a hertz, and lampposts.
I'm known as slow when I lay my hand down.
This slowness aggravates them; lead to plays
too quick for their money. Money flows out
their pockes into mine at the right speed.
He lived a quick life. Too quick to pray, Please
help me win. His best friend pulled the trigger,
quickly leaving the cinema into
a barrage of my counsin's quick temper.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Apartment, 1943
It's 6 o'clock. The workday ends. My back
does not tense as much so quickly these weeks.
With purse in hand I run between streetlamps
counting each one to calm me. The chilled mist
feels like a mask that will suffocate me
if I don't focus on the next streetlamp
and the next streetlamp. Only one more left.
The tea kettle has not moved. The tea cups
have not moved. I don't see new cigarette
burns stinking up my hanging quilt. I place
my newspaper on the desk. A cold breeze
lifts the front page. The tea flows out the cup.
does not tense as much so quickly these weeks.
With purse in hand I run between streetlamps
counting each one to calm me. The chilled mist
feels like a mask that will suffocate me
if I don't focus on the next streetlamp
and the next streetlamp. Only one more left.
The tea kettle has not moved. The tea cups
have not moved. I don't see new cigarette
burns stinking up my hanging quilt. I place
my newspaper on the desk. A cold breeze
lifts the front page. The tea flows out the cup.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Concert, 1952, and a Tori Amos Concert in Madison, Wisconsin November 1992
Her music is the ocean. We wait still
and silent for navigation. Only
by the ocean can we hear crescendo
of the wind. Only by the ocean we
feel the light touch of the sun reflected
in crystals. With the ocean as guide
we see the bashful moon hiding behind
trees as it reveals it's studied wisdom.
This wisdom a shared experience; by
definition an illumination.
Her music flows around each seat rising
to the ceiling then crashes from her
piano. Her virtuosity drowns
us, and w'ere hungry to reclaim our fins.
and silent for navigation. Only
by the ocean can we hear crescendo
of the wind. Only by the ocean we
feel the light touch of the sun reflected
in crystals. With the ocean as guide
we see the bashful moon hiding behind
trees as it reveals it's studied wisdom.
This wisdom a shared experience; by
definition an illumination.
Her music flows around each seat rising
to the ceiling then crashes from her
piano. Her virtuosity drowns
us, and w'ere hungry to reclaim our fins.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Visitors, 1959
This is a surprise. I didn't know she . . .
Thank you for telling me about this. I
hope you like raspberry pie. I bake too
much all the time. Luckily, I have some
leftovers. She always looked a little pale . . .
Yes, thank you for hanging up my coat. I
remarked to my neighbors just the other
day how pale she looked, but I never guessed.
Did you get along as kids? I'm sorry,
I didn't hear you. I've seen you stop by
with groceries. I'm sorry, do you need
a handkechief? I remarked to neighbors
the other day how pale she looked. Did I?
I'm sorry. Would you like another slice?
Thank you for telling me about this. I
hope you like raspberry pie. I bake too
much all the time. Luckily, I have some
leftovers. She always looked a little pale . . .
Yes, thank you for hanging up my coat. I
remarked to my neighbors just the other
day how pale she looked, but I never guessed.
Did you get along as kids? I'm sorry,
I didn't hear you. I've seen you stop by
with groceries. I'm sorry, do you need
a handkechief? I remarked to neighbors
the other day how pale she looked. Did I?
I'm sorry. Would you like another slice?
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Wall, 1941, and the Fall of the Berlin Wall
A wall makes no sound. It is built with brick
made from silenced hands; hands that don't question
four corners of a room without windows,
hands that forget warmth from the exploding
sun, hands not washed in the mutable sea.
Builders of silence lose their tongues. Some see
the wall as a scar. Scar tisue layers
surround what they build, what they cannot touch,
what they can't ask for help to deconstruct.
Only the living feel remorse. Rain
bounces off the wall into opened mouths.
Stones, pieces of glass, broken pipe battle
each ossified layer. Crumbling, the wall
concedes defeat against organized words.
made from silenced hands; hands that don't question
four corners of a room without windows,
hands that forget warmth from the exploding
sun, hands not washed in the mutable sea.
Builders of silence lose their tongues. Some see
the wall as a scar. Scar tisue layers
surround what they build, what they cannot touch,
what they can't ask for help to deconstruct.
Only the living feel remorse. Rain
bounces off the wall into opened mouths.
Stones, pieces of glass, broken pipe battle
each ossified layer. Crumbling, the wall
concedes defeat against organized words.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Homecoming, 1936
She walks home with a bag of groceries.
For a moment the sunset catches her
eyes. She stops short for the glorious pinks
and golds. Glorious because the sun knows
no other way. She continues towards
home. This, too, is not an advertisement.
All the tenants have returned except Mom.
This time of night we want to gallop to
and from the door, but no galloping
allowed. We want to prance back and forth. No
prancing allowed. We're not allowed to squeak
with our shoes, no peeps with our tongues, no sounds.
The front door clicks shut and we're down the stairs
like eagles soaring; laughing as always.
For a moment the sunset catches her
eyes. She stops short for the glorious pinks
and golds. Glorious because the sun knows
no other way. She continues towards
home. This, too, is not an advertisement.
All the tenants have returned except Mom.
This time of night we want to gallop to
and from the door, but no galloping
allowed. We want to prance back and forth. No
prancing allowed. We're not allowed to squeak
with our shoes, no peeps with our tongues, no sounds.
The front door clicks shut and we're down the stairs
like eagles soaring; laughing as always.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Migration of the Negro Series No. 58, 1941
Even the last summer afternoon we
unpacked near the Wilsons' abandoned farm. We
placed blank books on an outspread blanket. we
sharpened pencils and started our lessons.
My oldest sister passed out apples she
picked that morning then narrated dragon
legends. She wrote each word down. My other
sister drew groups of dragons near numbers.
When school started I opened the classroom
door by myself. My sisters placed blank books
and sharpened pencils on the desk then left.
I ran back out the door and followed them.
In the classroom before they left again
they calmed me with words they calmed with numbers.
unpacked near the Wilsons' abandoned farm. We
placed blank books on an outspread blanket. we
sharpened pencils and started our lessons.
My oldest sister passed out apples she
picked that morning then narrated dragon
legends. She wrote each word down. My other
sister drew groups of dragons near numbers.
When school started I opened the classroom
door by myself. My sisters placed blank books
and sharpened pencils on the desk then left.
I ran back out the door and followed them.
In the classroom before they left again
they calmed me with words they calmed with numbers.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Juke Box, 1946
The warmth of your message was less than that
of a small campfire under a moonless
night extinguished with ice water from pails
filled five times in the dead of winter. My
subsequent actions were appropriate.
While walking downtown I heard the laughter
of neighbors with waves of goodnight, and smelled
the first sign of autumn from cleaned chimneys.
I unbuttoned my coat to feel the breeze
across my neck soothing my frustration.
I passed shops already closed for hours, and
prepared myself for the headlights advancing.
Congregated strangers, we touched music
with our movements swaying reverently.
of a small campfire under a moonless
night extinguished with ice water from pails
filled five times in the dead of winter. My
subsequent actions were appropriate.
While walking downtown I heard the laughter
of neighbors with waves of goodnight, and smelled
the first sign of autumn from cleaned chimneys.
I unbuttoned my coat to feel the breeze
across my neck soothing my frustration.
I passed shops already closed for hours, and
prepared myself for the headlights advancing.
Congregated strangers, we touched music
with our movements swaying reverently.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's War Series No. 11, 1947
Love was a chandelier with all candles
lit. We turned it around and danced as light
bounced off the walls. Love was scarves of red and
gold thrown in the air as we waltzed through rooms.
Love in the hallway mirror multiplied.
Love was seen crossing streets when afternoon
classes were through. Others ran the backyard
shortcuts. Love strolled the circuitous routes.
But love is a word. Write it down and
throw it away. Write LOVE on paper and
tear it up. Better still, write GRIEF in your
best handwriting and watch flames consume it.
Tattered scarves of red and gold lie beneath
a dusty mirror which reflects mute tones.
lit. We turned it around and danced as light
bounced off the walls. Love was scarves of red and
gold thrown in the air as we waltzed through rooms.
Love in the hallway mirror multiplied.
Love was seen crossing streets when afternoon
classes were through. Others ran the backyard
shortcuts. Love strolled the circuitous routes.
But love is a word. Write it down and
throw it away. Write LOVE on paper and
tear it up. Better still, write GRIEF in your
best handwriting and watch flames consume it.
Tattered scarves of red and gold lie beneath
a dusty mirror which reflects mute tones.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Tombstones, 1942
His smile could raise the setting sun even
as he coughed with his baby lungs. His tears
on his last days were cold fingers pinching
my back so hard they left welts. When he died
I broke like glass, shards so sharp I couldn't
be touched. This time I'll sit next to Death, and pat
my baby's back when I feel a coldness.
Death, you're a man in fancy clothes who slides
behind doors and steals all I own. Just try
to steal my child again, and you'll meet my
Blues-singing guardians. They've seen your face.
They scratched your arms as you took their daughters,
husbands, and sons. When you hear that hum hide
yourself. They'll depress your clandestine strength.
as he coughed with his baby lungs. His tears
on his last days were cold fingers pinching
my back so hard they left welts. When he died
I broke like glass, shards so sharp I couldn't
be touched. This time I'll sit next to Death, and pat
my baby's back when I feel a coldness.
Death, you're a man in fancy clothes who slides
behind doors and steals all I own. Just try
to steal my child again, and you'll meet my
Blues-singing guardians. They've seen your face.
They scratched your arms as you took their daughters,
husbands, and sons. When you hear that hum hide
yourself. They'll depress your clandestine strength.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's The Seamstress, 1946
She creates a world in stitches from bolts
of silky fabric and delicate thread.
She watches this world fold or unfold as
it drops off the sewing table in hushed
tones. She whispers back, I'm almost finished.
From a basement apartment she watches
them wear what she creates, what makes them
step lightly up the stairs, advertise
her artistic brilliance and good taste.
What lures them to her are yards of red silk
you see draped on those mannequins. A red
rose in bloom; petals hidden are exposed.
Pin up this red and stitch it in place. Wait
for someone to find this world she creates.
of silky fabric and delicate thread.
She watches this world fold or unfold as
it drops off the sewing table in hushed
tones. She whispers back, I'm almost finished.
From a basement apartment she watches
them wear what she creates, what makes them
step lightly up the stairs, advertise
her artistic brilliance and good taste.
What lures them to her are yards of red silk
you see draped on those mannequins. A red
rose in bloom; petals hidden are exposed.
Pin up this red and stitch it in place. Wait
for someone to find this world she creates.
Inspired by Jacob Lawrence's Harlem Series No. 2, 1943
She does not look at the food as a gift
she receives from God, abundant and shared.
She looks at it as coins available
for a trade. Just show a little more than
the white of her eye to remove the frayed
tablecloth. Show the white of a freshly
pressed dress that matches military
crosses. That white smells of a harsh winter.
She throws the coins like marbles hoping to
grab more as they roll away and fall
like a light inconsequential rain off
the table. Sunlight turns them from smudged to gold.
She locks the door and walks past each street sign,
offers an exchange, a challenge, a game.
she receives from God, abundant and shared.
She looks at it as coins available
for a trade. Just show a little more than
the white of her eye to remove the frayed
tablecloth. Show the white of a freshly
pressed dress that matches military
crosses. That white smells of a harsh winter.
She throws the coins like marbles hoping to
grab more as they roll away and fall
like a light inconsequential rain off
the table. Sunlight turns them from smudged to gold.
She locks the door and walks past each street sign,
offers an exchange, a challenge, a game.
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