From the bus window
I spot a dead rat on it's side,
a fresh red slit down its stomach,
in the middle of the driveway,
in a good part of town.
I wonder how it happened.
Did it lose a race with a sporty red coupe?
Did it lose a battle with a sharp-clawed cat?
Its struggle is over,
but I think about that rat
for the rest of the day.
Every broken girl
is looking for her daddy.
May hell's darkest shades
shadow the father
who taught his little girl
the way to his heart
is through
his pants
Recent meme paraphrased
Europeans are seeing america in a different light. They see what the prez is doing, but more importantly, they see a people who elected this man to run the country.
while I did not vote for that stain, I am devestated nonetheless.
Don't Mention the War, by The Divine Comedy has a verse: "Don't mention the war, don't talk of those days... let history lie, kiss the old days goodbye, they're no help anymore, don't mention the war."
Being old in a new world is more pressure than my cortex can contain.
I wish at 28, I had known
the power I possessed
over men, without much
effort.
I sat on his lap
took off my dress
pulled up my bra
and he gasped.
He thought they were
smaller than that.
The boss called me and account executive,
I was really in phone sales.
I paid my rent off advertising commissions
from food and meat processors like Bernie's
Bagel Dogs, Budget Gourmet, and
Totino's Pizza Rolls.
I schmoozed meat packing executives
at dinner meetings for advertising space.
Eventually I began to think
about the food chain:
the life, the death, methods of slaughter.
After all, I was a card carrying
member of PETA.
The smell of drunk stuck
to him. I never knew my uncle Dub
to be sober.
When he looked into my eyes,
breath escaped my stomach like
I was sucker-punched.
And Dub had
an engorging interest
in preteen me.
My #1 rule -
never get stuck in a room
alone with Dub.
Everyone had gone to the living room.
I was sat on a high kitchen stool,
my feet dangling above the tiles.
He knew I was alone,
and asked me to spread my legs.
He said he wanted "just a little look."
In that kitchen, on that high stool,
I took back my breath, and plunged.
After landing, I ran to my mother.
She chatted with my aunt, cigarette
dangling from her mouth, oblivious
to my scrape with the nightmare.
I never called,
neither did you.
After four years of
workshopping weekly,
and four years absence
I isolate.
I don't bring people into
my heart.
I never learned how.
The Santa Ana winds were blowing and so was my father. My brother, Bret, and I mounted our bikes and headed for the Santa Ana River and bike trail.
We got on the path at Edinger and headed west with the winds pushing us towards the beach. The night was clear and warm, even for fall.
We noticed a little parklet off to the side of the bike path and a trail leading down to a bench lighted by an overhead lamp. In the park was the standard gym equipment for a playground circa 1971, a jungle gym, a slide and swings. It was situated next to a condo complex.
As we stared into the cobalt sky, there were two stars above us, one brighter than the other. I wondered to Bret if one was the North Star which would account for its briliance. Was the smaller star a far off planet caught in the North Star's shine? As we wondered, both stars shot due west at a speed not possible by 1971 standards. Or today's, actually.
There was an abrupt 90° change of direction, with the two "stars" going southward. Then they were gone.
While we may have had the wind pushing us forward, now we had to fight a battle against the wind to get home. It was not a problem.
What we had witnessed was beyond our understanding of the realities of the cosmos, whatever that includes. We were afraid and not of our father at home. We arrived home pretty sharpish and to the safey of our seperate bedrooms with their closed doors. But that's another story.
Today is dark, terrors haunt,
especially at night.
Then, dawn, and to my balcony,
where I planted seeds in soil and watered.
Two weeks later, little green shoots.
Two months later I've learned
nearly every seed I place in soil
Will sprout, grow, and flower.
Soil, sun, and seed washed away
60 years of
searching for hope.
I give myself like a coin,
silver for your pocket.
Brilliant when minted,
tarnish has tainted my sheen.
As of late, you tarnish;
calls lost in lies,
messages unanswered,
abrupt schedule changes.
Again, it's time to shine,
polish every crevice.
I will learn some day
why the gift I gave you
was not
silver.
"You're a really good writer,"
my poetry professor said
to me on my last day of college.
I squirmed, flushed the pink if tulips,
thanked him, examining
the scar on my knee.
He said, "No I mean it,
you're really good."
My lips seemed sewn together.
I remember his words on days
I am good at nothing else.
And I love that memory.
It's much more than I ever got
out of the empty box
of my father.
They sat on a high shelf just out of reach
of my small clumsy hands
eight purple glasses and matching pitcher
shaped like bunched grapes, never used
because mom valued them beyond their worth.
As an adult on a visit to my mother,
she brought out the cherished goblets,
served iced tea and asked me to
claim what I wanted of hers
not wanting cherished goods being sold
in some mere garage sale.
I should have read between those line.
I didn't.
Today, in a vintage store window,
I see one lone grape glass.
I remember my mom's valued set
purple and bubbly, like a bunch of grapes
now forever out of reach
of my big clumsy hands.
They say it was an accident
410 shotgun, at point blank range.
They say closed casket,
we won't want to see.
Bret, I can't remember your face,
now scattered off the H-85 in Sun City.
Stealing mom's jewelry two years ago
doesn't seem important anymore.
The Door slams. He is home.
My mother scurries to
get his dinner on the table,
after eight hours at her own job.
We are quiet, chew without taste or sound
lest we disturb his tenuous weather.
He refills his drink again, Thunderbird or
Ripple. Night after night we guage the
barometer, ready for the blow.
When my father died at 42 of cirrhosis,
I was glad to be rid of him.
Fourty years later, I still feel his landfall,
now tempered with a realization.
My father, no matter who he was,
always
brought his paycheck home to us
at the end of every week.
Previously published in
Poetry posts to follow were written from 2013-2019. Most have been published in anthologies and online literary journals, which I will add the attributions soon. The poems were workshopped in Donna Hilbert's workshop, and I had a lot of great feedback, especially from Sue (oops). The oldest poems were also helped along by the late, great Gerald Locklin (RIP).
I lost my poetic voice in 2020, yet it's giving me a burn inside to attend to expressing some fucked up shit. Sorry in advance.
Pye Biggs is a big 'ole dignified Siamese colored tabby and Tula Belle is a slightly skinny grey long haired tabby, AKA kitty muts. I adopted them 13 months ago.
Pye must be called by his full name, Pye Biggs. Always. He has lived a hard life with medical conditions and no care. He is blind. It is traumatic for him to poop. He runs and cowers and crawls under furniture not meant to be crawled under.
Tula Belle is very dainty and has Bette Davis eyes. I doubt she weighs seven pounds. Consequently, she is very shy. She rubs against Pye Biggs in a parade of devotion. What would she do without him?
