Peel Your Label

My son exhibits
symptoms, tell-tale

deficits
............of attention.

When to Call a House a Home

A Letter Poem, Responding to Nathan's Security

By day it poses as a subtle ranch
shuttered, mellow, a perfect child

tucked in a church pew.


You should read Nathan's poem. It's language is sparse, concise, not a word out of place. You will not want to move in, however.

I don't know what it is with "the house" as extended metpahor, but it has been making its wretched way into my poetry lately. And I love my little house. Good rule of thumb in poetry: always follow where the muse takes you. Don't ask questions.

When Arriving For Battle, Straighten Your Spine, Bring Reinforcements

If the rain made itself visible
as the bold white snow
would we mourn the arrival
of black clouds, the pause of the sun?

Chin up.
Spine straight.
Advice for a tall girl
from her father, a tall man.
Walk with your eyes on the tops
of telephone poles.

Gold leaves fall in clusters
storm frosted grass
quiet as a regiment on maneuvers.

Such a wild move,
dropping out of school,
lying about his age, joining
the Merchant Marine at sixteen
to fight alongside the older boys.

Even the least avengers yield purpose.
When we stop, listen to the rain
give snow and leaves our full attention
will we be surprised by their stories?

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This is definitely a first draft. Some poems arrive pretty much finished. This poem needs stuff: detail, information... It is like a sandwich with thick bread, partially made. There's pleasing thinck fluff on the outside, but nothing in the middle.

Carolee and I saw a poet/memoirist last night who read an interesting piece about her father. We discussed the fact later that neither of us have written much about the men in our lives. It must have stuck with me, because when I sat down to write today, I had no intention of writing about my dad. Writing with out intention--sounds lazy, rule breaking. That's free-writing for you.

Santa's Secret Sale

It wasn’t supposed to go beyond the first iceberg.
It was a secret whispered in a snowball,
tossed around the workshop
until it melted in the wrong hands.

Refusing to be used—the doormat
principle. Who among us hasn’t balked
at being the heavy, the shark, the bad guy.
Distill it down like vein-warming whiskey:

the key to life is kindness. Kindness
is Santa’s bag. Dolls in frilly dresses,
princess vanities (all is vanity—the giver, the taker).
gleaming bicycles, footballs fat from the calf.

In ancient times, kind was the word
used to describe food. Dear, your meat
is most kind this evening—a compliment
to the sacrificial lamb and it's butcher.

Porcupines, prickly beasts, are not loveable.
Give up your prickly ways, we tell our children
as daylight fades a little more each day,
until we are in darkness, dumb to their deeds.

Santa can not take it one day more. Good
is not an option. The North Pole is up
for sale. Parents, prepare your naughty
chairs, hang your stockings over your eyes.

The bidding starts at midnight.

*************************************************************************

Many thanks to the subject of a toysale email for this poem. Does it make sense? I played with words, with the notion of kindness. Probably not one I would share with my kids.

Since I Never Finishd Sewing the Alligator in Home Ec

There was really no point in getting married.
I should have left my pricked
fingers at the altar, tying knots
*****************************************************************************

Carolee and I had gong withdrawal. I pestered her until we came up with the 12 Days of Poetry, a modified gong. Then, I fell asleep after kids' movie night last night. My gong will last until Thanksgiving. Carolee's until the night before. We're both on a quest.

Note to self, or any interested critics: should this poem be in stanzas?