Fire Alone Can Not Burn: a marriage

will spontaneously combust
similar to the lone man on a mattress
discovered in ashes one bright afternoon, after eating
(apparently) leftovers packed by the skinny waitress

How To Soften Your Hands

I would wash dishes until my skin peeled off in ragged rinds
if only my plates and bowls would squeak,
you are happily married.

..........The husband shovels tunnels around
..........the shuttered house
..........waiting to be rid of the hungry horde.

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

I wrote this in response to Carolee's poem which she wrote after we played with Anne Sexton's poem Her Kind. It's sort of a letter poem.

Process note: I wrote it first without the snow and the husband, and ended with the pretty bowl. The husband wormed his way in. Should he stay?

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?

Poetry Gong - Poem 25

Origin of the Marriage (The Origin of Marriage) *Someone help me pick a title!

(After Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s Origin of the Mango)

Of course my parents have never agreed.

A Sad Poem to Match the Weather: Poetry Gong #14

Some of Us Are Lucky Enough to Fly


I thought of birds and
their luck, how they rise…
- Karen Chase

When you said I was sad
I didn’t speak. The voice
I had been using all these years
had flown
out of the room.

Behind the feathers
I was a bird.
You didn’t see
because you were speaking
setting down in syllables
that which I know
that which I see
that which has eluded
me all along.

The sad girl is flying
now, winged, not free
enough to build a nest
but catching enough air
to call out.

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

I could write more, but really, I hate sad poems. Maybe after the gong, I will revisit this. Think more about birds, becoming a bird, flying like a bird, dreaming of flying, growing feathers, replacing my heavy bones with tiny, hollow bones, choosing what kind of bird I want to be, researching what type of birds do not mate for life.

Poetry Gong #9

Hunting Party Line: The Deer Need to Be Killed

First day of hunting
season. I trail a hunter
through the backlit woods,
yellow leaves fall like snow.
I shoot them straight through
to vein, golden blood flowing
like honey through the chill.

I might have brought the (man nor) beast
who pushed me to these limits,
shooting leaves, fashioning quilts
of their skin, but he is a buck now
and I don’t want to share his rotten
meat with anyone, not even a man
smeared with green black bruises,
disguised as a savior with a rifle.

robed like a savior with a rifle.

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

I can't decide on the last line. Disguised or robed...

A Twist on the The Emperor's New Clothes - Poetry Gong #6

Explaining the Wedding

The Wife decided, finally, that clothes are useless,
her body remembers how to lace.
Let her fingers slide into position.
The beast can cover itself.

Her body remembers lace
recalls darning everyday gaps.
The beast can cover itself.
The bedroom is so cold.

Recall darning everyday gaps
the husband, the wall, the cracked mirror.
The bedroom is so cold,
the ice princess paid the rent.

The husband, the wall, the cracked mirror--
it was not the white knight’s proposal.
The ice princess never dreamed of paying rent.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.

It was not the white knight’s proposal,
let her fingers slide into position.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.
The Wife decided, finally, clothes are useless.

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

A pantoum, after Carolee's running poem.

WriPoMo anyone?

I so enjoyed writing every day for a month back in April that I've decided to try it again. We shall see. I missed June 1, but that's ok. If you want to join me, let me know in the comments! I'll make a sidebar list!

A Hiccup in the Long, Long Trail

You stumbled
(literally, a tree branch under foot)
on your husband

sharing a laugh
with another baritone
comrade. Laughing in the woods

on a family hike. Kids ahead
wives behind
husbands bringing up the rear

checking it all out
bracing for the bear attack
or the random unleashed
dog racing the trail.

Do you wonder what the joke is?

Do you shake your Devil's Walking Stick
at him, thorns upside the head?

Do you throw your hands
full of treasure
acorns, leaves, twigs
over your head
in a praise be salute
because your man finally
has a friend?
Do you hide
your fears, your extra pounds
circling the middle,
your latest adult
pimple and laugh along?

What would Jesus do?

That’s what the man said
at church this morning,
tucked in the corner
next to the holy water
trying to give you a drink.

What did you do?

NaPoWriMo #29 - Almost there!

Truth or Dare

Truth. Each morning I buck
the mirror, try fixing
my Barbie face by (false) memory.

Truth lies like an antique
quilt, hanging by loosened stitches
lonely on a hand-made coat rack.
False wedding bands disintegrate
on yellowed cotton. Marriage bed.
False. False. I dare you to lie down.

Confess. Your legs bend only
at the knee. Where and when
you dare to bow
and scrape is a matter of taste,
a falsehood that wives make
their own casseroles, their own
decisions. We all hold recipes.

I dare you
to kiss
another man.
The truth is
I would love a kiss
from any man
if only I dared
turn the other cheek.

Truth or dare.
What is your weapon
of choice?
How do you live
your one warm and cozy life?

NaPoWriMo #20 - Just Can't Get Enough of Those Prose Poems!

The Greatest Show in the World, or: The Wife Shares Her Deepest Fears

The truth is, I know you are the ringmaster. When the children and I pack up the wagon and head north for vacation, I know you pull the other family out of your hat. Dark-haired magician, you swing your red cape around that swarthy neck, doff your top hat, pull a rainbow bouquet of carnations out of thin air and take your rightful place under their big top. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it. See the other woman’s bedroom set. Feel the real silk of her negligee. Mysterious. Surprising. I’m glad you’re all here. Let’s hear it for the amazing and talented mistress and her truly spectacular children. I know it’s hard to believe. Difficult, but not impossible. You’ve all heard of the man with another family. Difficult, but not impossible. Not as tricky as sawing the pretty assistant in half. Give me that saw. Is that a hand saw or a hack? Never mind the incredible disappearing family. They will return soon enough. Pay no attention to those 2.5 children behind the curtain. Keep your eyes on the other woman. Feast your eyes on the severed arms, waving hello. Waving hello, not dying. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it.

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

I have crossed to the other side--the prose poem side. It just feels right. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, or if the form suits the subject, but it just feels right. This poem started to come in "regular" poem form, but then it seemed to morph into a prose poem. I welcome thoughts/comments/critique.

It's almost wedding season

Well, when I first read PoeTry ThuRsday's prompt for the week, I thought, hmm...not for me. I don't think I've ever read a conversation poem. I've written poems in voices, one voice, and even poems for two voices (Ralph Fleischer). Then I thought maybe I'd better do it. I've been gone from PT for far too long. Then, I thought, ah well, maybe just some other poem.

But then! Then I went to my first therapy session in years. That's as "bloggy" as I'll get about that subject! So, as I was saying, But then! I had a poem idea. A conversation popped right up onto my computer screen. At least it wasn't in my head!

Let's see if blogger will let me post it from Word with tabs. Oh. Not well. Not well at all. I just don't have the patience for HTML--or the skill. The thing is, I really like these two poems next to each other, one left justified, one tabbed over. So, I will post the complete poems following. No crazy spaces or funky spacing, just so you can read them separately. Bear with me. I worked on this HTML for an hour!

On the Occasion of The Wife’s Eighth Wedding Anniversary: A Conversation

Drag them to the altar,                     Isn’t there anyone to stop

your feet, cemented in suede           me? Friend, mother, lover?

pumps, poised to jump                                   Read the script. You are cordially invited
through the hoops of marriage,                 to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
scurry through the whale bone                  take back the invitations
.
of ivory crinolin.                                              Hunt down the bluejays
If you can’t wait to wrap                      making love in the bushes,
your young frame in gingham,               humping through the air.
draw the apron strings tight                   Give them a room far from my
you have been worshipping                   watery eyes. We are all doomed
at the wrong altar,                                     to drown in our sorrows one way
you missed your stop,                            or another. While you are out there
missed your cue, missed the point.       rustle up the dressmaker
Mark my words bride,                         rip your bodice from his hands
you will miss the Miss.                   stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
                                                      of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt. 
 
 
On the Occassion of the Wife's Eighth Wedding Anniversary
 
Drag them to the altar,                       
your feet, cemented in suede                          
pumps, poised to jump                       
through the hoops of marriage,           
scurry through the whale bone            
of ivory crinolin.                                             
If you can’t wait to wrap                                
your young frame in gingham,             
draw the apron strings tight,                          
you have been worshipping                            
at the wrong altar.  You missed your stop         
missed your cue, missed the point.                  
Mark my words bride,                          
you will miss the Miss.
 
 
Miss: In Reply
 
Isn’t there anyone to stop
me? Friend, mother, lover?
Read the script. 
You are cordially invited
to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
take back the invitations.
Hunt down the bluejays
making love in the bushes,
humping through the air.
Give them a room far from my
watery eyes. We are all doomed
to drown in our sorrows one way
or another. While you are out there
rustle up the dressmaker.
Rip your bodice from his hands,
stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt.
 

NaPoWriMo - Poem 15

Lucky for me, my husband rarely reads my blog. If you happen by, dearheart, remember, poets lie.

Planting Seeds Before You’re Married

I used to look in the mirror
afterward
and see a whole new woman,
more beautiful
than when we started.
No Venus,
no sweet magnolia,
I was never one to shrug off
a compliment
about my looks,
even when it arrives
post-love
from my subconscious.
Back then you lived
in a house full of broken men.
Hungry gardener,
I had my pick
of bleeding
hearts.
Some nights
sex-mellow
and glowing,
petal-soft in your
worn Dead Head t-shirt,
I would think about stopping
by the living room
on my way back
to the bedroom,
see if your sad, sad
perpetually rocking,
hockey watching roommate
would see me
smell me
reach out
from the roots of his armchair
for me.
I never did.
What would the girl in the mirror
have done
with a lily-white wedding gown?

The Wife's Chronicles...

I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and I found my friend, The Wife. She is a friend of my muse. Heck, she might even be my muse.

All I know is, every so often I will write a poem and when it comes time for a title, there she is, The Wife, trying to get her two cents in, trying to get her fifteen minutes of fame, trying to be funny. Thing is, sometimes she's not so much funny, as biting.

That's how I know she's not me. I am not biting. I'm mommy. I'm the smiling art teacher. I'm the lady in the kitchen, trying really hard not to make shoe leather out of pot roast.

This Wife person. She is tricky. I'm sure there's an Indian legend about her somewhere out there. Tricky.


The New Wife, A Scientist by Nature, Considers Puppetry

No strings attached, you say?
On the first day of her honeymoon,

the new wife regards a collection of puppets
in a store window. Girl puppets, boy puppets, hanging in tandem.
The wife has a camera. The husband has a camera.

They are recording their happiness.
What is the standard operating procedure
for operating these dummies without strings?
The window is so clean, so clear, it is like looking in a mirror.
Who will raise my arms?
Who will move my legs.
Oh dear. Critical error. On closer inspection,
my lips are unattached.
Look closely now, husband. Bend at the waist.
What is it making my lips move?
There are so many variables.
There’s string weight, string density.
The very real possibility of unraveling, fraying.
The wife knows. She has come to a conclusion.
If her strings are removed, she will just lie there.
The husband will get splinters all over himself trying to move her.
What’s this? Let me get my magnifying glass.
Impossible, husband. Strings growing from your fingertips.
You said no strings attached.