msPoetry

Worship

I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.
He hits the ground in an insignificant splash,
trickles along the crevices of empty sidewalks.
He settles into etched-in-names of hard concrete.

I filled a needle with puddle water seeped into a heart
that was etched decades ago in wet cement.
I shot the rainfall into my veins,
just to feel him course through my blood.

And once, when I was young,
I stood outside in the rain for an hour.
Soaked, I asked God to wash away my sin
with the dust and dirt of his purified earth.

I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.
He hits the ground
and is gone.

-Spring 2010

The Placer

We hide behind sheer, wafting curtains
until all that remains are our silhouettes.
Without the clarity of faded scars
no one can see our regret.

Ready to risk a [certain] curtain fire,
we search pockets for unlit cigarettes.
Smoke and smoldering ash can be
the easiest way to forget.

-Summer 2010

At the Bus Stop

After class a rainy spring day,
I patiently wait at the bus stop for the Green.
Next to me, a young woman sits on the cracked bench,
Breathing in perfect tempo with the rain
Falling upon her ruby umbrella.
A vivid image in a blurring landscape.
I have never seen her before,
Yet something seems familiar about her presence.

She studies a faded book with wrinkles on her brow,
“Poetry” sprawled in fading emerald across the cover.
I silently consider if she is a poet.
Does she paint images in her writings
Of picturesque cottages and fair maidens?
Or does she prefer profound psychological writing
That ventures into answers of life, love, and God?
Perhaps she flourishes in the macabre
Of spiders penetrating their venomous teeth into prey.
I am too shy to ask.
Perhaps I am reading too far into the situation;
Maybe she is simply reading the poems for class.

Nevertheless, we are connected,
Even if the silence keeps us apart.
Meaningful words scrawled upon blank pages
Can speak more eloquently and efficiently
Than either of our chapped, burgundy lips.
Poetry’s prowess pulls us together,
If even for one brief instant.
Two trivial creatures of the planet
Bought together by the beauty unspoken.

I open my own poetry book and read wordlessly.
The young woman catches my eye and smiles,
And an inexplicable chill trickles through my body.
We share our words of understanding through the silence,
A perfect poetic proceeding.

-Fall 2009

Flowers

An amber flower stands rooted upon a hill,
Blowing fiercely within the strong wind.
She bends against her will,
Nearly breaking out of shape,
And rippling as waves within the tossing sea.

Ice-cold rain falls from the heavens.
It sticks upon her petals.
Underneath the looming gray clouds she shutters,
craving the sunlight once again.

She sees other flowers around her,
But thinks she cannot reach them.
She is just one in the world,
Cold, wet, and alone.

Suddenly a kind flower turns towards her.
She feels a strange sensation in her roots,
And realizes he is moving his around hers,
Like two friends holding hands.
Soon, many more follow his actions.
Far before she can show her gratitude,
Thousands of roots overlap her own.

The flowers huddle together,
Petal by petal, for warmth and support.
As they link stalks, twisting and bending,
They comfort one another
From the dangers of the murky sky.

The flowers soak the chilling raindrops
Into their newly intertwined roots.
The cold water, once so dreadful,
Now turns warm and refreshing.

-Fall 2009

For My Mother

A gusty afternoon in September –
My quickened steps crunch over putrefied leaves.
It is only the first week of fall,
Yet the raw wind already chills my bones.
I sigh negativity through my nose,
Yet as I breathe sluggishly back in,
A pleasant scent of freshly-dug earth fills my nostrils.
While the aroma encircles my brain,
A bliss tingles throughout my fingertips
(Perhaps it was just the cold),
And an image from many years ago flashes into my mind.

I am a four-year-old again.
Beside our weathered wooden deck,
My mother and I hold hands,
Pleased with the scent of our freshly-dug flower bed.
I stand barefoot in the dark soil,
Squishing the soft chunks of earth
Diligently between my toes.
Mom smiles, then hands me an onion-shaped bulb.
She strikes the soil with her spade,
Leaving a small indentation in the ground.
She encourages me to drop in the bulb,
And I comply,
Marveling at her perfect presence
As the sun illuminates her blonde hair.

Mom gazes at me,
Watching me carefully reposition worms
Within the scattered garden holes
As to make sure the bulbs will not crush them.
She softly explains,
“This bulb will soon grow into a beautiful flower”.
She says, “the bulbs are simply sleeping,
And even though they love their soft, soily beds,
They will eventually wake up and greet the sun”.
When I nod in understanding she continues,
“You are just like the bulbs.”

The September wind pushes against my face,
Waking me from my years-ago daydream.
As I suck in the soil-scented aroma,
I smile to myself, pleased with my mother’s words.
Across the street, I see a mother with her child
Planting fall bulbs in their front yard.

-Fall 2009

What We Eat

If we are what we eat,
then I am creamy cheese and chocolate fondue,
slabs of sausages, bratwurst,
twenty pounds of steak and potatoes,
and black forest cake.

I am my mother,
eating a quick meal of potato chips and Diet Coke.
I am my sister,
eating strawberries and cauliflower.

People think I am knackebrod and Lingonberry jam,
simply because “Jag kan talla en lite svenska”;
But I am not.

I giggle when my spit-fire red-haired Irish friend
buys a 5-pound bag of potatoes,
and her Italian boyfriend buys
four huge cans of tomato sauce.
Sometimes I think spaghetti sauce courses through his veins,
instead of blood.
Yet he drinks Guinness and Jameson;
She devours spaghetti like a bird feasts on worms.

If we are what we eat…
What a sight that would be!
Sushi, burritos, caviar, green beans,
would walk the streets in normality.
Banana suits would no longer be suits;
If we would peal back the outer layer,
we would find a person underneath.
Fish would have legs
and vegetables would have arms.

But, if we were what we eat,
would we eat unchanged?
Or would we treat our eating as shame
and be afraid to show our real frames,
Thus making all our appearances
the same?

-Spring 2010

Death of a Poet

I tried to climb the highest redwood
but my wooden claws were too brittle.
Sticks that stitched sonnets into my skin
shattered into a million jigsaw pieces.
Squirrels laughed at my efforts by swishing their tails.

I tried to swim across the Pacific
but my cardboard fins soaked through.
Boards that bound the pages of my favorite books
sopped around me like soggy watered bread.
The ink of titles spread like oil on asphalt.

I tried to skim the surface of the sun
but my paper wings caught fire.
Pages full of lines written from my veins
lit up as easily as December firewood.
The burning display left only mounds of ash.

-Spring 2010

Waiting for Rain

i feel the weather in my stomach;
it travels and expands
      throughout my lungs.
the atmosphere fills every capillary
            of my windswept body
until i only want
      to trickle
my insecurities
            out of the world
            and leave them
to be soaked up
      by the parched ground.

 a storm is brewing.

i want to drive,
            somewhere
            (anywhere),
stand in the pouring shower,
      face towards the clouds,
      eyes closed
and just let go.

- Spring 2010

The Great American Ballet

I carved “Do Not Enter” into my door,
just to entice you to come in.
You ran your smooth fingers across the engraving,
caressing it carefully,
as if it were a lover of life-times past.
I carved verses into my thighs
and laughed as we soaked up wine like sponges.

Ignoring my etching, you entered –
I knew you would
          (I know you well).
But when we locked eyes,
our vacant faces reflected our emotion
better than a freshly-polished mirror.

And when you moved, I moved with you.
We danced about the room in pirouettes,
but we never touched.
I regarded your hand as a slap to the face.
Our gazes fell upon the grubby carpet,
upon the decaying walls, the shattered lights.

Outside, nature mocked us.
Snowflakes fell from the sky like confetti.

- Spring 2010

Flash

The walk sign flashed white,
and he, unknown stranger,
ignored the light and ran
          (I suppose he was in a hurry).

He dropped his cigarette –
ashes fell into the slush and grime of melting snow,
but he did not notice until
he moved his hand up to his mouth
and simply sucked in air.
Instead of breathing out smoke,
he released a sigh
and formed a cloud within the cold.

The man dropped into the slush
and picked up the still-smoldering butt.
After dusting off some dirt,
he placed the cigarette back into his mouth,
and I was surprised to hear
a sound of disgust escape from my mouth
which he (hopefully) did not hear.

But, he glanced at me from the ground,
and we linked gazes as tight as a locksmith’s chain.
When his eyes narrowed
and his eyebrow skin wrinkled,
I quickly stared at my (splitting) purple shoelaces.

Really, who am I to judge?
Money is tight and cigarettes are expensive.
That cigarette may have been his one link to sanity
as he flashed forward to his destination.

- Spring 2010