Lacuna

Played around with form on this one and made it a concrete poem, one whose shape speaks to the poem as much as the words do.

It’s as though you have always been                    there

Right              there, in a sturdy log cabin

To the left of my heart

Surrounded by trees, a battalion of rigid

Lodgepoles twenty-one-gunning the morning fog

Me, as I stumble through the    d a y s  to  y   e    a     r      s

Sidestepping brush and crouching under limbs

I know you are there, but only in dreaming

Only subconsciously, your cabin amid the trees

I expect you are as wary as me

Woods hold wolves and bears and things

Things you are no more equipped for than I

But you are brave, in your cabin in the trees

 You note each  awkward  step I take

You smolder out the cabin window

You glower at each man I meet

Sub-par,           mediocre,          trivial,            mundane

This heart has been claimed, you loudly say

A cabin has already been built on this spot

And I must merely                          find                 it

I feel you there from time to time

You crowd my heart and give me pause

And sometimes, when a tree falls,

The left side of my chest aches

She walks out in rain

I wanted to write this scene, but prose seemed too daunting for eleven o'clock at night (which then stretched into one o'clock in the morning).  So this happened.  And it happened better than I expected it to, so go me!  Inspired by the ever-charming Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton.  If I ever manage a literary relationship half as precious and perfect I will consider it an accomplishment.

She walks out in rain

In high black heels and short black coat

Under a black umbrella

And nobody knows her name, nobody

Knows her name

Hair pulled up

Lips pulled up

In a press-on smile colored

Wine-to-the-light red

She parts the crowd like she’s holding a gun

Eyes roll off her

The way the city smog wicks off rain

She is a pretty thing lost in the beauty of life

She is a pretty sketch hung in the coat room of the Louvre

And she placed herself there

Across the sea of taxi cabs

Flickers the sign for a self-possessed coffee shop

She waits for the crosswalk light like everyone else

Floats over a white line bridge with

More conviction and less care

Than Tibbets over Hiroshima

She enters to the tinkling of a tiny bell

No one looks up, she is a ghost, she

Shakes the water from her umbrella

Hangs it on the overfull rack by the door

Orders a chai tea from the girl behind the counter

Takes the darkest seat at the table in the brightest side of the room

Waits for the city to catch up

Finger by finger

She strips off her gloves

Sets them neatly aside and

Folds her hands around the tea that comes

In a beige porcelain mug

She inhales and thinks of Hyderabad

The crescent moon lipstick gains a shade of sincerity

He is already here

She could tell from the street

The way the light fell from the windows

To the sidewalk

Slantways, as though

Tumbling through a poor quality mirror

Displaced like water

Dispelled like a rumor

Making room for his shining soul

And the leeching sins

Eyes meet across the huddled tables

He smirks, blows steam off his coffee

She can smell the two creams and no sugar

She tilts her head in a toast and fingers the rim of her mug

This time he gives in

Takes his cream and caffeine

And the other seat at her table

Pleasantries are exchanged

He has been in Berlin, she

Is wearing Colombian jet lag

She smells nice, he

Is cultivating the five o’clock shadow

And he almost coaxes a laugh from her lips

Time is sluggish and cannot be bothered

On rare occasions when he is so close

But she has a flight to catch

And must change her mask on the way

So she unbuttons her jacket

Smiling, he stiffens

Then releases unsprung when he sees it is only paper

She slides it to him

Her fingers are long, her nails short

Before he can unfold it

She is up and to the door

The umbrella is in her hand and she is outside

With a farewell whispered in another language, maybe French

The rain has picked up but she walks three blocks

Before hailing a cab

And slipping inside

Umbrella folded neatly

On the bench beside her like a well-trained dog

In silence she pictures

The coffee shop on the corner

He will open the paper

Skim the contents only to get to

The lipstick signature in the bottom margin

The information will be handed to higher-ups

Promptly, faithfully

Word for word

But he will keep the signature to himself

Stick it in his pocket with the lint and the others

She knows it

As surely as he knew it would be there

He leaves a tip on the table

Beside the empty cup of coffee

And the untouched tea

Turns up his collar

Steps out in the dark

The cab pulses through the city

She dozes in the back and thinks of Saint Petersburg

Raindrops hit the windshield

Like split-second decisions, like

Steps toward a conclusion

With practiced precision

The windshield wipers shrug it off

Popcorn

My father comes home
Following a long week of camping
And my little dog
Loses his head with excitement

We see him pull up
In our white beetlelike van
And disembark
In his khaki shirt

Just like that
The poodle pops up
Like a bubble bursting on the water
Peering out the window

With little round eyes
He barks, and every bark
Is punctuated by an offsetting
Wag of the stumpy tail

He whines between barks
And I pity him enough
That I would let him out the front door
If it weren't for the other campers

Dad will help them unpack
See that each bag finds each boy
And each boy a way home
To their own excitable mutts

In the meantime, ours
Will stand on the couch
On only two legs
Like a small lupine person

Potbelly brushing the headrest
Paws up on the crown of the couch
As though leaning over the bar
For a better view of the owner

Observing, Existing, Myself Selfless

This is a long one, but as John Mayer put it, "It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say."  I think I need my own Walden.  That's one for the bucket list.  

Once in my life

I would like to awaken

In a modest cottage

Empty

From ceiling to floor

Furnished in the Spartan style

Not a soul

Within the walls

Simply dawn filtering

Through

And me in an iron-frame bed

And a pretty blue nightgown

I would haul myself

Up and out of the black

Deep lake of subconscious

Softly

As taking a breath

The first puff of air in new lungs

Lie in the arms of my

Clean linen sheets

Gazing up at the ceiling

Listening

To birds without my window

And dust motes in the light

Then I would rise

Place the soles of my feet

On the wooden floor

Cold

With morning and warm

With past life

I venture into the kitchen

Where sit the two forks

Two knives and one

Spoon

Which I have inherited from

Thoreau, who was finished with them

But the hollow of my stomach

Cannot be filled by

Material sustenance and so I

Decline

The invitation of the pantry

And my small table

I am drawn instead

To the arch top door

With its picture frame

Window

And pretty black handle

And fingerprint nicks in its body

I ease it open

As gentle as a mother

Nudging her child to bed

Courteous

I peer out nose-first

To be sure the morning has finished dressing

The scent of the air

Good-naturedly defies

Any word in any tongue

Fists

Clench with the fresh clean new untouched

That cannot be captured in any net

It washes over me

The sunlight, the breeze

The opening flowers

Songbirds

In the crowns of trees

Inhabitants of their own perfect country

I lower myself

Onto the top stone step

Smooth my nightgown

Scrape

My toes in the dust

And watch it go on

It unfolds, or better

Unravels thread by thread

Of original colors

Revealing

All at once the grand

Web of life unburdened

I am in the center

Allowed so long as I

Make no motion

No

Disturbance, for I

Am merely a guest here

Two chairs sit like

Well-trained hounds

At either end of the

Table

One marked for me, the other

Reserved for small chance of company

The birds and the flowers

Need no chair, but

Have in eternal generosity

Offered

One to me so that I

May be comfortable

This cottage is my chair

I am a visitor

In the immaculate house of

God

Humbly I take tea

And share in the purity

The bees take my burdens

The green things my sorrows

The mice in the bushes

Scatter

My cares and shred them

To make nests

I sit on the stone

Grateful and empty

A prayer in my soul

Voiced

By myself unremitting

And a clear summer morning

A Night Alone

We're on a roll tonight, my friends.

With my music in

I slip out the back

And down the stairs

The porch light flicks on

Against my will

But I make my way across the grass

And sit on the swing

The blue one on the left

And I sway back and forth

With my legs out long

My shoulders are bare

And the mosquitoes come

The night predators finally

Venture out on eight legs

But I look up at the sky

At the stars

Just the stars

Not the big heavy questions

In the space in between

Just the stars

Because I like them

For all each pinprick is worth

And I think that

Perhaps

I would like to be alone

In the universe

Just once

Because sometimes

It feels that

I am the only one

Who speaks my language

The song ends

And the porch light

Decides to go on break

I start across the lawn

Then turn back to my swing

The song plays again

I sit in the dark

Shed a tear or few

And nobody sees me

Except for the mosquitoes

I can’t hide from them

A warm breeze picks up

Cools the wet on my face

And I close my eyes tight

For just a few seconds

The song ends and I leave it that way

Sit in silence

Brush bugs off my legs

And wish that someone

Would carry me

To a bed not my own

Where I can sleep until dawn

And wake up wholly new

A Journey

Don't even ask me what this means.  I thought I knew, but then I forgot.  

I sailed away

On a ship with no wheel

And a treasure map burned on my skin

By an excess of caution. 

I saw the clouds gathering on the parallel

Between sky and lapping sea

I smelt the typhoon in the air, felt its teeth in my hair

Squared my shoulders and let loose the sail—

I had had enough

Enough, I swear

Of anchors and starfish marooned on the sand

Enough of moorings and fishermen’s tales. 

There was a storm in my soul

And I meant to let it out. 

The waves pushed back on my hull

Goosebumps and wet hair

A chill equal parts sea spray and bad feeling. 

But I set my jaw

Braced my boots on the deck

And let the rope skid through my bare hand.

The clouds reared like horses

Like lions

Like a king in the heat of his final stand

And all at once I became small

A child in a paper boat

A quick-hearted mouse in the second before owl

A leaf on the street in an autumn gale

A girl on a skiff without a wheel

And it opened its maw and swallowed me whole—

I flew. 

Like a gull I flew

With my arms spread and my eyes shut

And the grin of a fool on my face. 

I was unbound, unburdened

Lashed to the mast of a sinking ship

With the storm tearing out of my stomach

To join its countrymen

And I did little but let it go

For try as I might

I could not keep even a piece. 

That hour has been consigned to the ship’s log of what has been. 

It left me limp on the deck of my ship

Back bare to the sun

Hair half-dry in a broken halo

Raw hands splayed beside red rope. 

Only then did the ocean show mercy—

Passing my vessel across the heads of waves

Back over the blue expanse of the sea

While the gulls cried with laughter above my head. 

It nudged me ashore with a gentle kiss

And a patronizing word which trickled into deaf ears. 

“Next time, use a wheel

And bring a real map.”

Looking Through Blinds

Will do you absolutely
A disservice
For
You never can be sure what
Is there you cannot see and
They are just blinds
It
Is not their place to do
Any editing
Don't you
Edit yourself either
Leave that to God and
Television but
For now enjoy
Unbridled
The excellent reception beyond your screen
Just this morning I
Saw a stray dog,
And a pearl dove, and
Stormclouds retreating from the sun

Weed-Pulling

You cannot pull weeds without getting dirty
No matter what prissy sister says
A film of sweat dirt sunshine
Congeals upon my brow and back
As I uproot the grassroots of
The June generation of parasites

The deceptively delicate ones, the
"Baby" ones
Who fall like martyrs at such a tender age
The cunning ones who with
Grim desperation have
Sought purchase beneath the cleft of a rock
And the ones who are downright cheery, brazen
Bold, sprawled in the open for all the world to see
Content to play the always game of
Gardener versus the mischievous side of nature

I salute the menacing bees as I engender a massacre
Turning green earth supple and powdery brown
Making way for the ready-waiting wave of new weeds

Tireless they are, not
Like me

But here on this day
In this sunshine, for now
This is my patch
Of the front flowerbed

This earth is my claim
My toil
Flagged by the imprint of my
Shoeless feet
My name here
While it is clear
When the weeds come again
Someone else may have it

Whether or Not You Please

C'est la vie
As they say
Si oui ou non vou plait
Oh so lovely and brief
And eternal and sweet
Simply live and be glad
What more could one have?
C'est la vie
As they say
Si oui ou non vou plait*

*Disclaimer:  I don't speak French in the slightest.

Revelation at Roughly One AM

What is here in this moment
Is wonder
Is new
Like being handed the key
To a lock
On a door
That has sat stolid, impenetrable
For ever so long
Tantalizing in plain sight
But as closed
As a stone
Like waking to find
The sun has appeared
And the birds have arrived
Unassuming
Unannounced
As though they never had gone
And the trees are decked out
In the finest spring buds
That you swear were not there
When you first shut your eyes
What is here in this moment
Emboldens
Unsettles
Peels off the old and graying layers
And reveals something splendorous concealed underneath
Something fresh
Something clean
Something weightless with joy
Something here in this moment
That was here all along
Like the lurking locked door
Like the fragile spring buds
Like the sun shaded by the most desperate of clouds
And it is irrevocably
Fundamentally true:
What is here in this moment
Was here all along

I find myself posing for pictures

I find myself posing for pictures
Often when I am wholly alone
Pouting in the mirror or
Varnishing my nails or
Walking the dog or
Mowing the lawn
I pose
I fancy myself in
Norman Rockwell
Nigel Barker
To be framed in an exhibit
Or exhibited on a magazine rack
In an ad for the all-American
Or a feature piece deemed
"Private Life of a Regular Girl"
I hope that someone is holding the camera
And that the film will someday reach a grander venue
Than the inside of the trash can
Of moments unrecorded
Regardless I pose
I impress
I fancy myself something to behold
And glamorize my quiet moments
For an audience of two
Myself and
That ever-hidden photographer
I hope someday
He deigns to show me the pictures
For surely somewhere in the massive stack
There must be a masterpiece hidden
Worth more than the attention
Of the subject herself and only

The dead are plodding through the empty streets

I am so, so scared of zombies.  I think this was the first poem I wrote this year in order to get over a nightmare.  My goal was to make a post-apocalyptic scene something really beautiful and sad, not necessarily terrifying.  I modeled it after poems studied in AP English and I really like it despite its macabre-ness.  

The dead are plodding through the empty streets,

Shuffling in despondent and lacking forms. 

Lidless eyes survey the neighborhood,

Searching for something, something mysterious,

Indistinct at the borders of their short comprehension. 

Harsh, hoarse attempts at communication ring mournfully from shuttered windows

And though pedestrians fill the street,

Not a soul may hear or answer. 

A parade of the damned,

Of the physical soulless,

One foot in the grave, the other on the front lawn,

Reaches from here to Main Street

And around the waist of the world. 

And everywhere is hunger,

In the rot of their flesh and stiffening of their joints,

Lying dormant in veins and saliva thick with the refuse of death. 

And the smell, the smell, the smell of life,

Of soft and supple things, intoxicating and inaccessible

Who have vanished into meaningless, dim, and fast relinquished memory

Or perhaps never did exist.

For all that remains on this autumn street

Are the dead with stale breath in their lungs and dull bewilderment in their slack faces

And damp leaves that swish under sluffing foot

And the forlorn, sturdy structures of mankind’s previous incarnation

Clinging to the struts of civilization from which all reason has decayed away. 

In the skeletal trees over unthinking heads,

Birds warble and wing, secure in their flight, untroubled by humanity’s change of state. 

And beneath them, the dead are plodding,

Through the empty, leaf-ridden,

Hellish streets.