we’re a cookie train
decked out in
conductors’ clothes:
Brownie and Daisy,
brown and blue,
multicolored patches
glistening in the sun,
red wagon behind
brimming with
a rainbow of boxes
tied with
red, yellow, green, purple
ribbons,
blue and white cards,
working our way
through the melting-snow streets
to bring a little happiness
on a Sunday afternoon.
Month: February 2011
Tide
her words flow over my shoulders
in waves of icy discomfort.
i watch your accepting faces
swallow the saltiness of
the ocean that year after year
never lets loose its high tide.
but you are swimmers
and her words won’t drown you.
you will build rafts
and zip up your wet suits,
ready for the relentlessness
of the moon-over-shoulder tide.
i wish i learned to swim like you.
when i spit back her wave of words
to him (hours later), my breath escapes me,
stolen by the tide. my arms reach
for your rafts, your suits, your warmth
that the icy waters swallow as i drown.
Stage
the complexity of her desire
lies beneath the wings,
hidden backstage
behind the set
that he has so diligently
worked years to create.
he would surely see it
if it weren’t for the glory
of the spotlight
that draws beads of sweat
upon his brow
and standing ovations
from his familial fans.
instead she waits
for the final bow,
the wilted flowers
with stage-heavy hands
to be placed inside a vase
upon the mantle,
a reminder of the beauty
they once shared.
Thursday Haiku Blues
with the simple slip
of butterfly’s wing in shell
the world emerges.
just as sky brightens
winter drops its giant flakes
stealing my commute.
the image rests here
behind closed lids waiting for
our awakening.
your beverage scared me
i could neither see nor smell
the love you desired.
her words haunt my soul
confessions of a beauty
hiding behind fear.
she is from that leg
that the tumor took away
how smooth she walks now.
are they watching now
waiting to pounce on my lack
of words to fill space?
words could never fill
the space that exists between
want and idealism.
i will see the sun
on the crest of the mountain
before the train comes.
just when i need sleep
the phone jolts me into the
place i dislike most.
Fourteen Years
Inspired by Scotia Nightpoetry
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die,
has lost all the weight
from last year’s birthing
(shed it like washing
silt from her hair)
and rests her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that carried her
from innocent adolescence
to harrowed adulthood
the same survivor shoulders
that fourteen years ago
all of our tears fell down upon,
all of our hopes and doubts
couldn’t hold up
as hair fell in chunks
onto the bottom of the bath,
her youth (our youth)
disappearing as quickly
as the drain
could carry it all away.
it’s been fourteen years
since she didn’t die.
between now and then
the scars on her face, neck
have shaped her into
the woman, the mother,
the researcher of life
who carries her hopes and doubts
on the same survivor shoulders
that led her into the life
her dreams once told her she could live.
Training for the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic
If you have decided to take the plunge and commit yourself to gaining 6000 feet in elevation while you race the Durango-Silverton train fifty miles to the top of a mountain, follow these steps to have a successful bicycle event.
1. Plan to train for at least fourteen weeks, at least six days a week.
2. Set your alarm for 4:30 a.m. Don’t push the snooze button. Ever.
3. Put on your appropriate bicycle gear. If you are riding on a trainer in your house, you’ll need bike gloves, bike shorts, and a decent pair of sneakers. If you’re riding outside in the winter, wear all of the above and add long underwear, bike pants, two long-sleeved bike jerseys, warmer gloves, a hat, and a helmet.
4. Mount your bicycle and, if you’re riding a trainer, set it for the highest level of resistance, and shift your derailleur to the highest possible gear. If you’re riding outside, map out a course that includes a circle with huge, steep hills in almost all directions.
5. Ride for at least fifteen miles for five days a week, and on the sixth day, ride for twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, etc., until you reach fifty on the twelfth Saturday of training.
6. Taper off your training by ten percent between weeks twelve and thirteen so that your muscles have time to rest and build up.
7. In week fourteen, ride only three days for fifteen miles each time.
8. Drive to Durango. You’re ready to climb a mountain!
One Night of the Year
we had uninvited guests
uninvite themselves back,
an impromptu invitation,
and our simple plans
of pot roast with
potatoes, parsnips, carrots,
mini-quiches and veggie pies,
tortilla chips and salsa,
butterscotch pudding cake
and French vanilla ice cream,
and kids as excited as
tree-swinging monkeys
for the one night of the year
that they can eat dinner
in front of the television.
it’s like a holiday
without the hullabaloo,
and our lack-of-sports
Sunday routine
can be broken
for this one night of the year.
Silver
with aching muscles
i nestle into the leather couch
surrounded by strangers,
our children
piling on top of
giant silver foam blocks,
forming friendships
as quickly
as the silvery flakes falling
outside the wall
of white-framed windows.
i watch the snow slither
into the city,
the silver titanium points
of this art museum
a perfect picture frame
of the silvery cityscape of skyscrapers
standing tall against the winter.
it is all warmth here,
all smiles,
and we could stay all afternoon
or forever in my memory.
Unsatisfactory
You deserve a poem
for your partial proficiency.
You deserve all the words
that you take from our mouths,
that you tell us to tear down
from our walls,
that you banish from our rooms
in the form of literature
(the very thing you dare assess)
for the lock-and-key,
starve-and-dehydrate,
Nazification of a test
you put on a pedestal,
a test they all detest,
for which they could care less.
You deserve a poem
for your unsatisfactory mark
upon the teachers you denigrate,
the teachers you should emulate.
Perhaps I will learn Morse Code,
buy the appropriate paraphernalia,
and send my message over the airwaves.
Would you listen to me then?
Spell
her words escaped you
two years ago,
your never-sit-still antics
keeping your ears
from listening.
i read aloud now,
my attempt at
a Scottish accent
as pitiful as the pink umbrella
Hagrid uses to
pull out the pig’s tail,
and you sit, still as a stone,
asking for another chapter.
though the words
your Daddy and I have loved
for almost as long as
your Daddy and I have been
together
are just now
casting their spell on you,
i am grateful for
whatever words will lead you
into our love of literature.
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