Their glances connect, turning sparks
into thunder. A blinding flash
of binding eyes ends with a flinch.
He doesn’t see her when he looks
again. Lightning never strikes twice,
but thunderstorms never subside.
Even as Skillet plays their set,
his basest desire swallows up
the bass and treble, wooing crowds,
too loud for rock concerts to snuff.
The trophy pawn he brought along
gets lost with other faces. Fair
attractions aren’t so attractive
when the manure air reminds him
what he has left after she’s gone:
a wisp of fragrance rubbed on him,
a scrapbook with precious moments.
She stands in the crowd. He knows it,
but after every song, the chance
to find her shrinks. The chance to be
with her gets lost in other dreams.
-
Mirage
-
Roll Sheet
My entry for day 4 of the 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: “take the phrase ‘(blank) Sheet,’ replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then write the poem.”
When teacher’s gone away, children untamed
assume different names. Desks rearranged
by chemistry rather than tyranny
sits friend beside friend; why wouldn’t they attend?
Near-sighted students no longer need glasses
when they can sit in the front. They see fine–
and listen too–when needing not to squint
to read the teacher’s chicken scratch,
when the substitute remains blind
to the antics that happen behind her back
and focuses instead on teaching math
and science and words beyond “No!”
or “Stop!” or idle threats that rein no beasts
but rather docile sheep who never bleat anyway.
No longer centered in the front, the brats
fall to the back and play with their phones
to the pleasure of the rest of the class
that finally learn something about math.
For once, the roll sheet has everyone
in attendance, ready to learn as desired. -
On a Swing
My entry for day 3 of the 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: “write a ‘the last time I was here’ poem.”
On the edge of the slide, she sat.
I lay my head in her lap, creeping
closer to the soft spot in her chest, telegraphing
desire drunk with the rush of a swing.
If I leapt from the chains, I may fall
right into her lap, face first, but
I kept swinging back, afraid to crack
my neck should she reject my advance.
I sold my soul for a safer dream
as a faithful pup for her to pet
and hug and share her every secret with.
She may not welcome me inside
if she knew I wanted much more
than Wednesday nights out in a park
with her and adopted friends on swings
that made me dizzy. I’d be in bliss
to spend each night inside her bed–
the warmth preferred to the winter chill–
instead of out with other boys
who fought me for scraps that fell off her
as she walked through life unbeknownst
how every boy wanted much more
than a walk in the park. Her room
promised greater prospects to he
who had the courage to leap first, but
though appetites suggested wolves,
we were nothing but pups.
without opposable thumbs
to open the door or even to knock. -
Core Strength
Balance requires core
strength. Some leads to more
with time.
Steady on all four
limbs. Lose one. One more
each chime,
but still remain sure
no tempest will floor
your climb. -
Sprite in Communications
A sprite resided in the classroom’s nook
and flew without a word that could be heard
above the banter of the babbling brook.
She sang as loudly as a hummingbird.She fluttered in flowers among the trees
and sweetened bitter nectar with her air,
but who could notice such majestic fleece?
Not even hawks could spot her in her chair.But when she took the stage, the world witnessed
the stars eclipsed by the span of her wings.
Her flutter could not keep pace with my chest.
Her nose’s crinkle did unwrinkle things.Oh, sprite. Why did you have to hide from sight?
Without your light, the summer’s endless night. -
Senioritis
I don’t drink. I claim religion
as my motivation, but truthfully,
my license exposes secrets
my face denies to younger friends.
My lips vet each pop reference
for timeliness and timelessness.
“Would children half my age say this?” I ask
before a word slips out that makes them ask
how old I am beneath my foundation,
how many wrinkles I keep covered up,
how much hot pink is really gray beneath.If they discovered my secret,
they’d drag me out the dorm, out the soirée,
and lock me up until I die
in an old folks’ home with withered peers
who waste their days and reminisce
on happy days I never lived.
I skipped the proms; I never held pompoms;
I sneaked out rallies, running away from home.
I got trapped in the World Wide Web
before the media declared it hip.
I went gaga over boy bands
before Disney made them platinum.
I wilted long before my world blossomed.
An aged crone without a home
now roaming dorms in search of friends
I should’ve had back then in school,
but back then, they weren’t even born.When I graduate, I’ll be left alone–
single, spinster, dead cats as company–
so I pursue a doctorate
to justify my attendance
at raves and rallies, stags and football games.
“It’s for the books,” I say, “and a career”
I still cannot fabricate on the spot.
But I’ve mentioned too many bands
they’ve never heard, they’ve never seen.
My lie unravels. They see the real me.
My only option now: to embrace death. -
Salt
In response to Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt: “Write a poem about something in the room.”
Spilt salt spoils luck
but sprinkles season meat
and shrivels up the slugs
and erodes healthy teeth.
Salt makes you sneeze
and makes wounds sting
and flavors your tongue
with words that spice
up life with a savior
but still burn when thrown
in someone else’s eyes.
Salt resides in seas
inhabited by schools
and inhabits mines
occupied by kids,
then transferred to stores
in family-friendly packages
to preserve factory meat
of genetically modified sheep.
Salt softens ice
and hardens fruit
and seasons lies
with supple truth.
Salt lives in our flesh,
our bones, and in our mouths,
but the salt we crave most
comes from the clouds. -
In the Name of Etro
Prompted by the Writer’s Digest Poetic Form Challenge to write a gwawdodyn poem.
Gifts of the Goddess
She balanced fate on unstable hearts
and eyes witnessing time turning dark.
To break the cycle of premature death
required all breath and light to depart.Labyrinth of Chaos
The pillars twist and turn without gears
infected with monsters from past years.
A goddess’s gift allows one to leap
across the steep abyss and face fears.Bahamuts
Each attitude bore grievance alone
but shared the will to murder the one
affixed at their core. Beaten hard by her,
their heart flared with pain to be undone. -
Guard Dog
The pit-bull growls at passerbys
a warning shot to frighten them away.
He stands his ground as Master taught,
protecting property from would-be thieves
Nobody’s ever burglarized the house–
or any other in the neighborhood.
He stands his ground on the front lawn
with teeth to rip necks off men, women, children,
unleashed, caged only by a flimsy fence–
the only one in the neighborhood.I used to walk my dogs each night,
but the neighborhood’s grown too dangerous.
That beast profiles everything passing by,
rattling the chains on his four-foot-tall cage.
He only barks now, but someday, he’ll bite
into the neck of the child who foolishly
plays basketball on these dangerous streets.
There’s a killer out there, trained to obey
a master with belongings coveted
by every black boy he sees in his dreams,
viciously pawing for his tube TV. -
Seeker
I gave it all to God:
my worries, questions, confusion. I heard
no shout or whisper. Nothing but the wind.
I never heard from Christ, but his Body–
specifically his ass, the largest part–
had many words to dump on me.
Pray more, read the Bible more, tithe again.
I did and did some more, but bended knees
began to atrophy and brittle bones
began to splinter as my brittle mind
began to wither without salvation
or somebody to listen and not preach
to me; I already joined the choir.
Why tell me to pray as if I had stopped?
Why feed me clichés I already bought?
They never heard a single word I said
between their sermons, pamphlets, catchphrases.
I took my queries, quandaries, and queerness
and left in search of answers from a source
I had once only used for porn.I gave it all to Google;
a million answers given in return.
Most missed the mark, but several hit
the spots religion always missed.
My worries, questions, confusion exchanged
for answers, tips, crowdsourced information.
I no longer fear brown recluses;
I found my public speaking voice;
I learned how to bake my own manna;
I don’t have to wait. I found my choice.
It asks for nothing in return
for salvation. Google gives freely
while churches still send me junk mail
demanding money for deacons
and stages for Christian rock bands
whose sex tapes can be found through Google
along with other sins filtered by the Church.
I have nothing more to give to God.
I give my tithes to Amazon and prayers
to Google, but when overflown with words,
I’ll give the choicest to the church.
