| Poetry & Haikus |
| Riddle in the Sun She sails across the sky each day and slowly sinks at night; her lamps are never snuffed or lit, but she gives a lovely light. Floating there's black, and there's white, and there's twilight. sometimes I watch oceans die. don't blink- I can hear your eyelashes. Headache My head is splitting open. It'll split in two, and a goddess of war will leap out and wreak havoc on everyone who has annoyed me today. The Fountain It's warm. I don't have to wear a coat. I make you drive. Where are we going? Past a fountain, black water at night, dancing demon children. Are they naked? I don't know. Pull over and let's check. My sandals flop on the warm sidewalk, but you make no noise in those old sneakers. They're wearing bathing suits. The stone is wet and cold, like a seashore. I put my leg up and pretend that I am a mermaid. The moon's in the water. You can tell it's a reflection. There are clouds. I wait for you to make some joke, but you're quiet. I know you like to watch me sometimes. Without warning you splash me with water- I chase you, and you steal my sandals, and we float them in the fountain. Now they make a squelching noise as we walk back to your car. So. Where are we going? West Bound at Night we are rocking, rocking on the water. moon and stars tease me, we cleave through them like a bird through a cloud, but still they dance, dance in the waves. in the violet velvet ahead our minds are lifted and our eyelids fall. we have come home, sailing, sailing on to those white shores and the willows waiting there. Backstage There is poetry here, wrapped in darkness when the lights go out; smell of old life, of anxiety crouched behind velvet curtains- haunches and sweat, makeup perspiration, a mystery in whispers haunted by fading piano chords. Behind whose eyes did these thoughts arise, whose fear pumped in quivering veins, whose white teeth showed for a second through a smile in the blackness? We feel them. We walk on the wood carefully, we listen to poetry-in-darkness, sweat in a coffin preserved by those who came before. Memory Lane The path is deserted, empty and cold, whenever I walk there, I know I'm alone, far far away from the haunts of men walking only with shadows of things that have been. I can smell the remaining love in the air and I shiver in the hate lingering there. I hear whispers as I walk along- crying and laughter and snatches of song; shadows flit past me with faces I know and eyes looking through my skin, to my soul. Some of the ghosts give me a sorrowful smile as we tread the worn path for one last tiring mile; but some are following, haunting me calling, teasing, taunting me, their fingers are beckoning, terrible claws, they scream in pain, and I know that I caused their howls of anguish in the wind through the trees. Their pain that I feel makes me fall to my knees. So beware, you mortals, when you face the past, and confront the phantoms of those you've harrassed. Walk in his shoes and think of her pain, for one day it's your turn for Memory Lane. Sunday Morning We step in line, one, two, three, four, avoiding ice patches to the wide open door. My parents, mother ducklings, herd us inside. Through the cloudy cold air the sounds of Sunday bells die. Amid stained glass windows we sit in a row. Hands folded, eyes down, in prayer we grow old. Now one foggy morning the bells ring half past nine. Four haunted adults walk to church in a line. With the sign of the cross we begin it again, every father, son, Holy Spirit, amen. Bound My name is Becca and that means bound, bound like in chains at wrists or ankles to a wall that crumbles around me while I remain bound to its bricks; to some I am bound by kinship, bound to James, son of William, son of a street at the age of three, huddling in his coat collar. I am bound to this blood traced in tracks back to Germany, to Scotland, and high heather hills. I am the heroine bound to the tracks, waiting, struggling, complacent, impatient till the man of my fantasies sees me in the distance bound to the tracks, away from the station where the crowds watch the clock and see not a girl bound to fate and bound to blood bound to love bound, because that is my name. Straw, Cat, and Tin Said a scarecrow, sad and weary-eyed to a magpie flying carefree: "Find me a tin can of bright silver tin, fill it with water, and bring it to me." So the magpie fetched the tin can who rattled his tarnished metal and cried, "Polish my skin, oh, polish me well, until a king could see his face on my hide." So the magpie brought it to a cat who licked it once, and shook his head. "I need to drink a cool and sharp drink to polish this tin," he said. So the magpie and the cat brought the tin to a nearby spout, filled him up and up and up until the water nearly spilled out. Went magpie, cat, and tin to the scarecrow on his pole. A field mouse in his straw-stuffed shirt stuck its head out of a hole. When it saw its face in the water and reflected on the tin, it shrieked a shrill and squeaky shriek and scrabbling, toppled in. Leapt the cat to the terrified mouse, fishing in the water with its paw, and purring a satisfied song of a purr, grabbed it quickly in its claw. The scarecrow laughed and danced on his pole and thought he was terribly witty. The magpie flapped his midnight wings and whistled a barbershop ditty. Buried Give jagged, broken darkness a candle. I remember a confused child in plaid- a soft song in ash, a smoke lullabye, a darkly humorous past. Blame me for my willow tears that melt hellfire from the stones in your shoe. Say a prayer for a rainbow connection that soars for redemption in the ditty of a train and the bells in the tower. Forgive me, I am trapped in my bed, twisted in the sheets. I am in the sand, in the snow. I am buried while still alive. Help me. St. Joseph With a loss of grace knees go weak on a rainy street rainbows flicker in an oil spill by a bus stop that dropped out of heaven without wide eyes knees are drawn up under a chin and lightning bursts in a nightmare sky on the other side of an open bedroom window when ear piercing holes gape and bones click at the joints, when Ash Wednesday means hamburgers, the world will unclench its fist. Random Haikus the sun is setting dipping into the mountains sinking in the sea here, on the rooftop my rusty weathervane spins- now the hen points east gentle, joyful dreams are not bestowed on my mind. I dream death tonight. if I go to hell I will swim in the hot oil for those without souls an archer, armed with an arrow of disbelief shoots a flying prayer Haiku Series: Children Victims of Adult Sins Curly, golden-haired children play ball in the park, sensitive to sins... a man, Child Labor, plays a music box, and the children come dancing did you not see her? Prostitution, the haggard toad baring her breasts in the dark garden: For Those Without Memory, this, a guillotine. fat old man, drinking, gut bulging, leers at those who flee Alcoholism spiders crawl up the sleeve of Sadism, beckoning, foul prince of nightmares War is good with kids. his mickey mouse bombs are fun for the whole family little fingers learn from Theft's clever hands, greedy for the clink of coins and he, Indifference, keeps eyes shut and hands on ears arms stubbornly crossed |