Smile. Put on a bright face
I say and you ask why
should feelings be shelved
shifted like leftovers
to the back of the fridge
not good enough for company
only for quiet lonely lunching
a secret warmed-up snack
when no one is there
to see
PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 27: a leftovers poem.
1. Devil’s Workshop
One tangled scarf-skein
fails; I no longer want this
choking cloud color
2. Budget Accommodations
On shoestring of doubt
you get the whole shiny house
hollow, echoing
haunting the way you wanted
yesterday, buyer’s remorse
would it bring you peace to discard
this entire hand of life? to draw again
as many years, breaths, fresh heartaches
theme-park rides? throw it all to the wind
that chaff-blows east from west; stretch
to that dark edge and dive into the wave
that crash-washes all trace of your salt-perfume
when you emerge gasping from the surf
it is a birth; when you emerge blinking
from the dirt-walled cellar, it is a birth
the prairie swept clean, coast swept clear—
even of your own black-cloud faults, beliefs
that you were the hurricane, tornado
lightning arcing from sea to earth to sky
draw again, draw again
see the garden dew-fresh, unflowered, full
only of possible-to-be
The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 23 is to use a playing card for inspiration. I drew two cards from our Fluxx deck: Discard/Draw and Peace.
These small tasks that maybe need
doing like basting the meat, taking
one set of sheets up and one down.
I hung the small paintings in their small
corner to remember Tuscany by as if
leaving them on the dresser could
cause me to forget
gray days are in plenty this time
of year. It goes with the drip of rain
through dwindling leaves, this draining
of my heart-well: clean, scour, overhaul
and wait for something better. It’s okay
to sit here knitting, okay to hanker
for silence and slumber. It is not winter—
the streams still run, sluggish, under
leaf-mould, damped-down—but soon
the frost, the bite, that memory of being
alive to the ambitions of spring. Please God,
remind me to pray for the green
in us all, a reason to cry
and to care.
A day of sun and rain either matches
or causes my mood; we have the illusion
like prism’d spray that we have arrived
at a cross-roads again
(the garden drips fruit-full but yellow
un-leaving but budding for fall bloom
as if no one knows what’s coming)
A day of rain and sun so I vacillate
poised on the balcony-edge of ennui
and sudden energy of making-purpose
jealous of sparkling brilliance
(the drops gather waiting on waxy leaves
spattered tiles, blown roses, trembling
energy before they are ripe for a splash)
I dress in gray and that’s not working
I drink tea and tree-gaze and that’s not working
We weigh this decision as if we had any sway
over these flighty earth-bound souls
(the sky is sudden in the hills—
watch clouds overspill forested heights
race wind-chastened down our valley)
So we flail, trapped
indoors out of season
cold currents against
us. Our spring is up—
down falls the earth-turn
we wormed our way
to this light just
as everything fades
unwind one of those days
that I cringe from (yearn
toward) human touch
no one likes to be accused
of failure—in the street
in the heart or anywhere
cookies aren’t the cure
nor a brisk walk! nor any bottle
don’t sell me your solutions
blessed are they who make
beauty: their fruit shines
over rivers of bitterness
don’t blame someone else
don’t blame yourself; leave
your sentence open-ended
calendar runs counter:
july to march like peeling
back a sunburn fresh skin
of cold wind, rain
is set-up for contemplation:
all the open-windowed
vantages versus walking
in cold wind, rain
how clouds rise in steam
from hills gray and yet green
blooms embracing mystery
of sleepy season recalled
turn of the year like dry earth
reclaimed
It is irresistible, this impulse to seek
the flaw in the diamond. I must discover
and tell anew that the first day of summer
is but first of long fall to darkling end.
It is the (s)matter of gray caught in corner-
eyed mirror, debate whether to get up
of a sunny morn (for the heat seeds
its own raincloud), sudden insight that I was
this child only summers ago and now
this child (long ago relinquished to earth’s
spinnings and cunning traps) is the sought-
for fruiting. How we give way to the bud
when we thought only to blossom.
We shrivel, all energy spent in the making.
Miss Havisham, dear Ophelia, let us flee
this dark house, the cruelty of misplaced
desire, the paneling of which is suitable
only for our coffins. Let us find another wood,
a brighter home of our own choosing, lush
with fern, moss-hushed, honeysuckle glinting,
scenting the sunlight and the hill-born(e)
breeze. Let us step from the shade into glade
of pink foxglove, listen for rocks’ water-song
and silence of trees.
There is no revenge in pity,
no sympathy in surrender, so cast off your wrecked
dresses, your sodden tresses; care not about full-
filling hours. We will study butterfly wings, speech
of birds. We will deck ourselves with wild roses—
or toss them at the b(r)ook.
Graceful Press Poetry 