Poetry

About a year ago I took a poetry writing workshop where I learned a lot about rhythm, line breaks, word choice, etc., and it helped me with my writing but I've never fancied myself a poet.  I admire friends like Chris and professors who can weave so few words together into an intricate tapestry of ideas, places and feelings.  However, it's not a form I'm comfortable working in and I spend too much time second, third and fourth guessing myself.

All that being said, I've decided to go ahead a post a few of my poems for my friends who have heard of them but never gotten to read them and want to read them.  Please keep in mind that because I'm working in a smaller space"Cat's Breath" the line breaks are a little off, unfortunately, there's no way for me to fix it. 

***************************************************

 

I am Gatsby

I long to be Nick

the country mouse to their city mouse

small, fragile pink tail and ears

downy white fur

scent of cedar and pine

 

But I’m not.

I stare out across

green plains of liquid

Promise, hope, renewal

for others but not for me.

I try to hide

behind yellow cars

behind blond tresses

Behind fur, one size too small.

I am large;

thick muddy tail and a flash of scarlet eyes

oily grey wires prickly to the touch

my nails scratch and tear to survive

scent of sweat and desperation linger

a rat in a mouse suit

I balance on precarious fence

between two worlds.

I shrink back from the inky truth,

the dark abyss of murky emptiness.

I step into the false brightness,

the shining crystal fragments of light.

Blush champagne tickles

my nose while

roses of garnet, amethyst violets,

and an opulent pearly daisy

dance across my path, swirl, twirl and catch

sunlight in each creamy petal,

perfume wafts

into my quivering nostrils and

tiptoes over my sensitive tongue.

 

My ears fill with airy laughter;

tantalizing

my desire,

Daisy takes me

in her arms

and we spin.

Swaying while I wait,

knowing,

everything will come

crashing down –

one hunter’s gun,

one bullet shot

in the end.

***********************************

Conversation

Talk, talks, talking

(Don’t you ever stop?)

her mouth always moving

red lips flapping

up down, up down

smack smack smack

overheated, too much movement shaping

circles, ovals, half crescents up and down

emitting shrieking kwa-kwa bird squawks 

vowels, consonants linking one to another

a, e, i, o, u sometimes y,

c, d, f, g, h and so on and so on

never stopping, never silent

talk, talks, talking

(Won’t you shut up?)

I long for the smooth, silky, stillness of time

sitting next to you the glow of  television heroes

casting a flickering blue light of comfortable solitude over us

(Unspoken words between us.)

Whisper wafting in the wind

the huff of air through nose,

soft whistle of wind between teeth

in…out…in…out

chest rising with each breath

up…down…up…down

languid

(We feel the comfort of silence.)

communicate

while she talk, talks, talking

(Us to death.)

*********************************************

Cat Breath

As I put the groceries away I said, “I drove

up the path today and it was like a cross

between

Bing Crosby’s White Christmas

and Hitchcock’s The Birds. 

Inky onyx crows were flapping, squawking

caca caw cawing

and the barn cat was a mix of confusion. 

She didn’t know whether to be thrilled

by the all-you-can-eat bird buffet or horrified

she’d have to climb the shaved ice

they were chilling on.” 

You grunted. I wondered when my witty charm

became gibbering nonsense. It must have been

the same time your quiet reservation

became snobbish.

I lie awake at night and stare

at the place where you should be. 

I imagine what the pillow would look

like indented with the weight

of your head and I’m glad

you’re not here. 

You’re in the guest room surrounded

by towers of magazines, newspapers, books, receipts, bags, wires, envelopes, clothes, shoes, cat hair, paperclips, staplers, credit card statements, Publisher’s Clearing House, junk mail inserts, advertisements, printouts in triplicate. 

If all the useless information you surround yourself

with wasn’t enough to cut you off from being heard,

the thick door and  thick walls easily close you off. 

I feel a polump and a revving

fills my ears. 

It grows loud with each inhale,

soft with each exhale. 

I turn my head and a set of emerald eyes

stare back at me.  My ebony cat

sits on the spot

where your head should be. 

He blinks his eyes. 

He nuzzles closer

to my face we exchange

breath.  I taste of milk,

he of tuna.

not a fair trade

off but who’s to say

that human breath

is anymore appealing.

********************************************************
A Love Affair

I love my tits

but not for the reason you think.

There was a time when I hated them,

too round, too bulbous, too heavy

back throbbing,

shoulders slumped,

head bowed,

pulling me forward in humiliation.

They attracted the wrong sort—

Old men with lascivious, narrow eyes,

mama’s boys

starred with glazed eyes, slack mouths

longing to suckle milk.

I once went to a tit-reducing specialist,

who presented befores and afters. 

They stared up at me:  tissue reshaped

into round edged rectangles

in the center wide-eyed

brown olives for nipples

arranged on a fleshy serving stomach platter. 

Not at all appetizing.

Another time my breasts were groped—

gentle pinching, massaging,

lovingly rolling the skin

it might have been foreplay

(if it wasn’t the doctor’s job)

stop…go back….press harder…

beneath the layer of creamy white flesh

past slippery yellow fat

through red gooey blood

lay a spot

a pinhead lump

you had to stop…go back…press harder

to find it

but it was there.

At night when I pressed my fingers to the spot

I never wondered how many angels danced on a pin

I only wondered what it would be like if this pinhead

took my breast away.

Did they make prosthetic bras in my size?

How would I look without even an oblong rectangles and olive?

Who would I be without my breast?

I would be lopsided.

I would be Cyclops tit.

Holy Shit!

I had six months to wait.

and then

it was gone.

A calcium or caffeine deposit…

they don’t know.

I don’t care.

I love my tits

because they fought a pin.

They refused to be taken, defeated, humiliated,

separated from me.

They may not be perky

pointing up to heaven,

they may be heavy

pointing down to hell.

At least, they point.

And with the right support,

sometimes they point straight ahead into the horizon.