Some Fun with Magnetic Poetry!

Thanks to Catherine K. for a dose of inspiration! Here goes...

The Human Heart

sometimes in need of a stunt double
a sidewalk - busy, then empty
shy like a new campfire
noisy and sweating: a playground
a backyard, partially weeded
a chalkboard (filled and erased, filled and erased)

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

Poetry

puddles
and cliffhangers -
sometimes feels like spring,
sometimes, a heavy body.
maybe a beautiful black angel,
a glimpse of a perfumed hand,
the tree you loved best
captured by
thin, gray lines.
a survivor,
a slave, escaping from apathy
teaching people
how to notice:
how to tell a secret
and keep it breathing.

Ice Berg (for JB)

She is tough
and I am not.

I am the teacher, but
she sits in the second seat of the first row
being tough.

I want to tell her that her
edges are all wasted on me.

She doesn’t like any of the assignments.
She doesn’t believe in “structure.”
She asks for help, and then, says, “No.”

“Why?”

“I like it better my way.”

I smile a lot at her.

I think she hates that.

I would hate it, too, if I were seventeen,
trying my hardest to be angry
from the second seat of the first row –

and my teacher smiled at me
and said, “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.”

I will smile at her for a hundred and sixty-eight more days.

Viscosity

Complicated explanations of my car’s guts:
my father knew about these things.

10W-30,
10W-40.

Regular oil changes were a must
for ’85 Cavaliers
that leaked everything.

“They’re different thicknesses,” he said.
“Parkas and sweaters –
one for winter, the opposite for warmer months.”

His voice was prepared, comfortable with the lesson –
like he had been practicing giving his little girl
“The Viscosity Talk”
for quite some time now.

Three years ago, I bought a new car –
show-room finish, foreign engine, computerized this and that.

I miss the smell of oil on my hands.
I miss the thickness of these moments with my father.

My attempt at a one-syallable prose piece

She did not know that one cell would start a sick fight - a blood and flesh war - that would take each bright bit of her life by force. It would be wrenched right from her bones, her veins, her laugh. She could not know as she placed her dad in his fall grave that she would be there soon, too. She would join him in three years and eight months.

She knew the facts. They scared her, but she tried to find hope: a small, red bird perched on the branch of this news. Hope stayed and stayed, but blood and flesh failed. She cried for me, for her song-and-dance son, for the next round of kids she would not get to hold and spoil with toys and tales of Grand Ave. She would still love them, but not from this place.

The walls of her new room were stroked with fake cheer: pink and green hues that said, “You will be fine,” but meant, “You will die here in this sad bed that is not yours.” No more hair, or speech, or pulse. We saved her wig for the wake to cut down on the shock for those who had not seen her in years. Her tongue had dried up in her mouth. Lips cracked and bled, pulled back from gray teeth. She matched them: a gray form on bleached sheets that moaned and could not find peace.

I sat by her bed, all day and night – could not stand to leave her. We held hands all the time. I touched her face, I watched for breath, heard the ghosts of pain seep from her mouth. My skin hurt, flesh tensed by the tilt of death in this room. I slept in bits, curled next to her, thought of what she used to be: a mom with sweet curls for my hands to find and squeeze, a big lap built for more than one, blue eyes in a soft face. She smiled good. She held hands. She saw all sides of me with love. I thought of what I used to be: her small child, pride and joy, blonde girl who played hard with all the boys on the street, and came in full of dirt and grass for a drink and a kiss on the head.

I was right there next to her when she moved on. I saw her thin chest rise and fall one last time. I was there with her when she left, but I was forced by the breath in my lungs to stay and try my best. She was still so young, but her skin was cold now - just like that. I did not know this would be true so soon. I had seen things like this in films, but thought her warmth would stay in her face and hands for a long time. No - I was left to touch this smooth, chilled mask that was not my mom.

I did not have the words for this – still do not – just some wrecked tears. I spoke through them to tell her that I loved her, that I would keep her with me all the time. I prayed for her, too. I still pray for her now, though my bond with god has changed. I am not so sure where he and I stand these days. I hope he does not hate me for it. He is Love, right? He and my mom should do fine, then.

Things I Learned in School

And this is the part that no one ever wants to talk about: the part where I am the girl who stutters and I know you have been her, too. Tortured by m’s and s’s that would go on for hours, as M-M-Matthew, who skipped a grade, pinned you with fifth grade eyes and said, “What is wrong with you? Just spit it out!” And even though the teacher made him stop, your cheeks still burned and so did your chest, and your eyes did, too – later on when you let the tears come out of their hiding places. Maybe you were the fat kid or the short kid or the Native American kindergartener whose speech was just different enough to make him the target of Brian, who sat at the Mickey Mouse table and was so mean. In the jingling silence of the high school study hall, maybe you were the one the note was about: the one with the garage sale jeans and the sneakers that used to be your brother’s, the one with the funny hair or the braces or the crooked teeth. Maybe you were the one with no friends, always sitting in the back, pretending to be busy, praying that your desk was enough camouflage, that the wall behind you matched your face. It is not easy being the nerd, the jock, the misfit, the brainiac, the scholarship winner, the kid behind the gas pump, the kid behind the wheel of the new car, the gay kid, the too-tall kid, the kid who leaves the room for speech. Why can’t we see ourselves in each other? We are there all the time, waving simple white flags.

Here, a Confession

I think I will be shy forever.

I stutter when I answer the phone -
Sister Ann’s fifth grade classroom all over again.

I sweat a lot.

I believe I will catch something dangerous from the front row.

I have never given anyone the finger.
Would you believe me if I told you I have never even thought about it?

I am awful at opening presents in front of my aunt.
Suddenly, she has twelve eyes instead of two.

I feel sometimes like the social equivalent of
something
single-celled
and slow-moving.

I concentrate on my plate at dinner.

I may be a stretch of silent pavement, but my insides are the accident scene.

Shy is not a shoe size,
not a souvenir t-shirt for me.

Lime Green

It was the color of her prom dress.
She explained how she bought it
second-hand at the Salvation Army for two dollars.

It was not the color of her high heels
because her feet, her toes, wouldn't be caught dead
in those things.

She complained about the corsage
wilting on her wrist.
Flowers deserve better, she said.

Lime green - the color of her smile somehow:
wide and forgiving,
ready to try her best at being a real person
in this ridiculous world.