Tag Archives: napowrimo 2015

Regular Poem: Granny House

30 Apr

People apologize

for leaving behind their
things, belongings, accoutrements,
but I’ve grown accustomed
to the custom
and the customary
stuff.
I have pieces of your china
and pieces of your heart
along with me,
smells of you and
sounds of you
to adorn the wood paneling.

It wouldn’t be
a granny house
without echoes
shadows
of all the former residents.
The nature of a granny house
is not transitory or nomadic
but a constant
in the lives of its
transitory nomadic
inhabitants.

It carries the weight
in its tiles
embraces in its carpet
remembers in its dust.

To be the woman
living in the
granny house
is to be the bearer
of history–
like a scribe or bard
but of things and feelings.

One doesn’t choose a granny house life.
One is chosen
by the house itself
evaluated
on the merits of her own
granny ways
tested and tried,
given riddles and enigmas and clogged drains
until the point of death
and found

granny enough
to shoulder
an old house
and its ghosts.

Regular Poem: Goals

29 Apr

too many goals can choke a person
even little ones
like grass in a flower bed
(well not exactly like grass
because in that simile
the goals are the grass so
overgrowing a flowerbed would be good
because you’d have all goals
and flowers are just pretty weeds
anyway
right)
anyway what i was saying
was that having too many goals
can overextend a person
use all the wind on the
small sails
and then the big sail
is flopping alone with nothing
(maybe that’s not the best
metaphor either
i don’t know
thing one
about sailing)
regardless
i’m just going to
focus on
being able to make a decent pancake
and then maybe i’ll move on to my next life goal

Regular Poem: Gladness

29 Apr

I’ve been trying
to smile more,
to find–or to recognize–
those small simple things
that elicit positive responses:
silly birds, beautiful architecture,
lovely singing voices, exuberant dog kisses.

I spend my days
forsaking anger–
or trying
to replace it with gladness.

It’s a superficial gladness
sometimes, but obedience
is a chore–
like laundry, one must
keep up on it
or just piles and piles
of soiled linens
clutter the entire house,
choking and stinking.

Regular Poem: Willpower

27 Apr

when one utilizes
willpower
does it regenerate? like
an engine with horsepower?
or does it expend and expend
until there is none? like
a battery that must be
constantly recharged?
or does it build endurance?
like a bicep?
or is it finite? like
firepower when you have only 6 bullets?

sometimes i feel as though
it’s easier to restrain myself
when i’ve already been
doing so
but only with the same thing
like an isolated muscle
and the other muscles are
neglected and weak.
like i’ll be all
practiced up being kind and loving
but i’ll fry a steak
in half a stick of butter
and still think about an ice cream sandwich.

Regular Poem: Confessional Poetry

26 Apr

To read someone else’s confessional
poetry, the kind that’s personal and raw,
is so intimate

as to be almost uncomfortable, at times. As if
you’re peeping in their window,
watching them undress
and staring openly at their scars.

Or like you’re walking into the ladies room,
and a woman is crying at the vanity,
and she suddenly tells you
everything about her failed marriage in
strangled sobbing snippets.

But to read your own
confessional personal intimate
poetry from a new place in life
is even more intimate and certainly
more bizarre, especially when you realize

you are the woman in the ladies room.

But I suppose
we all take turns
being the woman in the ladies room–
that brave, vulnerable creature reaching out to
anyone with a kind face and
a handkerchief,
talking to hear herself talk,
crying to hear herself cry.

Regular Poem: I Can Feel It

25 Apr

I can feel it
starting.

(Is this
how a werewolf feels
as the full moon draws near–
hears its bones creak in a new rhythm,
smells its pheremones change,
notices its senses heightening
and its hunger increasing,
itches in its nature,
chafes at the cacophony inside?)

I can feel it
starting
with each glimmering day
and each gooey night.

My skin is changing. Soon
I’ll be red, and I will smell
like sunshine–
equal parts butter and fresh grass and a
sweet salty sweat,
a dash of copper,
half a honeysuckle blossom,
burnt brown sugar.

It flew south for the winter–
vacationed on another girl for a while maybe–
but it’s back–
or it’s coming,
and I can hear the train it’s riding in on, chugging
down the line fast and hard and steady.

I can feel it
starting and stopping
on a chilly night,
the train pausing at a crossing,
rolling back for a checkpoint.

But I can feel it
starting.

Regular Poem: A Little Bit

25 Apr

There’s the person who’s a little bit country
and the one who’s a little bit rock and roll,
but what about someone who’s
a little bit bebop–
someone whose voice careens,
amelodic and bouncing,
over a quick bass line,
jumping from chord to chord,
between chords and out of chords?

What about someone
who’s a little bit turn-of-the-century march–
seducing you with their fanfare,
staid yet nimble,
soft and then loud and then
going out with an obligato that lingers?

There’s a lot of someones
with a lot of little bits.

Regular Poem: Daydream

24 Apr

It’s a ho-hum humdrum daydream–
no glamor or excitement
no love or enticement–
just an outfit,
the way it’s put together,
culled from pieces,
woven and unwoven again,
yielding itself to vagaries, whims, caprices.

But it’s not just the outfit,
it’s getting into the outfit,
the bit before the outfit,
the primping, yes,
but also the search
through drawers and dressers and closets and piles–
flipping through mental files–
muscle memory, sense memory, memory memory, false memory, wished-for memory–
a clumsy catalogue
of everything and more
and less.

And the reactions
and repercussions
and opportunities
and possibilities.

Regular Poem: Work Lullaby

22 Apr

I’m nothing like
your mother,
but for four hours of my day
I will be.

I’ll hold
your hand while you cry
and feed you
and bathe you
and comb your hair
and wait by your bedside until you fall asleep.

I will care for you,
and you might care
about my caring,
and you might care
that I’m a kind face,
and you might not.

I will go home,
and you will dream
in your wailing way
of your mother
or perhaps an object
or feverish images and haunting sounds,

and we will meet again
and pretend again
another day.

Regular Poem: Hair

22 Apr

I haven’t
smelled someone else’s hair
in ages–
really nuzzled in
and grazed a scalp with my fingernails,
been tented
in someone’s canopy,
isolated the components
of a person’s hair smell.

And so
I sometimes wonder
if other hair
absorbs
the way mine does:
smells like the whole day,
every person I’ve touched,
every sweat I’ve sweated,
every convertible ride I’ve taken,
every perfume I’ve brushed against.

How does one ask
that sort of question?

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