Thursday, January 30, 2014

no Eskimo


Minus 5 this morning – still minus 5 at 8 o'clock
I burned the paper in the wood stove to boost the inside temperature
the heat pump at 57
the floor just warmer than a frozen lake
I turned on the oven and tea pot
bounced and shook
my fingers feel tickled by frost as I type, I am no Eskimo.
Cat left a tiny mole on the carpet
played to death.

writing thru the cold

No clones

On my mind the several worlds I didn't live
should I clip my wings as I would a renegade hen
who flies over the yard fence again and again?
Stay in one life, fill it with myself completely,
no break-offs, no clones living a parallel existence.
Shake off the could have dones,
not possible to out wit my suicidal twin.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

colder in Syria

The sun is edging thru the trees towards my house,
red bud is ablaze, the west follows in a slow wrap
compressing the almost zero air into the bowl
(the coldest time of day down here).

Families in Syria refugee camps
without enough blankets,
too many displaced, dead.
Come on world.

I imagine an octogenarian weaponless troop
marching thru the streets in bright colors
with masks of God
to die
until there
is justice.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Snow Listens

snow comes with daylight
schools are closed, I will stay tucked
inside my snow globe.

*                                     *                         *

Snow listens

I failed to listen to my sons;
shut myself into my room. Flurries at the windows
we were closed in.
Snow listens -
I ruminate, my sons say they miss their father;
I hear the sound of my voice snap:
"at least your father is alive."
I want to take it back,
I could not hold their sorrow,
closed my ears, suggested counseling,
and when they balked at that,
figured past life regression
might suffice.


Saturday, January 18, 2014

arctic air is back....

Bundled up to walk in wind chill negative,
I could not see my boots through the slit
between two scarves and two hats,
I felt disconnected
a roly poly down stuffed robot
floating up the road.


another dream

Silver Needle Dream

Last night Henry Clay Street warped
the triplex we lived in
a one eyed new facade.
I pushed a stroller down the pavement.
I and my sister cried watching from the old windows
as our mother went to work.
But by afternoon we hit the street,
running off in opposite directions.
I learned to ride a 2 wheel bike here,
the side walk not so heaved by root
tripping up the stroller wheels.
Many fevers in that house,
my mother sponging my limp body down;
was it measles or chicken pox?
One night the doctor came
with one long silver needle
for my bum.
the croup machine
the tent;
it all went down in that upstairs room
with the recurring dream of fire.
Who was this child I pushed before me?
I never looked
it made no sound.

1/3 – 1/15/14


Dreaming Skippy

My hands tangle in fishing line and wet
matted dog hair, where I loosen
it tightens elsewhere, Skippy quiet
shrinks under my care. I grasp
a ball of fluff, detritus and line
no beating breathing dog. It grows dark
I turn to see an unfurling tail,
darker form than night,
she runs through my dream and I call her
until I wake standing in a wood alone.


writing, dreaming, writing thru the cold

January 11th

the anniversary of my mother's second wedding
I remember the inside of the small church
my mother in a hat, unusual, with a veil even;
it was somber,
my twin and I on either side of our grandmother.
The marriage endured, a stubborn man
and insecure woman ensnared until death.
My mother cracked
on the one hand, obsessing on perfection
on the other, chewing on imagined slights
she made puppets
she made large papier mache figures.
Her husband became the keeper, the apologist
hustling her out of parties when he keyed into her rising voice,
a stray insult she'd pin, or a rant from the edge of guests.
He was slow, she often flew off,
hurling herself towards the river,
threatening to jump in.
Her magical world unraveled, one twin dead
He puffed a cigar,
declared bankruptcy, was home too much
the only target of her malcontent, her darts.
The bricks were maroon, the pews dark.
She married him to escape,
he loved a mirage;
they had good sex.
Can't ask a marriage to heal
a soul repairs on its own or not.

1/11 and 1/17/14