on a vase of tulips: the pinks whites yellows reaching upward outward way over the edge opened wide to their silken centers until inside out suffused with the vibrant morning light they surrender who they are with wordless grace leaving only small soft footprints across the kitchen table should I wish to follow
Another “golden oldie” from two decades ago, first appearing in North Shore Magazine in 2005.
An anniversary gift, her first time doing it Lenami Godinez-Avila, 27, hugged the pilot from behind as instructed, ran with him awkwardly to the edge and stepped into the wind-tug beyond anyone’s reach—
her harness not clipped on. She fell like Icarus a thousand feet, melting from sight with the pilot’sshoes into a sea of limbs webbed with leaves down, down to the forest floor.
Her boyfriend, filming it, stopped. Love screamed through the air as he ran down Mt. Woodside to find her. Until he did, there was hope.
The pilot glided back to an open mouthed crowd, to his twelve year old daughter watching, and swallowed the memory card onboard. His fiftieth birthday.
Who hasn’t known each of them in dreams?—where we fall without falling, see what can’t be happening, get to creatively escape a bad scene. And wake relieved, our lives still
hanging by a thread of assumptions.
This poem won IthacaLit’s 2016 Lauren K. Alleyne Difficult Fruit Poetry Prize, as judged by Allison Joseph and was published New Year’s Day 2017. The prize came with a generous purse ($1000) and offered a huge thumbs-up when most needed. Sad to say, the magazine recently folded. Both the nutshell poem of the previous post and this one were drafted about the same time. I couldn’t give either of them up – for anyone following this blog, I’d be interested to know if one version appeals over the other.
Don’t believe inattention can’t wolf a mind, expectation—lamb another. They grieve— those left behind— that a short sentence appears to love more the one who put a period where a comma was.
They grieve Lenami Godinez-Avila—friend, daughter, lover. Fate or happenstance, it’s how that leaves a bad taste in the mouth long after, sinking the heart too late to address the assumption the one in charge knows best.
Another poem which first appeared in Volume 8 of The American Journal of Poetry, with thanks to editor Robert Nazarene. This is my short take of a horrifying incident: news article . My next post will feature a longer (and prize-winning) aspect of the same event.
You drink the cool clean water and smack your lips, refreshed.
Elsewhere, in this same country, the water is not clean, must be boiled, then drunk.
Elsewhere, you might be dying to drink it as is, and damned if you do.
Elsewhere, water means business. It thickens wallets. You will pay for it.
You could ask whose future is being spent down to the last hovering drop.
You could ask about thirst—who thirsts for a better life and who for just a life to grow all the way up in.
But you don’t. You drain the glass and turn on the tap for more. There’s never not been more.
This poem, written 20 years ago and finally published in The American Journal of Poetry in 2019 (with deep thanks to editor Robert Nazarene) unfortunately addresses a continuing and current situation (I’m thinking of Texas). It was inspired by watching my thirsty ten year old son gulp down a glass of water and imagining this conversation. He must have heard me – he continues to ask all the right questions about this world that he and all our kids and grandkids will inherit.
Thoreau would have loved this dark lining to a stormy December day, the even darker, almost liquid, pooling of night. He’d have loved me preparing meals, doing dishes, my son his homework, all by candlelight, the household machines, loud-mouthed TV standing lifeless.
I find myself spare in the silence, sharpened. My steps count, movement is rationed, the thrust and parry of the world I know— a thunderous dream from which I have at last awakened. In the chill air I light a fire and worlds long gone lick the edges of today, speak of a mind that roamed free, mapping its maker. No outage there.
Here’s a poem published 14 years ago in North Shore Magazine – it seemed appropriate, given the current power outages in Canada and the USA! Here’s hoping all of you affected keep warm, have water to drink, food to eat and oh, get your internet service back, computers and cellphones charged up.
Not your standard guy—put a shift kit in the automatic transmission of his Boyd Red 1990 Ford Mustang LX 5.0 coupe, changed the seats from black vinyl to cloth: made it turn-on-a-dime crazy ‘round a corner, full-out perfect snort of heaven off a light and down highway 99. No one could catch me, he grins, unless I wanted them to.
Nothing mechanical in the way he bends over the lifted hood of my car or lays back on a creeper and slides beneath the undercarriage, one foot sneaking out. Maintenance is key, he says, and starts the engine, pulling a rag from his pocket to wipe down the dipstick and check the level and colour of fluid.
His hands are stained and scarred, look like they would labour all their life to love a woman the way they love the complicated innards of a car: with brains in his fingers, and ears that can translate rattle and whine, deep knock knock knock under a hood, reversing the strange or troublesome into something familiar, worth repair.
Many thanks to The Writers’ Cache for including this love poem for my husband in the just-released anthology “Joyride” (Pg. 40), available from Amazon (US) and Amazon (Canada)!