Coveted superpower,
beyond invisibility,
colossal strength,
razor-sharp claws.
Bette Midler had it right,
wind, wings--
there can never be
too many poems about flying.
On the day when
someone said you walk like a cat
and you became aware
of your body when you walk
stand sit talk dream dance
and every other damn thing
you do with your body
and you wondered what on earth
does walking like a cat mean anyway
and you thought to yourself
I don’t even walk like a cat,
that’s not an especially apt
comparison, dumbass--
still, on that day, despite
all that you know
in the front of your brain
about cats and women and walking,
on that day, the back
of your brain changed,
irrevocably and forever,
and sometimes, to this day,
you wish that, like a cat,
you had many lives
so you could live that day again.
Gentle readers, the time has come! I have relented! Responsive Pleading is now available as an e-book! For only five bucks!
Here's a link to the book page. To get the e-book, click the "pay now" button. You can pay via PayPal, but you aren't required to have a Paypal account. A few quick steps and you'll be able to download the book as a .pdf file. If you use a Kindle or other reader, you can send it there. I am surprised how beautiful it looks on my Kindle!
Of course, you can still get your paper copy (featuring the gorgeous cover art of Max Germer) for only ten bucks by clicking through to Amazon. Or send me an email if you want an autographed copy, and/or if you are living outside the US and shipping through Amazon is too costly.
Thank you so much for all your love and support, my friends! Check it out:
responsive pleading
Like tea tree,
your essence restores
my prickly
bottlebrush
heart, soothes inflammation, turns
soft what was jagged.
 |
| "Bee In Bottlebrush" by Jaime Clark |
Taking comfort
in the long pause
honors the notion
of time suspended,
resisting the urge
to fill the silence
when our song ends.
Let me write about your rat-dogs,
the ones you toss out at six-ay-em
to yap-yap-yap the early-walkers
and wake the neighborhood children.
Argh I groan, check the clock, drift
back into pillow-headed dreams, till
your rat-dog holler QUIET! stops me
from making a dream-choice I'd regret.
I don't know how
copper turns to dust
must be a condition
of summer fade--
Settle amidst the green
the flora's different
every flavor--
Let it float over you
and take you higher.
 |
| Photo by John Edwards/Scriptor Senex |
Thank God I'm young enough and strong enough
And child enough to feel the urge
To sing.
They say, because I cannot have the griefs,
The sorrows, trials of the years,
I sing.
Please God, when I am old and know
The worst that life can give, I still
May sing.
The sound
of my children laughing
floats in gentle spasms on the air,
like monarchs
around our butterfly bush
in the sultry heat
of August.
I would trade
the rain-filled breeze,
the open window, the thunder growl,
these ears of butter & sugar corn,
heirloom tomatoes,
plus a host of other necessaries
for their voices.
Now you know my weakness
as well as my strength.
Everyone else was standing proper, but we
lay on the tile, holding hands, gut-humming,
and speaking for myself, I was overwhelmed
by vibrating in my womb ringing out like
a flat rock skipped along the length of me.
Then, fingers crushed by death grip, breath
holding, the weight of clouds pressed down,
a kaleidoscope of greys like salt water
cotton candy, heavy with the sighs of ages,
swirling in the sides of our eyes, between
and along, isolating yet forcing us closer.
I could not speak, but only measured moments
by the pumping, the endless pushing around
and in, then out and back again, ad nauseam.
Sideways glance, your wink back; thus our
plan cemented, now escape! Light to the sky.
Reaching for the sky
like a lullaby,
hyperbolic sigh
stopped in its tracks.
Inventing despair
right out of nowhere,
not here, over there,
no turning back.
Remain in the light
above all, despite
overwhelming might,
frontal attack,
violence obscene!
Much better to dream
out loud in the green,
not in the black.
The weatherman
calls for sticky to oppressive
for tomorrow.
I'll embrace tropical-like
when it arrives,
as the night to come before
is so dark.
Shucking that bent ear of corn reminded her
of the time she had ended up on the floor
with her college roommate. It was a one-time-
only affair, by mutual consent, she thought,
involving much booze in multiple taverns,
as really only college girls can pull off,
followed by running mad through a rainstorm,
then by shucking clothes and common sense:
he was her friend, confidante, and champion.
She suffered rug burn; they never spoke of it.
She hoped he wouldn't read her poem, although
she especially enjoyed fresh corn-on-the-cob.
Time as an object--
window air conditioner
battered by a hard rain,
string of lights,
a junior bed,
sunscreen hair,
salty arms shimmering heat,
wrapping me
in good time.
Oh
the wolf was at the door,
he was at the door,
wanting more--
What do you do
but roll over & play dead,
dead as a doorknob
as they say--
But what do they say
about girls who invite
the wolf inside,
opening the door wide,
welcoming him in
for tea & a quickie?
Quick,
take the love that you get,
even the big bad love,
& pass it around.
In which I fawn over Sinead O'Connor like a fangirl and implore you to join the Real Toads for the latest edition of my occasional music prompt:
the wolf is getting married
When I was a kid, it was my job
to shuck the corn, and still now,
I shuck it myself, with no plan
to hand over the task to anyone--
so cathartic, the task of peeling
back, layer by layer, peeking in
for larvae, picking the silk one
strand at a time, singing along
with it may sound funny but you're
always on my mind--oh, this one's
bruised yet I was being so very
careful, the kernels like pretty
pearls, or hearts, damaged already.
Running the Brush
aw, shucks
