New (old) poem

I wrote this a while ago and recently unearthed it from a journal that I was looking through.

Desert

All the sand has disappeared
except one tiny grain
lodged within me.

And underneath its grit
my skin has unravelled
and my bones, bleached
by the sun, are exposed.

The solitary grain now
sits
unreachable
in my heart,
grinding away.
Looking for a way out
or a way in.

one liner

This isn't the whole poem -- just one little part.

You smell like paper
before it's been folded.

This ain't a poem, but it's endless funny to me...

I once made a handout and used the craziest names I could create in order to make it interesting. These are the names I made up, and they've sort of taken on personalities. I've decided to bring them back this year. Since you'll never have to do a Ms. Turner assignment, I'll just tell you the names. You'll have to ask me about the personalities.


Ms. Turner's 7th period class

Vector Marconi

Penelope Smiggle

Juana Wallace

Malik Morganthaller

Shawna “Lil’ Sharkey” Charkums

Mortimer Globula

Moonpie McAndrews

Vlad Impalo

Mina Helsinki

Bluesy Bibbles

Red Rigamortis

Billifina St. Buttons

Mungo Chasm

Mikkle Mighty

Doctor Taco

Skinsy O’Rouff

Titus Acutis

Cleaver Dinsmore

Dirk Skittlebaum

Canonization

[before you read this poem, i want you to know this: i wrote it because i am thinking about topics related to saints, the departed, death, and the human condition, except not as depressing as that sounds, because of an art gallery happening at my church around oct/nov. ask me more about it some time. but this poem, this poem, is also for my dear grandpa bob, who passed away two years ago this month and who now sits in heaven, i am sure. but keep reading, because it is also for you.]

You are the patron saint of backyard gardens.
Reminding us that each carrot
is a miracle.
Dirt covered hands guiding
tender young fingers
towards ripe beans, tomatoes,
beetles.

You are the patron saint of new decks.
the guardian of homemade swings,
the protector of patios,
Carrying citronella candles
to our rescue
on the bug-treacherous lawn.

In your white khaki vest
You are the patron saint of the casual childhood angler.
The one brave enough to hold
the worm,
and the hook,
and the fish, if ever caught.

You are the patron saint of ancient trucks.
Protect us from bench seats
with afterthought lap belts.
Haul our scrap wood to the dump.

Look after
Our nasturtiums.
Our watering cans.
Our label makers.
Our boxes of washers and bolts.

Sand Run Song

Foot strike heel dig
Sand-arch molds

Soft-hard damp-cool
grits coat toes

Five push, lift off --
powder spray

Air-dance, arc fall
small dune made.

Weight shift flat foot
sinks down in

Rise heel leave dent
Strike again.

How to Write a Poem

Sharpen two pencils.

You should also probably
Take off your shoes
At this point.

Especially if you are outside in a forest
Or sitting at a Parisian cafe
Or in a jail cell, today.

Notice the wind.
If you feel no wind,
You have also been successful.

Now would be a good time to begin whistling.
Perhaps hum a jingle from a commercial
Whose product is long forgotten.

Are there people around you? Good.
Listen to their voices.
Try to imagine what they looked like as children.

Look very closely
At all the movements
They are making
With their hands.

Close your eyes for a moment.

Remember the smell of today.
Roll it around like a marble in the hand
Of the boy in a picture book that belonged to your father.

Put it in the back pocket of your brain
Where it will rest undisturbed
Until you need it.

Then, it will win your brother's
Prized cat eye shooter.

Now, it rests between layers of warm denim,
Familiar, and denting your flesh
As you run home for supper.

hope (lessness)

Both hands balled into
the pockets of faded pants,
she uncurls her fingers,
each one a vine that tangles
around a key,
a tiny shell,
thirty cents, in dimes,
a piece of string, knotted twice.

Her eyes are pitchers,
all poured out.

There is nothing,
nothing upon the horizon.
No sea, no sky,
no grain of sand.
Behind her, the memory
of the sound of waves.

She wore a new hat.