You Either Are or You Aren't!

This is the story a student came into school with the other day. I got a kick out of the way she reported the doctor's diagnosis.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


84%

They kiss
in the hallways
walk hand in hand
to lunch

They lean
against her locker
chest to breast
nose to nose

heart motes
hang in the air
form halos
around them

She hasn’t
had her period
for two months
one test

came back
positive
another
said no

She’s been
nauseous
"The doctor says
I'm 84% pregnant."

villanelle

Thirteen

I’m listening to the radio
and falling in love with love.
I’m thirteen and what do I know?

I think of guys and what they have below:
a mystery I know nothing of.
I dream as I listen to the radio

of lips and hands moving to and fro
edging nearer to what’s above.
I’m thirteen and what do I know?

No guy has yet made me glow
or held me close like a glove.
All I have is yearning from the radio.

And it’s not that I want to be a ho.
Too fresh? I’d give him a shove!
I’m thirteen but I know what I know.

I’d just settle for the chance, though,
to experiment. I’d love a hand to cov-
er a part of me while I listen to the radio.
I’m thirteen and I just want to know!

Desire

Desire for Writers’ Island January 29, 2008
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I carry it in a pouch
low down
its weight
heavier than rocks

It moves with me
through the day
tentacles
of pressure

I feel its insistence
as I stand
in front of my class
it hums

it hums
through lunch
and meetings
I’ve swallowed

a violin
and the bow
plays across
the breasts

of my thoughts
until I get home
and tenderly birth
a poem

Villanelle

For ReadWritePoem

Here's a villanelle I wrote for a page in an altered book I made for my mom last year. It describes the day I was born. My dad was attending school about 3 hours away and when he got the call, he jumped on a bus but there was a snowstorm and it took him all day to get to my mom. They'd only been married for nine and a half months and didn't even own a car. This was back in 1949.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The sky she was born under was full of snow
and her father barely made it on time.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.

Each beat of his heart was yearning to know
her, the missing part to their rhyme.
The sky she was born under was full of snow

that fell like poetry on the world below
creating a clean world so sublime.
All day he traveled by bus and it was so slow.

He wanted to push the bus to make it go
faster and to help it climb
but the sky she was born under was full of snow

and that bus puttered along like on tippy-toe
and her dad thought it was a crime
as he traveled all day by bus so slow, so slow.

Finally, he arrived just in time for the afterglow
of birth, their poem written for a lifetime.
The sky she was born under was full of snow
and the love that traveled to her was forever and slow.

3WW

breath, scattered, tomorrow

For Three Word Wednesday January 23, 2008
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tuesday
after school
I was in Rite-aid.

Freshly
colored curls
scattered around my face.

Tall, black
leather boots,
skirt just above my knees.

My son
called me to
talk about the weekend.

I leaned
against a pole
near the end of an aisle.

I saw
a student
from my tenth grade class.

He walked
by, said hi
and checked me out.

Today,
he said I
looked "hot" in my skirt

and boots.
My breath caught
and I had to laugh.

I’ll be
fifty-nine
in six more tomorrows,

Crushed Red Flowers

Poem inspired by "Cold Poem" by Mary Oliver
for Poem: A Virtual Poetry Group
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Crushed Red Flowers

A blanket of winter
settles over us
after supper.

Him in his recliner
and me in mine,
two boulders
sitting in the snowflakes
of television babble
and computer clicks.

“Do you want to watch
Wings with me?”
He holds out this bouquet
but I’m in the middle
of writing a poem.
“Maybe later.”

I sit in the little sunshine
of my creativity,
fingers playing
hopscotch on the keys.

He punches buttons
on the remote,
finds the Outdoor
Channel,
and watches hunting
in Alaska,
grown men chasing,
gunning down,
and killing
deer.
The blood splotches
are crushed rose
petals.

“Are you ready
for Wings yet?”
But I still want to post
the poem
on my blog,
meander down
the path
of other people’s
poetry,
and make comments
about their writing
so I shake my head.

“Well, I’m heading
upstairs, then.”
He drags the frozen
quilt with him.

I turn off the TV.
The leftover snow
melts
as I type away.

Fellow Travelers

Fellow Travelers for Sunday Scribblings January 20, 2008

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

American Airlines Flight 1533

Flying stand-by
Miami to Boston
packed plane
fit carry-on
in overhead bin
like a puzzle
piece

Hear baby crying
Find seat
in middle section
between two
big people
who monopolize
armrests

One won’t stop
wiggling
the other
needs a better
deodorant

Try to read
escape
Kids in back
fight
bang seat
“Excuse me”
as Wiggler
heads to bathroom

Baby still crying
Lean toward
empty seat
breathe
He’s back
too soon

Drinks
Trays come down
Elbows jabbing
Turbulence
Baby crying
Baby’s mom
crying

Me, too.