"Exposed," 10/22/08

Expose the children
we must expose them
to things they will see anyway
and when they do
(don't be a fool)
they need to be used
to the
shock
us
they
shock us
when we try
to reach out
No wonder they're
shocking
when we have committed
ourselves to exposing them,
(strip them like wires)
then we wonder
why no one can
reach
them today--
whenever we try
they shock us,
they burn us,
then--snap--
and burn out

"Classroom 305," 9/15/08

A girl speaks about the meaning of
the book, addressing the rows of
students at length and with relish,
and I, sitting quiet in my desk, can
hear nothing but the fan behind
me, whirring conceitedly, freezing
my back, and blowing the pages
of my notebook hither and thither,
and it echoes what she says, its
oscillations keeping time with the
drone of her voice, and she, trying
hard to keep going, throwing words
out everywhere like a pedantic
preacher, some of them occasioning
to hit a fellow student and knock
him unconscious, drooping upon his
desk, is not aware of the grand
symphony she is a part of, with the
fan, her words, and the turning of
pages crescendoing until the final,
crashing note of the clock striking
one, and I want to stop her, shake
her, and say The movement's over,
but she is taken away by the music,
and she launches into a solo.

"A Girl Fell," 9/11/08

A girl fell in the lane.
The sky was covered in thick
cream-puff clouds so low
the outdoors felt like a room.

A girl fell in the lane.
No sound of cracking branch or stick.
I stopped, the silence was so
deep, no birdsong broke the gloom.

A girl fell in the lane.
Red cobbles gleamed with rain,
in which she sat to see
her foot, bag dropped nearby.

A girl fell in the lane.
Some chilly people feigned
preoccupation, thought it'd be
her stooping, shoes to tie.

A girl fell in the lane.
She never looked to any face
that passed, nor made a sound
to break the day's silent refrain.

A girl fell in the lane.
I hurried to a dryer place.
What good to linger in a town
where girls fall lonely in the rain?

"Classroom 1A," 9/9/08

Thumbtacks pressed into a wall
stare out at me like multicolored eyes,
dig into the sheetrock like empty, grasping claws.
What news has been pierced
by the sharp frankness of a tack?
What construction-paper projects
with paste oozing from between the layers,
what sensationalist headlines
clipped for educational reasons?--
BAT-BOY DISCOVERED IN JERSEY or
PRINCIPAL FALSIFIES TEST SCORES.
Maybe notes and memos,
mysterious little ascetic scrawlings
passed without a sound.
Or maybe a life-preserving device
once hung importantly there,
such as a fire evacuation route
labeled in imperative red marker.
YOU ARE HERE! --->
Or, perhaps, a displaced artist
stumbled thankfully upon this canvas
and arranged the tacks to represent
the decadence of modern culture,
or an astronomer navigated them
into the constellation of Taurus
hoping a kindred spirit would notice fondly.

"The Watcher," 9/7/08

Sipping tea of peppermint,
I watch those who pass me by.
Tucked away into a corner,
not enough to catch their eye.

Students heavily burdened
make their way across the school;
Some are laughing, some are scared,
all are trying to seem cool.

I see those that stand and wait,
those that drop their breakfast trays,
those that are stood up by dates,
those that sit and hide their face.

What could any of them know
about the one who watches here?--
Stirring idly in her tea,
toying with a strand of hair?

But I know them all quite well,
those that pass beneath my stare,
and I give them little names,
and meet them every morning here.

Neither names, nor addresses,
do I know or wish to know,
nor jobs, nor acquaintances,
but know important things that show.

For people are a mix of all
the tiny little things they do:
Talking smiling, mumbling, crying,
Kissing, fidgeting, falling, sighing.

Oh, your morning lists to-do,
meeting friends and buying food!
My days never were so new
before I started watching you.

"Dirt," 4/28/08

Racing from the cover of maples and poplars, I bound up the porch steps and burst through the door. What's happened to you, my mother asks as I dart to the garage and back, hacksaw in hand. You're rusty, she says, her word for red dirt like war paint on my knees and elbows. I'm making a trail, I say, grabbing a cake to take to the work site. But she's already scrubbing an elbow with a dishcloth and I sigh, wondering what mysterious grudge everyone has against dirt. After all, it's the thing we're made of, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Adam and Eve weren't formed of soap, after all, and besides, it's my element--the sign of the bull, making a mess, tumbling across the zodiac. And flowers. How could we marvel at their tiny bursts of color if we couldn't stand the sight of dirt? Also, all the best fairy-tale things are of earth, the Elves and the rainbow-eyed unicorns. And the children, at work in their domains of sticks, mud, and vines, creating new worlds by the sweat of their brows every summer, the badge of their industry to be found on rusty knees, elbows, hands, and noses.

"Struggle #57," 3/16/08

shiny
souls
brittle
minds
brilliant
wills
thin
love

kindling
theory
ignited
body

vulnerable
life
snuffed

heart

scorned
fears
severed
faith

Girl searching for the right word, spring 2008

animal haiku, 2/29/08

CAT

I was sunning ere
your intrusion. And just who
do you think you are?

RACCOON

Dark bandit, filches
treasures, perplexed that no one
guards them. Oh, what fools!

FOX

Perfectly still in
pure, holy snow, squirrels taunt
him, cry, "Fanatic."

"Dragon," 2/29/08

Tales tell of him
feasting on leg of man
and flossing
with peasants' chaps.

At that he shudders.
He lifts his broad muzzle,
looking out toward the sun,
smiles at the warmth.

Turning toward the town,
he sees the men fighting again,
their libraries torched,
their brittle texts dying.

The dragon does weep.
Tonight, he falls asleep
reading of Sir Perceval,
and dreams of mutton.

"Mollymauk," 2/11/08

My father, age ten,
sneaks down to the pond
on a lazy Saturday
to find crawdads basking under rocks

Brave cowboy
inching along with
Audie Murphy and Hopalong
at his side

Peeks over the rise
and there, rising up like a god,
wingspan overshadowing the waters
--rare bird once thought to be extinct

Boy entranced by Nature, this
awesome mythic creature
neverbeforeglimpsed curiosity
Naturally, he takes a stick and pokes it

What happened then, Dad? I say
as our boat drifts, pontoons
scraping hollowly against
the brush where crappie lurk

Yes, what then? says Andrew,
watching watergliders skitter across the
green-black water. I shiver in the breeze,
impatient for the punchline.

Nothing, my father replies,
surprised at our naivete.
I'd killed it deader than 4:00.
We troll gently, gulls banking overhead.

untitled poem, 1/23/08

English majors believe in education
believe it will save the world
from itself
from Ignorant
from Poor
from Bipartisan
and tooth decay
and monsters under the bed
-----staring yellowly out like Goya nightmares

take it like a medicine
repulsing at first
then a needful thing

drug

to cure mediocrity

pay into it
like a life insurance program
against the day of death
of self

gather literature around you
recite Wilde like a chant
white magic
to fend off vain creatures
-----of business
----------science
---------------comm. and art

and lord, those teaching majors
who believe love
will save the world
not education

that education is a
cold, harsh antiseptic spray
with which to
stamp out
the pernicious molds of
-----compassion
----------kindness
---------------patience

that a teaching license
is a marvelous device
rather like a Trojan horse
a teacher is a doublecross agent
behind enemy lines

undermining the dark system
full of hooded, red-eyed
members of the Board
shedding their scaly Sith skins
as they cut chalk rations
and slash playground funds

untitled haiku, 12/7/07

I

Asked for directions
I feel used, never knowing
If he found his way

II

Hallways of startling
blue with flags--where can I spend
my Christmas bonus?

III

Ever seeking for
The Way. Eyes, look up. The path
ahead says, "Bookstore."

IV

Stopped between beeping
sensors, suspicion rises.
Please return to desk.

"A Short Lie," 4/13/06

It was such a short time,
just a filament in the tapestry.
Thoughts of you made ruts in my mind;
it was the same old story.

So let's don't ever pretend
it was more true than a lie;
I'll live again,
and you never died.

Or did we ever live
till we were together?
Or are we living now?
Or did we wake up ever?

Perhaps my heart had faltered
long 'fore you broke its strings;
Perhaps yours wasn't altered
by any mortal means.

But broke or even absent,
Where'er our hearts may lie,
somewhere you're missing fragments--
I know, for so am I.

With me rests one piece of your heart--
and you keep parts of mine--
Don't call the time we held them short;
I've missed mine for a lifetime.

"Disaster," 7/23/05

You say you're upset and you claim you're disturbed,
but it's I who have jumped every time that I've heard
your name mentioned softly in quick, furtive phrase,
and I can't help reliving those torturous days.
The pain numbed my heart and the numb steeled my brain,
and the happiness left me like sifting of grain.
The anger is gone, and the sigh, and the groan,
and the frown, and the tear--I'm an automaton.
I run from my doubt and the feeling inside
but it follows me 'round; there's no place I can hide,
except deep inside me where no one can come,
where none ever penetrates my shroud of gloom.
So how is the pain? How does it taste
over there on the tongue of Disaster's face?
Tell me, for well do I know that you may,
being Tongue, relate anything you wish to say.
It's a service to those of us topside, her eyes,
who are witness, dispassionate, to all the lies.
Being but eyes, I cannot speak or think--
In defense of myself, I can only blink.

"Abnormalcy," 4/27/05

Society has a definition--
in a textbook--of normalcy,
and beside that a picture
of what I should be.
Men, women, children,
and all those who see it,
straighten their spectacles,
nodding agreement.
Maybe my lenses
are long due for exchange,
but when I've looked at that picture,
it's not two times the same!
And maybe it's me,
but it seems very small,
so how can they see it
to tell what they saw?

"The Name," 4/27/05

The words I had not heard spoken
in so long
laughed at me from the
edges of everyone's lips,
their insidious sibilance
creeping into my ear canals
and around my frontal lobe.
Each letter mocked me
like a smug child;
cruel children the alphabet was,
holding hands and taunting me
with their distinct voices.
I stuffed my ears with
the cottonballs of literature,
my pencil making
kind, alphabetical monks
shuffle across the page--
patient, orderly letters
with a vow of silence to keep.

"That Boy," 4/12/05

I love that boy. Don't we all? He is the boy
That captivates our hearts without taming our souls.
He has no age but the natural age of joy--

Somewhere around five or eleventy.
You and I love him for his quiet childlikeness
And his happy musicalness that will always be

Fresh as his tousled sun-bleached hair.
He is the darling of every maiden heart,
Yet no one and he will ever make a pair,

For who could kiss a song? And who
Could wed the wind? To take Laughter
And Joy to have and to hold would be cruel.

He will never know the sorrow of love lost,
For all the world is in love with him.
Earth's favorite child he is, and unlike most,

He shall sit in the sunshine, not walk in the rain,
And his bright laughter and clear eyes will not fade,
So long as he can sing. And he will not feel pain,

For he is ever a child, and the problems of the mundane
Adult world shall never bear down upon him.
He is enraptured by every word, amazed by every game,

And we who have seen it all envy him his child's eyes.
He is the love that blooms in all seasons,
Unselfish, without jealousy. That boy will never die.

"Suspense," 4/12/05

I am spinning
-----There is no ground
----------There is no up
---------------There is no down.
----------I'll right myself
-----After all
In the moment
-----That I fall.

"Paul McCartney, after Pablo Neruda," spring 2005

I have called you McCartney.
There are younger than you, younger.
There are louder than you, louder.
There are cooler than you, cooler.
But you are McCartney.
When you play at Super Bowl halftime,
No one appreciates you.
No one sees your MBE, no one hears
The years of Beatlemusic behind your riffs,
The rock'n'roll legacy.
And when your voice sails into our living room
All the rhythms sound
In my body, pyrotechnics
Light the stage,
And my parents leave the room.
Only Ringo Starr and I,
Only Ringo Starr and I, Paul,
Listen to you.

"A Prison Like No Other", 4/8/05

In youth I felt the stifling press
of a most exquisite prison,
its fragrant petals choking off
my very noble visions.
But Time has always shown himself
quite dutiful a warden,
and lest his flower-field jails grow full,
he transfers all his burdens.
The guards have a curious practice,
in life's correctional facility,
of leaving off the fetters to
achieve maximum security.
There is no floor for stable ground,
no definition for lack of walls,
and maddening are the footsteps
down its nonexistent halls.
And yet a ceiling it does have
so blots out all the sky;
never do I see the stars,
but nighttime fills my eye.
Seldom does a visitor come;
I think I have but one:
it's old Dementia in the dark
with stories of the sun.

"Conceited One"--3/16/05

Yes, this poem is for you.
It is for you
just like all the applause
in all the world's theatres.
You're smart.
You've figured it out
and you can't forget it:
that everything is just for you.
All the king's horses,
all the king's men,
God's little green apples,
that big needle in Seattle,
flashing S.O.S. signals,
the majesty of Mount Fuji,
and the great bell that cracked in Philadelphia
because of its great peals in your honor.
You and Denny's
are both American institutions.
And no one would dare
make a move on this earth
without asking your sagely advice.
In fact, my everyday question
and the world's mission is
"What would [your name here] do?"
Oh, yes, this poem is for you, dear.
But I don't have to tell you that,
for, from the very moment
that I uncapped my pen,
you knew it would be.

"The Cleansing Rain"--2/15/05

The rain fell cold,
running through the streets
in gleeful little rivers.
I ran into the wet daylight,
throwing my arms up like bridges
to let the silver drops
make highways to my neck.
Did I think the rain,
those marvelous little spheres,
were endowed by our Creator
with a spiritual Dial Soap,
lathered by angelic hands,
to cleanse away the pain
that clung hotly to my soul?
Maybe I did.
But there was no one there
(anymore)
to gently break to me the Truth,
tell me that pretty things aren't real
(never were)
and warn me importantly
that a cold rain will give me (p)neumonia.
I was ignorant, you see,
of all these wisdoms.
So I stood there, smiling up
at the unseen owners
of the kind, lathering hands.

"Carbon Copies," 2/09/05

Don't include me
I don't mind
You're not special in your kind
There's more like you
All around
When you talk it's just a sound
Talking, saying
Nothing ever
I say nothing but it's better
So you fill my
Consciousness
With dreck, hoping I won't suspect
That underneath your
Life of gold
Your soul is starving in the cold
Your intellect's
A dusty well
A wasteland and an empty shell
Carbon copies
All of you
Rank and file, John and Sue
When your home is
Dark and brown
Three feet broad and six feet down
Will a man or
Will a child
Whisper your name with a smile?
Or will Eight-two-
Six-three-oh
Come out to replace John Doe?
Take your pity
Back, and here's
Some of mine to put with yours
Better to be
Thought a fool
Than a robot with no soul.

"Love's a Tyrant"--3/19/04

Before have I loved without knowing why.
I have supposed that Love in her scheme knew
A purpose greater than the mind of I,
That bound I was. But bound--not I nor you.
It's said the chains of love are 'passing light
But slaves in fetters light will still be bound.
If golden fetters forbade you from sight,
Forswear would I the gifts of light and sound.
If Love's a tyrant that she keeps us twain,
That jealous name should both of us renounce
Which, with renouncing, would we quit the pain
That long diverts us from what truly counts.
-----It's your face, not hers, from which I do drink,
-----And your voice, not hers, teaches me to think.