LOTS of new things, now that I've switched over to the google account... jah.
NOTE: blargh, once again, in pasting it into the post box, all of the cool nifty formatting was lost, so now the poems are boring and straight. Blah. Pretend they look cool... :(

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#1: no title yet, and so far relatively unedited (even though I don't usually edit poems to begin with...)

i'm not looking to change the world
by making it mine
or making someone else's
by becoming theirs.

i'm looking to scoop it up in my fingers
drain out all of the bad stuff,
and fold it neatly in two
or three times
and deftly stuff it in my pocket.

i'll walk around like this,
travel, maybe, and every
once in a while empty my pockets,
turn them inside-out and let the life
fall in crumbs with movie ticket stubs.

i'll find it again later in a handbag,
tucked in a corner with edges missing
and i'll unfold it
look at it
and put it right back in behind the stars.

now life is beautiful,
but it doesn't mean a thing.
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#2: Really short by comparison, but it makes me happy.

The earth is a
funny mother,
and father the same:
he carves out the moon
with a dinnerplate and
sloughs off the extra black sky
to the side in a heap.
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#3: a spur-of-the-moment thing that I wrote in bed around 2 am. Go figure.

Moon Nest

Let’s go
somewhere where the valleys change directions
and the rivers go the wrong way.
They bring life in from the sea until blue whales bask
in bonny green rushes and sing the tenor tune
to the trilling thrushes warble.

We’ll build a house of river rocks and mat the floor with down
so every step we take will bear us higher
and we fly up past the piney boughs,
trailing ribbons from our heels in the rafters.

Let’s fly, you and I will go.
We will swim and slip
down between the ebbing rocks
and launch the fishes free
to taste the wind under their scaly fingers.

Somewhere there’s a cloudy mount
with grasping groves all deep blue and dark
with the shadows of feathers
drifting ‘cross the canopy.

Where glowworms burrow deep and swallows cling to moss,
where branch turns up to sky and halts the sun’s slow cross,
that nook that catches moonbeams in the sultry balm of day
where time will never stray,
that’s where I’ll be waiting in the leaves.
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#4: a little older, and it doesn't make too much sense if you haven't read La Casa de Bernarda Alba, but I thought I'd put it up just for kicks...

Adela

Adela wears the green dress
and sits in the dirt,
legs spread before her as a child,
counting the specks of dirt between them.

Sisters twist inside the house,
chicken-scratching their way in each others eyes
and talk and yell and scream
and steal loveless prayers.

Adela has a green dress
and she is golden in its sleeveless glory
green and gold and brown in the dirt
sunny on her back, mourning back.

Mother: superior--
castigates and loves as a man
in black and woman, she is.
Pound, cane of fallacies,
strike thine children poor.
All girls.

Adela wears the green dress,
back to mourning sisters, she smiles sad
and talks to the chickens and dirt.
Hello, lovely dirt.

1 Comments:

At 5/01/2007,  Adraea said...

eeet's aliiiiive!

Hello again, I was afraid you had dropped off the side of the earth...

I especially love love love the last poem - the imagery really grabs you and winds you in. Of course, all of your poems are awesome - as usual.

Yay for poetry! *glomp*

 

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