On the fringe…

April 30, 2013

Winter won’t leave the building, and let Spring have her debut on stage…uh, or do I mean Summer! I am ready for warmer weather.
thumbalina
Been working on some haiku, haibun, and renga drafts. Decided to stick with regular poetry for a while; it definitely is a crafted and purposeful writing.

 

Dentist Anxiety

April 24, 2013

Line Breaks

I
know line breaks
they are dreams
pointy arrows
hovering
good ones
direct me
to a boat, and
fishing with my father.

bad ones
leave me hanging
in darkness
over my true body.

I
in a dentist chair
the arrow
is now pointing
at 7 AM.

*************

White

Did authorities
take
his hat
and place it
with
his rights.

No real opinion here, just playing, thoughts before the alarm went off, and I head to the dentist today.

*************

Implant(ed)

The pills
little blue ones
the doctor gives you
to subside anxiety
1 before bed
2 in morning
did
not help me.

I
wake up
each day, with
the sun
chickens
hungry birds
smiling.

When
I come home
later today
my mouth
will have another
opinion
and 1 more
tooth.

Have a good day writing friends, and Peace!

It Needs To Be Said

April 23, 2013

In my on-line class we are studying Re Vision of a poem and line breaks, how powerful an impact they can make. So here is my newest piece, with some help from poet friends suggestions, and my own snip snip. Below is original…

Touched By Other Cultures

Her
toothbrush sits,
half on the counter,
half in the holder
the way she left
it.
Maybe she keeps one
at every house,
in her purse.
Extra brushes are
always
in my suitcase, ready,
just in case. I will not be able
to make
chicken Dak-bok-keum-tang
stew we all enjoyed.
Even with its heat and
spice
the dish will now be hard
to swallow.
Before she left my son
and
me
because I am his mother
touched by giving birth
will never
have the same
meaning–
her country of birth.

(Original Version)

Her toothbrush sits,
half on the counter,
half in the holder
the way she left it
Maybe
she keeps one
at every house,
in her purse,
free dentist brushes are always
in my suitcase,
ready, just in case.
I will not be able
to make spicy dishes
chicken Dak-bok-keum-tang stew
we all enjoyed.
Even with its heat and spice
the dish will now, be hard
to swallow.
Before she left my son
alone,
at the coffee house table,
because she didn’t know
how to communicate.
To break up without ease;
reason
only using tears as language
and no long goodbye.
We had a good visit
with him in Korea.
Before her.
But for him,
and me
because I am his mother
touched by giving birth
will never
have the same meaning–
her country of birth.

Blind Date Delmonico

I arrived at his apartment in a low rent neighborhood. I grew up poor. He answered the door in leather pants and a black leather vest. No shirt underneath. I liked his long reddish wavy hair. His lips looked like a familiar rock star. He spoke with intelligence and some felinity, but he had no cats. I suggested dinner, so we did fast food. We talked of books, poetry, and music on the short drive. I felt his eyes on me the whole time. When we returned, I drove because he had no car, his apartment had been robbed. I noticed they left his broken down guitar. Torn strings and worn out bridge. He was sad they took his new TV. He played a few riffs and complained. He would miss football. We didn’t speak the rest of the night.

Working out the kinks

April 18, 2013

And I am not talking about jumping about while an old Punk CD is playing. Although… I am working on a series of prose style pieces for my current book and possible to go in another manuscript about my childhood. Working on recipe styled pieces has not been as hard as once thought.

 
It Wasn’t a Stroke of Luck

The last time I saw her, standing, was in 1989, and it was by the stove. Earl T had bought her an electric can opener to ease the pain of arthritis. She opened a can of green beans to go with the fast food fried chicken we brought when we surprised her with a pop call. Daddy called it that, because you just pop in to say hello. Mammaw, as her grand-children called her, would laugh at her son’s antics, but still it was her way to fuss over kin folk.

I was blessed to have such a great influence like Eula Mae Akin. I missed her southern style beans. We would sit on a bin, in the middle of the floor, and help take off the ends. She always used a small paring knife to remove dark spots and stems. After slicing some bacon and onion, she would place it all in a pot. A smile and whistle and smell told you when it was ready. The pressure cooker, life and stove-top kind, did all the rest.

My grandmother became barely recognizable; crooked fingers, bent over back, a sad look of pain in her eyes, and eventually a stroke had made her an invalid. Now you stood by the hospital bed, holding her hand, and talked. If she answered you it was in a series of loud moans and jerks, just before a nurse changed her diaper.

Today is her birthday, and I woke up with a craving for her…

April 11, 2013

SONY DSC

Rocks and Green and Darkness and the Surface

There is more distance today when I dream of her. Not the pink and lace and smiley faces of hanging grade school crayons. But of claws and festering wounds and racing heart beats of wolves and the running within their nightmares. Wadded pieces of trash with only lips and cheeks line a cliff’s edge; exposing torn flesh, peeling it back until something unrecognizable surfaces, red black, underneath slippery moss. As its blood oozes, dries and is wiped away, curious strangers begin to emerge. Lifting hand to face, eyes bleed fear; all of the bodies turn white, leaving no trace of human existence as juggling seals move in, fin by fin, braking, bones fly through the soul, reminding us of healing— Seas crash onto rocks to renew its sand. Mermaids reach for answers on sinking ships; breathe is taken, reborn, and the moment we wake, those fading brown eyes, they simply follow as you walk around the room, from their perch on the wall. Safely, away from ones thoughts.