Who Needs A Resort? (REVISED "I Can't Pack It In My Suitcase")

A traveling home
Is quite useful.
Warm and inviting
That familiar scent
Entwines my body
And calms yet sharpens
My senses.

I feel empowered
By this small
Isle
that is far from
deserted,
With secreted
Treasure
I don't want to share.

I have seen many
Different sceneries
Yet the landscape remains;
I love to tell you
You’re my favorite place in the world.

A Walk In My Shoes

Shoe selection is self-expression.
Shoes are life-companions;
They support, encourage,
invigorate, complement
And protect.

In high school
I bought these
Brown, shoelaceless
Imitation chucks.
I loved them dearly
Wore them about to death
But they didn’t really support me
And it didn’t last well
Even though I held on for a couple years
And kept them stashed in my closet
Out of affection.

I used to buy
A lot of cheap shoes
And sometimes I still do
Just for fun
But never seriously
Because they tire my feet
And fall apart at the first sign
Of things going wrong.
I’ve learned to let them go.

My serious relationships
Are athletic shoes now.
My Nikes are faithful
And last five years
And although I run them down
We fit together.

My Tom’s are unique
And complement me
Sharing my love of words
And of real materials that make a difference
In other people’s lives.
I can’t say they’re overly helpful in
A real crisis
And I’ve slid around in the rain
But they’re not bad.

There are sassy black heels
That shine and lift me up
A few inches from reality.
They look good for any
Classy occasion,
Even though in daylight
They look slightly foolish
And pretentious-
They’re far too loud clacking in hallways
But like every girl has to have a little black dress
They’re my necessary girly shoes-
And I’d never go out without them.

There are summer fling flip-flops
Stalwart flats that go with everything
Heeled boots for winter formal
Neon green netted mix-it-up shoes
Tough steel-toed work shoes
Yet I still window shop
And still dream of epic romance
Because the best shoes can’t be
Behind me.


I looked at some wannabe chucks
The other day.
They were exactly
What I would have worn
In high school
And I played around with the idea
Of taking them home.
Many friends thought they were great
But in the end I couldn’t commit
To a pair of shoes
That just weren’t a good fit.

I Feel Like a War-Torn Country (REVISED "The Day After")

Brushing my hair, I swiftly sheaved bedraggled tired strands into a band,
And mirrored I saw the three glaring spots on my forearm
Where my skin screamed in protest
At your strength battling mine.
But a break-up breaks us up
And I nearly snapped
entirely.

Outside, it froze unfeeling and foggy, the trees dipped in white-out and I
Thought it appropriate for such a day to see and feel nothing
When you vanished like foliage to frost
From my heart's lush garden
Leaving only bruises
To keep me alive.

ENGL 306/406

Ten steps from the door
Slide onto a cold plastic seat
Burnt orange, earth brown, faded yellow, beige.
A color palate from the 70s seems appropriate
For a room that speaks to individuals
A tie-dye experience coloring perspectives
Sitting spiraled around the edges
We are all equal
But a specter of a spectrum
Often violently colliding.

We are a poetry class-
Would you expect any different?

It’s like late night channel surfing
Or following random links on youtube
That may be completely different
Even when created about the same thing,
Yet you can’t stop watching in wonderment.

It’s like finding out you can eat peanut butter on celery
Or you can wear black and brown if you want
Or being shocked by unexpectedly encountering your reflection;
It’s 80 minutes I don’t count or dread, but live.

Driving

The hum of the engine comforts her now
Legs pressed against the cheap stitched plastic seats
The humidity is fleeting and the evening chill sets in
Four windows rolled down accepting the wind
She sniffs and sucks in her lips and swallows.
The mascara ran away when she did.

The wind teases her hair wild.
She has never been so solitary.
Arms here and there used to entwine her
Give her warmth and a heart beat to mask her own
But they ended up being briars and thorns
Scratching and clawing and taking chunks of her
With each swift pass
She ran.

The dotted yellow line flashes faster as her foot
Leans forward onto the gas pedal
The cadence of four tire treads on the freeway
Echoing the blood pounding in her ears
RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN!

She inhales deeply, her breath catching on her jagged-edged heart
Broken glass in blood, a black eye, a purple thigh.
If only these were the only trace.

I Can't Pack It In My Suitcase

A traveling home
Is quite useful.
Emanating heat
That familiar scent
Entwines my body
And calms yet sharpens
My senses.
I have seen many
Different sceneries
Yet the landscape remains;
I love to tell you
You’re my favorite
place
In the world.

What They Do after "I Do" (REVISED "Every Grown Up Girl's Dream")

I am a cloud of white; buoyant.
Your hands ground me
Your hands around me
Reassuring squeeze on my hips
Fingers fly and chasing lips
Paint moving images of bliss.
The weight on my hand binds us
And now the rush of skin on skin
Heat thaws winter
The small of my back
Traced up and into my hair
SharingBeingBreathing
becomingone

These bodies are poor shells
For such great joy
joined souls.

Cloud of satin rains
To the Egyptian cotton ground
And you
pressed black and white
to vibrant warm honey
rich, encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes
bound yet free in your able arms
drowning yet breathing new oxygen in your kiss
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I
Straining for more of you, releasing all that
I used to guard so carefully.

You are the wave and I am the shore
We meet together forevermore.

Maybe I Have a god Complex

Converse with yourself
From the mountains of introspection
Yell and see the echo
Flow across the
Blank inviting face
Laid before you.
Sit awhile observing the dreamscape.
Climb to heights you create with
Frail fingers.

Eden is new with each thought.

Call Me Old-Fashioned

I watched my grandmother’s world crumble and fall
As I grew older and lighter and tall
Her face faded with wisdom and rhyme
Erased with the deadly spines of time.

And here am I;
Not a farm girl
The oldest of but four.
I carry the remnants of her with me:
The desire for hard work and strong family.
The faith in God, the love for life
A daily toil, a surmounted strife.

And while the old-fashioned family burns
I wonder what lessons this generation learns
From MTV and the internet
From barbies and legos and gigapets.
Are we happy or not?
I couldn’t really say
But I mourned the day Grandmother passed away.

Dominoes

When I wake up, I am not the same.
My body is aged one day older
Another domino lined up against me
Stacked for the end
But what form will your end take?
It all adds up to a few seconds
Diamond, zig-zag, circle…
I really couldn’t tell you what it looks like
Til it’s done
But I can promise that each tile that passes through my fingers
And each one that stands is grace-full;
It’s the precipitous edge between insane and miraculous.
One more tile
Standing
So I smile.

Color-full Brenda

I am a color-full woman in every sense of the word.
Akimbo and smiling I face the world.
I am a sunrise-
Not that flat crayola yellow and orange
But robust ochre and rouge
Clementine and golden-rod
Rose sweetly lining the tiniest folds of my face
A spectrum in its own right.
I can paint you images of my pastel pensive mind
Display endless landscapes
Or a bowl of fruit ripe with temptation
But it means nothing
If you persist in black and white.

This Mortal Coil or Of the Flesh

The tattooed man would tell you that flesh is a canvas.
The scientist, that flesh is encasement for organs and bones.
The preacher, that it covers the soul and houses sin.
The boy tells me that my flesh is soft and inviting
By painting my body with his eyes
Delineating what is perceived
With an artistic suggestion.
I tell him not many people
Can say “screw art”
And literally mean it.

Chew on This Awhile

We are full of questions when we are young
Like a bursting gumball machine, experiences are plunked in our minds
Twisted with a shine
And out comes a polished pearl of perspective
Something for others to ruminate
And perhaps discard-
But a voice to color the world nonetheless.

Yet just as those machines often run down
Neglected and unused
With stagnant candy littering the floor
Of the empty glass globe
Like spent confetti-
We often forget the things
That once filled us.

Personified Pronoun

I
The lone letter
So slender
Yet demonstrative
No, not a demonstrative pronoun
But a personal pronoun.

I
Am an
I

It’s almost a cross to bear
Had I the crossbar to make me a T

Or maybe had I a friend
With outstretched arms
We would be an H instead.


I
Am an
I

Not very large or imposing
Yet defiant.
I claim meaning
I start sentences
I speak
I signify greater things than my frame can handle.

I
Am an
I

20 Credits

Twenty credits taunts me
With his self-importance and
Arrogant amount of paperwork.
He sneers when I consider my weekend
And snickers when my face
Attempts osmosis study at odd hours.

I try to tell him I have a life
That he is a business arrangement,
But he insists on being my lover
And shows up as Shakespeare
Between the covers of my bed
Fingers marking my place
As I stare at his awful face
And fight sleep.

Twenty credits- you are the date
I said yes to and regretted immediately.

You'd Think We'd Have Learned

I sit in class and stare out the window
When the sky is an enticing blue.
I see the trees, fingers stretched upward
Swaying slightly in the wind
Crying for the heaven they cannot have.

Humans are trees too,
Grown from the dust
Thinking tall thoughts
Yet sighing and bending
When we cannot reach what we ache for.

I think I can understand the frustration
Of the tower of Babel
And then I catch sight of Ross Hall-
I see the flurry of contractors and architects
Pencils scurrying faster than final midterm minutes,
All the people planning and building
Yet their work ending more stunted
Than a bonsai tree, yet also changed by a will
And some hefty pruning shears.

When Johnny Came Marching Home

I wish that I could rewind or push you forward to see
what I've been thinking about, mind-mending, found
while escaping like a child into a dream underneath the Christmas tree.
I like to think the world makes more sense here, lying on my back,
transfixed by the strong scent of evergreen and planets and strings of light.
My eyes float with the confettied lit pinpricks, sparkling nebulas of brown.

I've wished on stars and hoped and prayed for you that brown
would be more than the black furrowed dirt you see
more than the womb of crops and light
more than the life you found
when you came home, farm-bound, back
to the wall, a lone, strong, rooted tree.

You had no choice where you were planted, a family tree
Stronger than the orchard where our names carved brown
promised happiness when you whispered in my ear, cradling my back
And our future stretched farther than the land. I see
now that though you were returned, you aren't found.
Your dog tags, like your eyes, are dulled steel and no longer reflect light.

Your mother bakes you rhubarb pie, making light
of your darkness, and your nephew begs you for a boost up the tree
but you are silent. I can only wonder and glean from letters what you found;
a boy of eighteen grown to a man, the green leaf crumpled brown.
You look at me, go through the motions, yet do not see.
And more and more I see only your back.

Sometimes I like to think of you like our back
woods. I know you so well, yet without light
you frighten me with the forest of things I cannot see.
Instead of running, I stake a claim in my climbing tree,
offering a familiar deer stand, warm and brown,
reminding you that sport and solace can be found.

Take your time, work hard, but don't forget what we found.
Don't forget our embrace, kiss, or the small of my back.
Don't forget our dreams, our promises, our deep initials in bark brown.
I will wait all night with you until the clarity of dawning light
burns away your numbness and we can plant a new tree,
until hope and strength and clean dirt are all you see.

And when you've looked around, been found, and see
me, once more pin my back against our lovers tree
and we will melt as one, into the heart of carved brown.

The Enigma of Eternity

I like to listen
to the sounds
that God hands
me when light
is born and nature
bids me to simply live.

How do we live
with so much noise? Listen
to the silence. Human nature
is loud and sounds
its dominance and light
of knowledge forged by our hands.

Where do we suppose our hands
were formed? Can we cause dirt to live
or the sun to rise? I think our light
is a matchstick, or how one strains to listen
to a pin dropping in the universe. Sounds
like a very poor song by which to live.

The nature
of this world is complex. Human hands
could not mimic thunderclaps' sounds
any more than to live
means being deaf with the intent to listen
or to know that the sun is light.

No, I know there is a greater light
than sunshine, and perhaps it is my nature
or habit to still my soul to listen
to smile and raise my minute hands
and try to grow, to know to live
by truth's clear sounds.

The silent blade of grass sounds
booming melody, songs that bring light
to my eyes and urge me to live
with purpose, beyond the excuse of human nature
beyond the power of my hands
with the wisdom of a simple listen.

Live with the steadfast nature
of the eye of a storm. Light hands
us truth, but only if the sounds that banish shadows are for what we listen.

Every Grown-Up Girl's Dream

A cloud of white surrounds me and I feel as though I am a cloud, buoyant above the earth
your hands ground me yet give me flight
Your hands around my small waist fitting more perfectly than a favorite pair of jeans,
Reassuring me with a squeeze on my hips, before fingers fly to meet fingers and lips painting moving images of bliss on our faces.
The weight on my hand is miniscule, yet it emanates with heat reminding me I am yours and you are mine so divine!
You can know someone, but you can’t know them until you feel the rush of skin on skin, the heat shared like ground suddenly unfrozen from winter’s death, the touch in the small of your back, sliding up and into your hair, the experience of sharing, being, breathing, becomingone knowing that these bodies can hardly contain the joy expressed in joined souls.

As the cloud changes from satin to Egyptian cotton, lace to soft flesh
And you, black and white pressed to vibrant warm color like honey, so rich and encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes,
bound yet free in your able arms,
drowning yet breathing with new oxygen in your kiss.
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I, straining for more of you, releasing all that I used to guard so carefully.
You are the wave and I am the shore and where we meet we always want more. Inextricably tied, time-tried, stupefied.
This is no check-out line novel, no one night stand, no intoxicated choice, no regret.


It is the culmination of all the old clichés yet completely different.
It’s you. It’s me. It’s We.

REVISED:

I am a cloud of white; buoyant.
Your hands ground me
Your hands around me
Reassuring squeeze on my hips
Fingers fly and chasing lips
Paint moving images of bliss.
The weight on my hand binds us
And now the rush of skin on skin
Heat thaws winter
The small of my back
Traced up and into my hair
SharingBeingBreathing
becomingone

These bodies are poor shells
For such great joy
joined souls.

Cloud of satin rains
To the Egyptian cotton ground
And you
pressed black and white
to vibrant warm honey
rich, encompassing
I am lost yet
found in your endless eyes
bound yet free in your able arms
drowning yet breathing new oxygen in your kiss
I inhale with a gasp as you reach for me and I
Straining for more of you, releasing all that
I used to guard so carefully.

You are the wave and I am the shore
We meet together forevermore.

55 Year-Old Shoes in Which to Walk

1. 1955 Iowa State University

Richard Pratt poses pressed in an off-white suit and dark tie.
The Men’s Residence Association Head Residents
Are paragons of model students, poised and pristine.
They are serious, clean-combed, and engaged in official conversation.
Richard, known as Dick, although soft-spoken is not nearly so serious.
He grins with Godfrey, his house in Friley.
Those boys are good at sports, second in the men’s division.
Dick goes to Memorial Lutheran Church on Sundays.
He is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.

2. 2010 Iowa State University

Rachel Pratt poses with a smile in a dark dress and heels.
It is a dance benefiting Haiti, and she is glad to be there.
Although she is Vice President of
Sigma Tau Delta, International English Honor Society
And loves serving as social chair in Barton Tappan
(even if the D-league intramural basketball team she captains is not conquering)
And goes to Cornerstone Church on Sundays
She thinks of her grandfather when she is thumbing through an ancient yearbook
Suddenly struck by a strange nostalgia claimed by blood.
She remembers, as she resolutely returns to her homework, how Grandpa
Grandma, Aunt Sharon, Uncle Scott, Mom, and Dad all remind her
She is intelligent, works hard, and has a bright future.

I Used to Call You Apple

It was when I heard your voice
On my cell phone
Rich and familiar
Like steaming coffee
The morning of my day.
Your eyes the color of coffee too-
Matching mine
Your hair color
Skin tone
Small frame
An echo to my own
You are the sounding of a poem
Upon my soft lips
A kiss.

Your voice.
2 years past.
How choices tear and mend
How you make and obliterate.

For the Love of Life and Summer

"I've climbed in trees
To eat, and climbed
Down to look about
This world..."

My limbs brown with sunshine
Yet a sandy warm lighter and softer
Than the bark I hug with skinny arms
Toes digging into barked grooves
I reach higher to see farther
summer-striped brown-blonde wild hair
fluttering with leaves
A little tree.

I sway with
the trunk
lithe and lean
muscled
Wearing light
and shadow
spots and I
See my dreams.
I will never
Come

Down.

Annetta by Rachel Annetta Pratt

I hear her voice like aged wine
Rich with wisdom and strongly divine.
Her eyes yet pierce with brown strong stare
When the pain was not great and her spirit still there.
I recall the days she would recite and see
Long tucked away lines of classic poetry.
She was strong, this woman so dear to me
A hard simple life and a flowering family tree.
I know she is well, yet all the same
I miss her and keep her with our shared name.

Response to Patricia Smith's Poetry Reading

Patricia Smith, recovering from a cold, stepped up to the podium and began with a bittersweet yet resounding poem about a sixth grade class she worked with in Miami. The timbre of her voice changed, and suddenly she was penetrating passion, strength, and energy. I couldn’t wait to hear the rest of what she had to read to us!

Her poetry was given a body and richness only her voice could provide. I felt as though she writes for us to listen to her words; not just read them. She had varied speed and power, and did not hesitate to allow for full breaks of silence as necessary. Smith does dialects very well, and it really made the experience notable. I think if we had listened to her read one or two of her poems while we were reading Blood Dazzler it would have made more sense and carried more meaning.

I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about her writing process. She researched, interviewed many people, and even looked at photos the associated press could not print because they were too grisly. I still wouldn’t say that I loved all of her poems, but I understood them and loved her reading. I compare the thirty-four stanza poem about the abandoned nursing home residents who died to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I understand how the form and content functioned to underline and support the message, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. The overarching theme I gathered from her readings and explanations was that Blood Dazzler is intelligently trying to make sense of a catastrophic event through research and personal insights. Attending Smith’s poetry reading gave me further insights to her writing, and a greater appreciation for her work.

Blood Dazzler Inspired Poetry

Weightless Wealth

If someone rips off your wing
Spiral down
But don't fall too fast.
Just rest on a ledge
Inhale the scenery-
grow some feathers I suppose.

Look at what you have
Realize there's only a
Few plumes missing
And they're not gone forever.

Catch your breath
feel your footing
S M I L E
and leap from the ledge
Trusting the Wind to
lift outside and within.

The currents carry
far away from where
you once dreamed...
but it was not for
failure.
It was to bring you
Into the sunrise
Sweet embrace
a taste of
liquid gold nectar.

We call it hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Student Body

A storm of stilletoed heels tap
a cacophony on
submissive cement a
cloud of black tights
Sequined shirts
Straightened hair
A mist of
romance, intrigue
Alcohol flowing
Like water pulsing
a heartbeat masking
the electric energy painted
faces eyelined stares
Crisp bills flying like
twilight birds away
from enchanted French-tipped fingers
Like wishes they are offerings to
The night
Devotees of some classic rite where bass
Demands the ebb and flow the letting go as senses blur and hips confer and sweetened lips meet and
clothing uncurls-
We are the crashing waves.

Sometimes I am a Movie Star

The rain falls in thin streams
Like grainy lines in old films projected into reality.
The landscape is as grim as Victorian England
I almost half expect to be attired in some
Large, sweeping dress.
My peacoat will have to do.

You complete the scene
With fine features
A proper and contemplative gaze
Under slightly knit brow.
Austere.

I almost want to giggle
But then I remember:
That would be un lady-like.
And we are the paragon of a classic couple,
Strolling quietly in the rain
Under the water-laden trees.
The Spring sings softly
As we walk by
And admire
Another day in paradise.

The Day After

Brushing my hair, I swiftly sheaved its morning fluffiness into a band,
And I saw the three glaring spots on my forearm
Where my skin screamed in protest
At your strength battling mine.
Yet I know it for truth-
I needed it.

Outside, it froze unfeeling and foggy, the trees dipped in whiteout and I
Thought it appropriate for such a day to see and feel nothing
When you vanished so coldly away
From my heart and self
Leaving only bruises
To keep me alive.

We're Booked for... Ever

Flat tires made round and sound,

The tall trees shake out a salsa beat in the shade

Cardiovascular rhythms thudding base

Fingers strumming a tune in clasped hands

And the sun shines in your face completing

Not a melody

Not a song

Not a symphony.

But a punk rock show.

You riff a solo, flashing that smile

I step right behind you, eating that mic.

And we take off with the rush of a million leaps from the stage

Not to sweaty fans but to sweet freedom

Like the first day of summer vacation

Higher than ninety-nine plus one red balloons.

Fifteen cans of tuna couldn’t capture this.

A shared flea couldn’t either.

We fly closer to the moon, yet daylight shines brighter,

Like a fluorescent highlighter.

Eye why queue.

And we walk, and we rock all the way to dinner

And an endless tour.