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.