Poems & poem-like things – Page 992

December 19, 2012December 19, 2012 by Dave Bonta

Disposition matrix: fragments

the melancholy of a straight line of same-sized trees

the principal’s chair like a golden cloak

how many roads

running toward the shooter, shouting

the vacuum of grief quickly fills with kitsch

I went to bed hungry & woke up full

“Would you like ketchup with your freedom fries?”

survivors at Virginia Tech described him as looking almost innocent in his scout uniform

I dreamt about writing a book titled war canoe

dried wildflowers could be incorporated into a quilt full of names

all young males in the target area are presumed to be terrorists

the terrible coolness of indifference

how many roads must a man

both of them running, pitching forward

according to the Washington Post, the expanded kill list is known as the “disposition matrix”

the melancholy of angels that never learned how to pollinate

“How many bees would you like?”

in my dream I loved how the deserted street felt to my bare feet

the children hidden like stowaways in lavatories & closets

coats from the Army-Navy store

a fisherman’s sweater knitted to look like fish scales

just as bullet points rarely liven up a slide presentation, the sound of a gun is far duller than you’d expect from the movies

it was dark before I reached the end of the block

“How would you prefer we got rid of the crows?”

after the power comes back, the clock can’t stop blinking

December 18, 2012December 18, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Uncomplicated

Two I called mother— one of them birthed me, two of them raised me. When I look around today, I realize it’s not as uncommon as I once thought.

But: two pairs of arms, two sets of fingers, two hearts, two histories, two lullabies, two tongues— how could it not be complicated?

One threw whole sticks of butter into the pots and mixing bowls: cake, spaghetti sauce, it didn’t matter.

One carefully quartered pieces of chicken, stripped tendon to bone, counting out meals and measuring cups of grain in advance.

One whipped egg whites to perfect foam, picked fish of guts and littered bone.

How many loves, how many heartbreaks, how many triumphs and regrets?

And is it any wonder that today, I prefer savory over sweet, unruliness of bramble, tumble and surprise of wild flowers?

No need to pass the salt and pepper for they have taught me the language of laurel, eucalyptus, ginger, star anise.

And I did not know then but now I do— Because this road is long, they’ve stamped their tinctures of herb and camphor on all the stations of my body; and their fragrant signatures on my brow and on my hands.

In response to Via Negativa: Mom at 36.

December 17, 2012December 17, 2012 by Dave Bonta

Mom at 36

While she talks on the phone,
her blue pen seems to have
a life of its own,
makes abstract flowers
& filigree
& Gordian knots
all around the list of birds seen
on her morning walk.
I watch fascinated
as I eat my allotted three
fresh peanut-butter cookies,
each bearing the print of a fork’s
uncomplicated foot.

December 17, 2012December 17, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Thin fog, as in the corners of a tintype—

This entry is part 40 of 41 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2012

where a woman in a long skirt and a thin gauze panuelo poses against a plaster column

where two sisters gracefully incline their heads in opposite directions though the white soldier has his arms around their waists

where a narrow outrigger floats down a river not yet choked with plastic bottles and filth

where groups of women walk down a mountain trail balancing baskets of produce on their dark heads

where the mountains circle their strong dark arms with ink and scars

where these arms that pound the grain could also lift the sky

where a man is holding a scrap of paper he has picked up from a table, and try as I might,
I cannot decipher the message that might have been written there

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

December 16, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Fire-stealer

This entry is part 54 of 54 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2012

“‘Heaven’—is what I cannot reach!” ~ Emily Dickinson

How can we be happy again, someone asked; how can we ever feel safe. The girl with the striped headband said, We can. I want to hug all those children who survived and tell them, I just know everything will be all right. Some of the people in the group stood under the far end of the dripping awning to smoke. It kept raining and stopping, raining and stopping, so there was nothing to do but go into the mall to watch a movie. When we came out, night had fallen. We crossed the grassy triangle and let ourselves through the kitchen door. We made dinner: garlicky chicken and rice in broth, a four day old loaf of bread split down the middle, buttered, quickly revived under the grill. Enough for everyone to share. Who was Tantalus? I heard someone ask in the course of conversation. There was ambrosia involved. Stolen nectar from the gods, which in my childhood was the name of a sweet rolled up in colored cellophane for the holidays, dense with citrus and dates and nuts. Punishment, always punishment— for giving in to desire and snatching what the body said it wanted, needed, wanted. The mouth being only the first passage. What the branches bore, gold and sweet and heavy— What the water offered to quench the hot little fire in the gut— The question is always: Does anything ever completely satisfy? Run for it, I want to say. Yes, run with that broken-off branch and the purloined sweetmeat, run even now and celebrate the brightest flame you can find to share with others huddled in the dark.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

December 15, 2012December 17, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

The years teach much that the days never know*

This entry is part 39 of 41 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2012

The years teach much that the days never know—
You know, the parts that live beyond the margins,
beyond what sage or bearded philosopher could know—
Theory is when you think you know the sound of shoes
on the grass; praxis is the knife-edged blade made known
to unsuspecting flesh. At noon the sun is overhead,
a yellow crayon smudge you know lies somewhere behind
thick tarp of cloud. You know its whereabouts the way
your heart lists toward all it may have ever known
of ardent love or quiet kindness: not one particular
thing, or one blazing example you once knew from long
ago. Not that it makes a difference: the heart’s its most
inscrutable mystery. Joyless, it knows to yearn for joy;
in fullness, knows to sense the turning of the wheel.

* ~ Emerson

In response to small stone (185) and Morning Porch.

December 15, 2012 by Dave Bonta