Silence

(04/23/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

If you are quiet enough,
you can hear the books
conversing amongst themselves,

They rustle sentences
to each other made of paper and cloth,
trade witticisms,
anagrams,
and drop verse on the heads
of the shelving librarians
who don't duck quickly enough.

People think writer's block is a metaphor, but it's not

(04/22/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

It's a big wooden block,
perched on the floor
between me and the page.

You can see the grain,
patterned in loops and swirls,
that you can follow with your thumb.
Beautiful, really, but still a block.

You have to come at it with a sharp knife,
sharper than the one used to gut poetry
from the belly of the carp that lurks in the pool of your mind,
gulping verse.

Whittle it along the edges,
Distract it by humming,
Round it with your hands and blade until the corners smooth,
and your palms know the feel of it, inside and out, and it knows you
Better than your mother ever did.
Then: push.

Silk

(04/21/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Smooth,
winding silk,
snug against
mercerized cotton.

When I use it to pull
our mouths to one another,
I can feel the
lift, the tug,
every moment
building toward
our mingling breath,
and the way your lips open before me,
so sweet
and so tender.

Government Center, Boston

(04/20/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Clustered in a pack of six
around the seventh,
stood down in the hole
twisting that damn pipe thing
tirelessly,

The road crew, for one moment,
look so solemn in their day-glo vests,
as if, at any second,
the chief amongst them
will lift his head
and proclaim,

Brethren, let us pray.
Here rests Down-In-The-Hole Jerry
Gone on to his penance,
Fer not bringin' the donuts
Like he was supposed ta'.
Help him, O Lord.

Amen.

Jakob, or, The Photograph

(04/19/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

The photograph is of a man
baring those teeth still in his head.

It is the picture of a man permanently hunched,
Crippled by the weight
of existing in a place
where he be no man at all
but a Jew, a deviant, a gypsy,
a category for eradication.

The photograph is of a skinny man who will die soon, no doubt.

In the photograph, he is bent,
Holding up the stripped-down body
That journeyed ahead of him into nothingness.

His dreams have reduced to the muted yearning
For someone to remember him when he is gone.
To say his name fondly.
To say, Jakob, he told that funny story,
You know, about the piano tuner and the rabbi's daughter?
He was a humorous man,
Who was kind to animals.

Surely, the blue number on his arm
visible in flashes as he tosses
another body into the pit,
to be buried in lime and forgetfulness,
is the least of his burdens.

The photograph is old.
But, when you hold it in your hand,
Remember him: Jakob,
Who told funny stories,
And was kind to animals.

l'odalisque

(04/18/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Never presume
to know the thoughts
behind the painted smile,
the coy tilt of one shoulder,
the bare back with its elongated spine,
and lines inviting the viewer's touch.

Even the Mona Lisa,
Though she gaze straight at you,
Keeps her secrets.

Apple

(04/17/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord Challenge)

The apple that lured man from the Garden
Was not a Fuji, full and juicy,
Sending rivulets down Eve's naked throat,
Bursting with knowledge and flavor,

But an idea,
Made dense flesh:
Of horizons to reach beyond,
And limits surpassed.
The harbinger of epiphany can take any shape.

Tulips

(04/16/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

I.
Each
bloom
A careful
exercise
In sunlight.

II.
Texture
of silk
to the touch,
and
joy
to the eye.

Weight

(04/15/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Every time I walk away from you
I miss you desperately
By the time I reach the stairs.

The freight of my love
grows thicker and more weighted
Every time
I suffer through a goodbye.

Soon I will not be able
to even turn
away from your closed door.

The Real Walking Dead

(04/14/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

The walking dead aren't zombies, they're ghosts.
Messages, of your life, unlived. Undead. Un-anything.

Turn the corner and there sits a regret,
cross-legged in the hallway,
with mournful eyes,
and a little potted plant in her lap.

Close your eyes at night and the closet door
will swing open
so all the times you didn't say "I love you"
when you could've,
will tumble down from the shelves and land
thump-thump-thump
on the the thin carpet.

The dark abyss at the end of the basement stairs
hosts the voices of all the December holiday calls
you never got around to making;
The good luck in all the red envelopes
you never got around to giving.

No matter where you go, your ghosts follow you;
Shooting will not save you.
You can't burn them, or drive fast enough,
to get away.

Trying to Write a Sonnet

(04/13/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

My poem has betray-ed me
It wanders all day and all night
My mind, it seeks a higher plane
Yet, distracted by bright Net lights.
I find myself, an hour later,
Surfing back to that blankest page,
To escape again, then vis't here,
Where the Internet comes to rage.

Lo, I must learn to pace
Myself, and reach my peace
Before I put pen to
Page. For there is much I
Have to say, if I do
Set aside time, and try.

The Relationship

(04/12/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

We lived together,
With separate bedrooms,
defined spaces for each of us,
a Personal Domain(™).

People thought I was strange.

He kicked me in the stomach,
And fantasized about 'teaching me a lesson', at a party,
When he thought I was going to embarrass him.
He told me later he was disappointed when he didn't get the chance.

Not strange at all.

He let me support him
Put him through school
Work seven days a week
Then got angry when I came home tired and made myself a drink.

No one thought that was strange.

I left behind dirty dishes while he was out of town,
I was too tired to clean them.
I vacuumed the carpet,
Paid the rent for a month after his scheduled return,
Just to be sure,
He didn't get hurt, or inconvenienced too much,
By my departure.

And I'm the strange one?
I'm the strange one.
Eager and afraid,
In the same breath and verse.

With Apologies to Pablo Neruda

(04/11/2016 for National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

With Apologies to Pablo Neruda:

I cut the flowers.
I laid waste to the green strip of suburban lawn under my window;
I torched the trees and watched the dark smoke pollute the sky,
Inch by insufferable inch.

Dear God,
She came.
Spring came,
Red like blood and poppies;

Demeter's daughter,
Laughing and vicious,
Like a young lioness,
Fresh and ready for her hunt.

Spring came,
Dear God,
Spring came with a vengeance.

Night Light

(04/10/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

In the morning,
The nightlight starts to look unnecessary,
pale rainbow of color shifting slowly,
Plugged into the wall outlet.

In the afternoon,
It is worthless,
Compared to the streaming shafts
of bright sunlight through the windows.

In the middle of the night,
It is the only thing that holds back
The monsters and terrors from
Under-the-bed and Closet.

Even Monsters

(04/09/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

Even monsters cry
for lost children.

That is why they eat them:
To find silence.