mermaid (Day 17, NPM)

mermaid

I could say it was the blinds half opened when the pillows were pushed into them.
I could blame the incoming sun, holding you.

I do remember the moon was bright

small of clouds circling it
forming their path from the horizon.

The bedroom curtains start to spin against the wind,

ushering in this winter solstice –

we close the windows quickly

the wood floors go cold soon enough

tip toeing, we make our way upstairs,

where it’s always warmer
and we stare out into the bright night.

braving the winds

(we want to be part of this night),
we dress and head for dinner.

toward morning I can see you glow

cake (Day 16, NPM)

cake


we take pieces of her like cake,

her ears are Bobo’s, the way they twist out like that on the tip

she has her grandmother’s legs, my forehead

 

whose nose – do you know?

 

running (Day 15, NPM)

Running in heels

Right or privilege – do you have control over your own body?

underworld (Day 13, NPM)

underworld

 

Resonant skin, that stretched cloth around your gossipy bones.

We carry, on these thin sheets, fragments of time

coming off our fingertips in flakes,
they whittle/rub down the past, revealing small hurts

Each time I’m touched more of me wears away,

the underneath slowly revealing a ruddy world.

your love (Day 12, NPM)

your love

 

your love is a lake

your devotion a wind chime of bronze roses

the touch you give a soft scarf and sweater gloves

       affected by the slight wind
    rumpling the surface

social (Day 11, NPM)

social

Like bees walking carefully

We walk through these parties
Trying not to offend another

This socializing is meant to be joyous,

Despite bird eyes made

 

mama said (Day 9, NPM)

mama said


mama said he should have known better, trying to just be nearby
not committed but rooted

mama said there are men like this
who can't be pinned down
because they don't know themselves

mama said this is where we must realize
we have to be wise
beyond wise

and not waste our time and energy
not give our gifts so easily

to those who slip into another's life too easily

to those whose hands stay behind their backs
while your hands are so full

spider woman (day 8, NPM)

spider woman


she created the world by dancing.
the twirl of her skirts without the heaviness of its bravery.

the cosmos endlessly twirling,
the energy of our creation building.

warrior mother
mistress to women
nurse for the wounded
gatekeeper for the dead
whispered breath for the return to living

spider woman skimming the land's terrain,
marking each grain for the first people


note: this was a poem for Monday but, somehow, i keep adding to it.

jeweled (Day 7, NPM)

jeweled

the dragon returns home
no longer alone, now beautifully wed

her scales a mastery in detail
her eyes a kind of call
to what, never answered.

still, there is trust
in her jeweled walk
her belled hips a fantasy

her tender steps, her very toes,
a tango heard in the distance

flirt (Day 6, NPM)

flirt

red lips make all the difference
in bubbling up my giving nature.

lucky you, the beneficiary

mapping (Day 5, NPM)

mapping


mysterious heart
a metaphoric map to the origin of ourselves

more than what makes us who we are.
rather the arc of our peoples
back and farther still
before the luxury of written language
before the conquest of culture

a story embedded within cell walls
forged at the epicenter
the universe expanding at each breath
people surviving
despite the lack of answers


surviving because we must,
because everything before us says
we must.

boundary lines (Day 4, NPM)

boundary lines

 

invisible stitching holds me together

finely threaded lines small boundaries for what is (not) said

some don't get the hint: 

approach me with an assumption

it's taken awhile to waterproof the canvas of my skin,
to let someone near but not in.


others aren't easily made ready

they let the world through in a hurricane of sideways rain.
hail arriving in whipping wind.

those are the ones tattooed with a heart on their arm,
the ones who give up as the sun sets
only to wake again with the sun,
the sky a fruitful glaze,
hope restored.

sleep, for those lucky few,
tightens the threading,
returns levity to shredded hem.

linen drape, embroidered by tender hand

Familiar (Day 3, NPM)

Familiar


They call us each in their own way.

*

My child, mind like a countryside, was born on a misty summer evening.
Sun long gone by the time she was truly in my arms.

Small bumps along the window pane flickered in the humid sky.
Lightning bugs marking a welcoming path for her.

Small glimmers to always illuminate her eyes even in the darkest time.
My child protected.

*

Still a child, I sat on just-rained cement, waiting.
Knees up, arms hugging my shins.

Sometimes I waited full minutes for a trail of ants to begin,
a baby frog or some fly to pass nearby.

Still today, small winged creatures find me. Sitting on my morning papers,
walking across the dusty windshield. Nameless beauties landing on my finger or shoulder.

They are a reminder:  to breathe every detail in, to allow the wind to move me
while deepening my root.

from scratch (Day 2, NPM)

from scratch


there are different ways of trying
but the truest test is still,
when sitting in your car,
whether or not you want to head home

some say compromise is a loving act
don't be fooled
it's rather a way to lose the self, ounce by ounce,

then use the loss
as the rationale behind having no center,
looking for answers elsewhere.

love is building yourself up,
informing others who you are,
and following through

the hard work is in saying what you want,
making it very clear,
and not forgetting.

only in this way do divergent paths make the way,
everyone knowing your truth,
until we are smooth as beach stones.

sexto sol (day 1, NPM)

sexto sol


after a long day with you, a nap makes all the difference.

a moment in the bathroom to dress away from where you sit at the bed's edge
waiting patiently.

we've lived together long enough
you know my clothes

it's hard to surprise you.

still, i try,
find a strapless
because you just don't love
my shoulders enough.

makeup and perfume
new playthings i enjoy now

ah, your slowly building smile when you finally see me

the night:

   a lesson in the difference between cumbias and mambos

   a careful dance of chicano soul and blues haikus

   the art of a trumpet and the streets overrun by drums

   an ex always in the room

   strangers lovingly touch backs to move through the standing room only bar

   a meal shared with friends


I close my eyes for a moment and you ask if something's wrong.

I look through my body my mind and my spirit and say I'm good, my everything is humming.

National Poetry Month - April 2013

Ooh, I'll be attempting to add a new poem each day in April, in celebration of National Poetry Month. Starting Monday you can see my attempts right here!

Crossed fingers
if the spirit is willing
wish me luck

lordlordlordlordlordlord

(I have trouble with commitment.)



http://www.napowrimo.net/

National Poetry Month

April marks National Poetry Month and some sites and spaces are offering poetry daily. I like that idea but thought I'd look for poetry in unexpected places.

Some of those listed will be "recognized" poems, others are found or created poems (by me or others).

Poetry, I think, is the best of written arts - it doesn't have to explain everything - doesn't have to have excuses (though often carries many) and charms, entertains, awakens and educates all in one breath.

Here are some National Poetry Month links:

poets.org
knopf press/poetry
npm events in san antonio

Use this month as an excuse to say more than you should, to be messy but lyrical in your delivery, to not hold back. Use this as a time to close your eyes but see everything.

all the best,
jo

April 30 : Jolene (2 ways) by Dolly Parton and Ray Lamontagne

I have always loved Dolly Parton. I used to hang out at Azul, my once haunt in Austin, and Joel, a barista there would play old records. We spoke secretly of our mutual major crush on Dolly as he spun her albums.

Well, in listening to BBC's Radio 2, I came across Ray Lamontagne's new single, Jolene, was taken back to the first song with that name. They seem to go together - Dolly begging a woman not to take her man and Ray talking about how this woman's undone him at the core. Seems Jolene's still at it. These are as poetry examples? Well, of course! Narrative poetry is the best and just as Helen of Troy began a war, Jolene transformed the two who wrote about her. This is poetry's goal.

Dolly's contribution:

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him just because you can.

Your beauty is beyond compare,
With flaming locks of auburn hair,
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green.

Your smile is like a breath of spring;
Your voice is soft like summer rain,
And I cannot compete with you, Jolene.

He talks about you in his sleep,
An' there's nothing I can do to keep,
From crying when he calls your name, Jolene.

And I can easily understand,
How you could easily take my man,
But you don't know what he means to me, Jolene.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him just because you can.

You could have your choice of men,
But I could never love again.
He's the only one for me, Jolene.

I had to have this talk with you:
My happiness depends on you,
And whatever you decide to do, Jolene.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him even though you can.Jolene. ( Jolene.)

Ray's contribution:

Cocaine flame in my bloodstream
Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes in the early morning rain
Lately my hands they don't feel like mine
My eyes been stung with dust, I'm blind
Held you in my arms one time
Lost you just the same Jolene I ain't about to go straight

It's too late I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze on my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans

Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means Jolene
Ah, La, La, La, La, La Jolene

Been so long since I seen your face or felt a part of this human race
I've been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do Jolene I ain't about to go straight
It's too late I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans

Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means Jolene
La, La, La, La, La, La, La Jolene La, La, La, La, La, La, La Jolene

April 29 : All She Wrote by Harryette Mullen

Forgive me, I’m no good at this. I can’t write back. I never read your letter. I can’t say I got your note. I haven’t had the strength to open the envelope. The mail stacks up by the door. Your hand’s illegible. Your postcards were defaced. Wash your wet hair? Any document you meant to send has yet to reach me. The untied parcel service never delivered. I regret to say I’m unable to reply to your unexpressed desires. I didn’t get the book you sent. By the way, my computer was stolen. Now I’m unable to process words. I suffer from aphasia. I’ve just returned from Kenya and Korea. Didn’t you get a card from me yet? What can I tell you? I forgot what I was going to say. I still can’t find a pen that works and then I broke my pencil. You know how scarce paper is these days. I admit I haven’t been recycling. I never have time to read the Times. I’m out of shopping bags to put the old news in. I didn’t get to the market. I meant to clip the coupons. I haven’t read the mail yet. I can’t get out the door to work, so I called in sick. I went to bed with writer’s cramp. If I couldn’t get back to writing, I thought I’d catch up on my reading. Then Oprah came on with a fabulous author plugging her best selling book.

April 28 : May Day by Phillis Levin

I've decided to waste my life again,
Like I used to: get drunk on
The light in the leaves, find a wall
Against which something can happen,

Whatever may have happened
Long ago—let a bullet hole echoing
The will of an executioner, a crevice
In which a love note was hidden,

Be a cell where a struggling tendril
Utters a few spare syllables at dawn.
I've decided to waste my life
In a new way, to forget whoever

Touched a hair on my head, because
It doesn't matter what came to pass,
Only that it passed, because we repeat
Ourselves, we repeat ourselves.

I've decided to walk a long way
Out of the way, to allow something
Dreaded to waken for no good reason,
Let it go without saying,

Let it go as it will to the place
It will go without saying: a wall
Against which a body was pressed
For no good reason, other than this.