Emotional Anarchists

I never dreamed over Baby Alive
Or Tender Love that I would,
For real, in the future. 

Nappies, leaking nipples,
The whole lot of it - not for me.
In my imagined future

I lived with cats only,
And books, in the creepy,
Peeling Victorian that had never
Been painted or repaired.

Sure, I would welcome neighborhood kids,
Those not too scared of the old poet on the hill,
For cookies and conversation. No,
"Get out of my yard!" from me.

And yet, here they are,
Unhinged and 
All I think about. 

That Is What We Learn About Poetry

(for Muriel Rukeyser)

At the end
        of this unit, what
will they know?  Words to 
                                 ferry forward

into the Ocean, salty and 
         wild. The life their feet
may plunge into or wade
          so slowly that the needle

cold punctures the pores
           of  defenseless ankles. 
Once paralyzed, they will not
                     glide out and away. 

Hold on to these words, I 
         want to instruct them. 

You are not a desk at Google 
          or the crap 
you sell. There is an abundance

inside you. The profit
         only for you and 
                   that interior
room, cozy candles
       and dreams
that will matter
            even after you are dead. 

   

Packed Up, Gone

They do not use the fairgrounds 
For fairs anymore; at least not
In Plymouth. The humiliation

And the thrill of my carnie
Stepfather stuck at the top
Of a clumsily assembled ferris wheel. 

How he, tall and Abe Lincoln-like,
Southern drawl, would get me
Onto rides for free. Brag 
About me to the others with dirt

Packed finger nails, Marlboros
In denim shirt pockets. He did not live
With us anymore at that turn,

And I was glad to have that violence
Out of the house. But I borrowed it late summer,
For Tilt-a-Whirl wildness and popped balloons.

Embarrassed by his bravado,
But willing to tap it guilt free
For all he'd wrought. 

Snow in Summer

A Golden Shovel after Ruth Stone

Grief does not take the
Seasons into consideration. Miniature
Sadnesses and grand daggers
of doom hang
in 
the 
air.

Hummingbirds flutter over ice.

We cannot stop them entering
Our conversations or the
Dreams that land, wild,
in the night. I wake, a furnace
Under my pajamas. Of 
This, men know nothing. The
Curse of us a secret on the flower's
Lips and heart. 

Lines from Ruth Stone’s “Hummingbirds” published in Ordinary Words, Paris Press, 1999, Ashfield, MA.

"The miniature dagger hangs in the air,
entering the wild furnace of the flower's heart."

New Book

How silly to believe, we all,
That a turned page equals
A fresh start. Unless, of course,
You rip it all out and apart -
  
  Like the earthquake
  Hitting Japan, setting off
  Tsunamis once again - 

Just after years of calm 
Seas have tricked us
Into ignorance once more. 

This year’s New Year’s Day poem posted a little late.

There May Be a Mass Shooting Up the Road, so I Go Xmas Shopping at Marshall’s

Indigo glow and loud,
Warnings - spinning
Catherine wheels.
Up up up
The street I wait
To cross. 

What danger now?

I cannot feel,
Nor care,
About the body,
Drippy on the floor
of the State Hospital;

Bleeding out
A Crimson Tide.

A suicide
Unwanted but guaranteed
The day he signed his
Name on the line. 

9/11 Bumper Sticker

We are commanded to remember -
The missile birds crashing,
Like some sinister animation,
And the bodies, tumbling,
Most un-cartoon like, from rooftops. Gravity
Working as expected. Later,

It all, quite literally, crashing
To the pavement. Folks in suits,
And a storm of ashes streaming to a place no longer. Us, 
Helpless to help in the embrace
Of our classrooms, living rooms,
War rooms. Watching the spectacle
Fold up on Television.

My students, now, 
Born years after that date, 
Have nothing to remember. 

They were not alive

and will never know 
           the freedom of the pre 9/11
cup of coffee or the simple joy 
of the Power Rangers saving the day. 

Anyone Who

has been in therapy knows,
          talking is a steady way
                toward healing.

Obviously, those 
          benefiting in an unwell world

change rules, 
           make it illegal to converse -

deny the salve
            to sooth us all. 

Conversations as We Die

The waning days are happening.
You hit certain numbers,
Some parts sag, others
Wrinkle. Your parents
Are dead or dying or
In some sort of treatment, and

We can only laugh 
About it over designer pizza
And local crafted IPAs. 

It always happens - and we,
Gen X,
Should have known we would not be spared,
Despite our John Hughes childhoods.

That even Ferris Bueller will break
The fourth wall again. This time,
To say goodbye. 

S.E.W.

Here’s a little doggerel to get you through the day.

I am doing a lot of shit
To keep myself from losing it;
Poems in the morning, start me right,
After waking several times throughout the night.

Coffee poured into a large mug,
When I notice no one has vacuumed the rug.
But light three candles on the coffee table,
The flickers remind me, I am able

To breath deep, like my Watch reminds me;
To leave abuse and pandemics behind me.
Yoga, spin class, barre, and weights
Keep me moving and feeling great. 

Well, great is too strong a word,
For this blind-folded walk through life.
Just keep swimming
And avoiding the knife.