Stones for Michael
and Tammy Jean
You told me
that people were bringing stones
from around the world
for your collection
from the places your 17 year old
would never get to see. I brought
a common, garden rock
a little fresh earth still clung to
from my own backyard
a place my own son--so close
in age to yours who died--no longer
visits but still thrives.
I cried reading your poems
again today. Excruciating elegies and
mother's grief, for both of us.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Spider Lessons for Barbara Southard
Spider Lessons
for Barbara Southard
I asked one of the monks
at the local buddhist center
right in front of a piece
of the original bodhi tree
how to make the little knotted
bracelets they give us
as a reminder of mindfulness.
He pulled out the string
in long draughts of three
gathering tensile
strength in a graceful
orange-robed ballet.
Suddenly I burst out
Spider Lessons! Transformed
I became--all at once--
the little, laughing spider-monk
his mummified cocooned prey
and his shimmering web
in the moonlight
anticipating the sun's dogmatic return.
But who taught the spider his craft?
Spiders don't teach
their young to weave and spin.
They give them life and tools
those that survive learn somehow.
In my vision my little spider-monk
is smiling, laughing, spinning.
for Barbara Southard
I asked one of the monks
at the local buddhist center
right in front of a piece
of the original bodhi tree
how to make the little knotted
bracelets they give us
as a reminder of mindfulness.
He pulled out the string
in long draughts of three
gathering tensile
strength in a graceful
orange-robed ballet.
Suddenly I burst out
Spider Lessons! Transformed
I became--all at once--
the little, laughing spider-monk
his mummified cocooned prey
and his shimmering web
in the moonlight
anticipating the sun's dogmatic return.
But who taught the spider his craft?
Spiders don't teach
their young to weave and spin.
They give them life and tools
those that survive learn somehow.
In my vision my little spider-monk
is smiling, laughing, spinning.
Red Queen Meets the White Queen at an Open Mic on meeting Jane Lecroy
Red Queen Meets the White Queen at an Open Mic
on meeting Jane Lecroy
O! You are a force of nature--
Never start a journey on a full moon
but on a winter's night at the cafe
Lewis Carrolls Red Queen meets
the White Queen
one looking for her child
the other living her life in reverse
at a poetry reading
in Amityville
of all places anti-parenthetical and
anti-poetical
For one night they are
evenly matched
living outside the pages of a book
admire one another's talents
and ambition
share love of poetry
in front of a painting
of the Red Queen
dancing in front of a full moon
by a Pagan Painter and Dancer
and for five minutes
We only get five minutes!!
They are equals and alive
as myths can be
forces of nature
and divine energy
flowing in all 7 directions
The Red Queen
catches a train
back to Washington Heights
back to her teaching job
her computer tech husband
her three children
and her life as domestic goddess
White Queen hops in a white pickup
rides back to the country
both where they do and don't belong
the end and beginning
of the journey
started on a full moon.
on meeting Jane Lecroy
O! You are a force of nature--
Never start a journey on a full moon
but on a winter's night at the cafe
Lewis Carrolls Red Queen meets
the White Queen
one looking for her child
the other living her life in reverse
at a poetry reading
in Amityville
of all places anti-parenthetical and
anti-poetical
For one night they are
evenly matched
living outside the pages of a book
admire one another's talents
and ambition
share love of poetry
in front of a painting
of the Red Queen
dancing in front of a full moon
by a Pagan Painter and Dancer
and for five minutes
We only get five minutes!!
They are equals and alive
as myths can be
forces of nature
and divine energy
flowing in all 7 directions
The Red Queen
catches a train
back to Washington Heights
back to her teaching job
her computer tech husband
her three children
and her life as domestic goddess
White Queen hops in a white pickup
rides back to the country
both where they do and don't belong
the end and beginning
of the journey
started on a full moon.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Kitchen Table Gods
Kitchen Table Gods
after Sacrifice by Mike Krasowitz
I pull a fifty dollar bill
from a donation envelope
out falls two small wooden girls
out falls two small wooden girls
in ceremonial offering.
If you are nice to him you will get $50.
If you are nice to him you will get $50.
She meant only talking
not what the others endured
But Mother, you said
you
hated him and I believed you—
even before I knew the awful truth
of the man you called your father—
what he’d done to all of you.
I took you at your word that he’d
been simply cruel, like you.
My other grandfather
gave pennies to fill a cider jar,
Indian heads for my collection
walked with his dalmation
walked with his dalmation
played cards and checkers--
never once did I fear him.
never once did I fear him.
I didn’t like the way
that crisp new $50 dollar bill felt.
Fifty dirty, wrinkled singles I
earned
babysitting were cleaner, came
without secrets or shame. You said
money had power, but I learned
that this is another lie--
its a tool that can become a weapon
people like you and him
learn to load and shoot.
people like you and him
learn to load and shoot.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Tree of Life
Hello to Blog land this is my virgin blog here goes
yours truly
kelly jean
Tree of Life
With your Michaelangelo hands
you try to imitate the divine inspired by an infinite mind
with concrete convex finite edges.
I introduce myself. Primordial, yet cordial.
Sometimes you bear fruit that tastes of Adam
after the eviction
seasoned with a fallen angel or two
and the end of days
I am Diana I say to a falling, nodding branch
a goddess self contained
you say just wait
you must race Narcissus first
restore Echo her voice
to her own body.
Only friend to a lonely girl
a white swan still in cygnet garb
waiting for her prince
and the tragic russian ending—
she tied a yellow ribbon
in your hair because she heard it in a song
of the time at the crossroads
of Celestial Lane and Farm’s Edge
address of the plane
of man and all his failures
a girl who hid in closets
her grandmother had been locked into
by her faith
for writing with the wrong hand.
You will write with both hands full and a question you tell her--
You will be safe from anger by locking your heart away
by becoming a vessel of unexpressed emotion
gypsy made of old gossamer
curtains and rags
harps of gold and light
buried in your roots
away from a tax on the music
flutes and cellos play ancient songs in the wind
I sought you out--
the size of a thought dancing on the head of a pin
thimbleful of mortality
in my heel where my mother
held me to the fire
like Achille’s mother before her
burning away
my immortality instead
squirrel food half-eaten
half offered to gods of our own making
worshipping
a sky father and earth mother
the others the barbarian Mongol hordes
will poetically call fingers on a hand
yours truly
kelly jean
Tree of Life
With your Michaelangelo hands
you try to imitate the divine inspired by an infinite mind
with concrete convex finite edges.
I introduce myself. Primordial, yet cordial.
Sometimes you bear fruit that tastes of Adam
after the eviction
seasoned with a fallen angel or two
and the end of days
I am Diana I say to a falling, nodding branch
a goddess self contained
you say just wait
you must race Narcissus first
restore Echo her voice
to her own body.
Only friend to a lonely girl
a white swan still in cygnet garb
waiting for her prince
and the tragic russian ending—
she tied a yellow ribbon
in your hair because she heard it in a song
of the time at the crossroads
of Celestial Lane and Farm’s Edge
address of the plane
of man and all his failures
a girl who hid in closets
her grandmother had been locked into
by her faith
for writing with the wrong hand.
You will write with both hands full and a question you tell her--
You will be safe from anger by locking your heart away
by becoming a vessel of unexpressed emotion
gypsy made of old gossamer
curtains and rags
harps of gold and light
buried in your roots
away from a tax on the music
flutes and cellos play ancient songs in the wind
I sought you out--
the size of a thought dancing on the head of a pin
thimbleful of mortality
in my heel where my mother
held me to the fire
like Achille’s mother before her
burning away
my immortality instead
squirrel food half-eaten
half offered to gods of our own making
worshipping
a sky father and earth mother
the others the barbarian Mongol hordes
will poetically call fingers on a hand
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