Wreath of Roses

I used stems to hold them in my hair,
the red of roses balanced there
to fire a fever in my head
a senseless sleeping, loved instead

Of you, a pool of glossy surface,
silent as some deathly circus
where all is mud and lily root--
cold lips to do what kiss can do

When offered with such artful lack
to turn my wreath of roses black.
______

For Karin's "artifice" challenge at Real Toads, which gave me the poem I needed to go with the image for Mag 301. Image by Ed Ross.

Note to my readers: comment moderation is now enabled. 

Raccoon

Hello dear readers. I am taking a break from posting and stuff. Until then, this raccoon will entertain you.

Early Evening

There are gardens
on the moon,
bathed in borrowed light.

Below, 
there is Earth,
and you in your kitchen,
boning a chicken.

The chicken awakes here,
stunned and multiplied,
become an eagle.

Look up,
darling of my heart,
preparer of southern concoctions.

You'll see an eagle 
pretending itself bees in profusion,
telling love to the flowers

in gardens 
on the moon.
_____

 

Chanson Pour Les Voyageurs

They slumped dead in their soup, those Canadian Frenchmen,
Their hearts stopped like cheap clocks
by the winter
or the wet
or the notions some men get...

Down from them came my grandfather, the one I never knew--
The thing to do, it seemed to him,
was to take a Native wife--
The one who bore him twins, then
went mad,
went dodgy, foggy,
like summer grain gone bad.

The institution did what they could for her, the rest of her life--
The alcohol did what it could to him, with no wife and two boys
dark of hair
dark of eye
until the day he died.

And so now, here I am, a seed blown down from northern winds,
An island of French Canada and New York state,
in love,
as my grandfather was,
with the midnight moon.

There are no islands where you are from, and so mine has come to you.
What I really long to do is to stripe
color across your cheeks,
your shoulders, your thighs--
to paint a hand print on your pony
and a circle around her eye.

Pretend I am prairie, though I am snow and river ice.
Lay yourself soft across me and I will gather you like a willow,
murmuring something you can't quite catch
in French,
which means:
God is a madwoman after all, but as sweet as nickel candy--
as dark as owl's eyes,
and as beautiful as your hair.
_____

For the Sunday Mini-Challenge at the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, this time hosted by Brendan, who requests that we write about islands. The word "island" is supposed to be in the title, and it was in my working title, but I changed it when I was finished. I hope this does not disqualify me. 

Process notes: Much of the story in this poem is from my actual family history. However, the French-Canadian men with the inherited cardiac condition were on my mother's side. My father's mother divorced his father when he was five years old, in 1917, quite the scandal in those days. He really did marry a Native woman who bore him twin sons, but something happened to her after that and she was never right again. She lived out her days in an asylum. My grandfather became a heavy drinker, a gene that I inherited, though I have been able to be sober now for thirty years. My father told me that, when he went back to upstate New York for his father's funeral, everyone knew right away who he was, because the family resemblance was so strong. He also said that all the men asked after his mother--my grandmother--who was, it seems, the local beauty. She died when I was two, so unfortunately, I don't remember her. 

Voici! Mon livre.

 

Wee-Ooh

Can you hear my thoughts?
You ought to be able to,
it ought to be a snap
there's an a app for that
a map for that
don't be an ass for that's the worst thing you could do, I think.

But if you can hear my thoughts,
it's not like you didn't know I was gonna say that
it's so easy
lemon squeezy
let's go crazy it's the sanest thing to do.

And la la la
I can't hear you, all you alien abductors
train conductors
found and fucked 'ers 
spinning around the planets like Super Nobody

La la la, oh
I'm not listening, here in the great midwest
what I like best
what I want to suggest
is that we change the station change the station....

So, can you hear my thoughts?
What did I just dream about?
Do I have to get out
the hand puppets just to make myself clear
and if you don't hear what I haven't said,
it's no use, like shouting at a foreigner, a waste of time I think.
_____ 

For Marian's Music Prompt: Dar Williams. Image at top: Clemence Poesy.

 

An American Girl In The IRA

If I had it to do over again,
I'd wear a stars and stripes bandana over my red hair
and a New York Yankees jacket
honeycomb stitched with dynamite sticks.

I don't really give a damn
about political ends, but I have an ax to grind
and would sharpen it on the queen's neck if I could.
Sean, or Jimmy, or whatever your name is,

show me the street or the face and I'll blast it good.

All I did was sit there and cry, like a Kleenex in a storm drain
last time I was in London.
I've never told anybody the full dig and degree
of your lesson in knifepoint humility.

So now here comes the limousine, 
or the Royals or whatever rat bastard shit the day serves up.
My hands are steady as the moment comes around,
then I'm a red white and blue runner, righteous high

on feet never touching the ground.
_______

for mag #300.

 
 

Mother and Daughter

She said, "Ugly little thing.
Stay put and be quiet. Don't embarrass me."

But the Heavens,
as vast as I was tiny, called to me,
"Little one of mine..."

I flew, and she said,
"You're going to fall,
hard."

Yes, one day I will fall
back into the Goddess's hand,

Wind-blown--
vast and tiny, both.
_______

For Flash 55 at Real Toads. Photograph by National Geographic, available for free download.