Ten Final Poems

Arrest in the Garden
Driving to Tucson
Family
eating poison
Birth
Winter Cliffs
Rooster Waking
Black Mold
After Jessica's "Winter Sun"
On Joyce Crissman's "On the Steps of St. Paul"

Arrest in the Garden

Arrest in the Garden

he says he is the one

take him

he is the one we have

come to take

orders given

we obey

taking the healing man

away

Who will let them see

Who will let them walk

he is the only one left

to let them

just this man

and when he says

"I am he"

we fall

to our knees

try to bury

our swords

Out of Roses: Art Gallery Poem

As rose petals fall from my eyes

I come into a world fuzzy with

the heady scent of illuminated images.

I'm breathing in a land of loose

definition, a land where colors

surround me, fill me, drive deep

into orifices once blackened

with the soot of a charcoal existence.

Coming out of the roses

and I'm new, renewed, infused

with a blurred vision that will

come to dull focus only when I

decide to leave this field.

Driving to Tucson

It's March and the rows of pecan trees we pass
are dry as the sandy ground. They stand,
unnatural dark pillars in a flat land of desert scrub.
Nothing else here comes above my waist.

We pass a train going east, we head west,
speeding 80 down Interstate 10, the semis
like old men carrying packs walk slower
while our young strangely fit 15-passenger van
sprints past reaching for more road.

Shouldn't it be impossible to move this
many miles in one day? My feet would take
weeks. My breathe and stomach can't catch up.
This hard asphalt knifes, dividing the
desert floor with a long trail of tar.

I want to stand on a distant mesa and become
part of the air, part of the wind that has been trying
mightily for hours to blow us off the road
and place our feet back onto its dusty kin.

Two Easter Poems

Arrest in the Garden
he says he is the one
take him
he is the one we have
come to take
orders given
we obey
taking the healing man
away

Who will let them see now
Who will will let them walk

no one left
just this man
he says
"I am he"
and we fall
to our knees
try to bury
our swords
in the sand


Rooster Crowing
i won't betray
not me
you said i will
not me
not me
i won't betray you
not me
not me
not me

sounds at dawn
i weep

Family

Memory from future
and past guides
her thoughts;
her steps
dance
into
history
and
time
where
fibers,
bones,
sinews,
energies
sing within a
once dormant body.

eating poison

down
drain
down
swirling
lye
corrodes
pipes

Birth

On adjacent hilltops two deer stand firm.
Doe eyes and buck eyes, a valley's distance
separating two unknowing parents.
Two animals who together knew how
life and life dialogue, create anew,
craft light smaller and bigger than themselves.
And hair, hooves quiver inside, delighted
within the common effort of parents.

Beautiful kicking, soft on stomach's side,
reminds me that I sustain joyous life,
joyous because this life is able to
accept love from two who love each other,
from two who knew pieces of themselves could
dwell in womb mystery, in holy cave.

Winter Cliffs

Like standing in the English Channel, looking
back at Dover's shore, chalky white limestone
topped with green hair, with dark trees.
But here the water is fresh and in tiny
flakes halfway between ice and liquid,
flowing between the old corn stalks
of a western New York field.

Here the cliffs are lower, a range remnant
rising up in anonymity; Arnold doesn't write
of these humble hills, but some know
their shape and form, curving tops,
soft embrace of valley--
those in the corn field standing,
in the trees singing,
who sleep nearby in beds of white,
who call this snowy rising theirs.

Rooster Waking

Cracked dry mud walls present
black rooster, alone at dawn
under the brightening sky.

Behind the wood-paneled door
lie sleeping families, soon to meet him
at the point of warmed ground,
at the place of turned soil.

Black Mold

It isn't smart to be here, it isn't safe.
What remains of the second level floor
creaks a warning—don’t come on me,
I’ll break, I’ll give you right through
to the ground floor.

The signs on the locked doors
said something about demolition
but I didn't care because
I didn't read those signs.
I went through an open window.

Black mold, the annoying and hungry
visitor who never left,
tried to remodel,
chomping chunks off the walls,
throwing them up on the floor,
eating through the glue that kept it all together.

And the bathroom on the first floor:
ceiling all in the bathtub, spongy black mass
covering the floor, the smell moist, acrid,
the toilet seat up and the toilet bowl
painted in human waste tones,

and there a pink loofah sponge hanging
on the tub faucet, a pink disposable razor
resting on the porcelain edge, there because
a bathing woman once stepped out to grab
a forgotten towel, and her visitor decided
to use the soapy bathwater.

I can't leave such a delicious
scene of ruin, a house exposed,
a place where people I knew once lived.

Life Muscles

Tha-thump

Free heart,
a pulse
of blood
and gift,
is wrapped,
in ribs,
in skin,
and breath.

Tha-thump
Tha-thump

Two drums,
two notes
connect
to form
one sound,
one line,

one raw

duet.

Tha-thump
Tha-thump
Tha-thump

After Jessica's "Winter Sun"

Winter Sun

The sun
Hidden behind a cloud.
You can look straight into it, a blank
White eye.

After Jessica's "Winter Sun"

I told myself to look at the obvious:
          the lines on my palms,
          the palms holding possibilities,
          the fingers grasping keys,
and those keys unlocking the
prison walls I thought
could somehow save my
little soul.

And so I'm
looking
looking
looking
with my blind eyes closed.

Gossip Subject

I have a fictional life
that I didn't even get to
enjoy pretending I live;
you wove a life of
new tales and told
everyone
of their truth.

Now I'm losing who I am
in the fog of someone not
me, wondering if I did
all those cruel things you
told everyone I did.
And all this while I've
hidden crying in
the closet.

On Classmates' Poems

Twilight Trees

Dark branches, vascular in the failing light;
roots reaching down, deep into the sky.

On Jim Vitale's "Twilight Trees"

exhalation, seeds into the air.
inhalation, birds into my lungs.
exhalation into sky.
inhalation into soil.
sky into soil, soil into sky
and the tree growing from
my heart breathes both ways.

On the steps of St. Paul

Moldy crackers scattered for pigeons,
Stripped flesh consumed.

On Joyce Crissman's "On the steps of St. Paul"

Resurrected body from the tomb
but the strips of flesh still line
the steps of St. Paul's,
daily reminders for the
pilgrims coming to coo prayers,
pigeons massing for a cracker
that's moldy only because
they let faith idle in the damp
basements of their hands.

Imagist Poems

Bucket
Even after rain,
a bucket with a hole
is still empty

They Couldn't Salvage Anything
A house burning
is a home on fire.

Winning the Lottery
Getting struck by
lightening or
a tornado,
but nice.

My Skin Absorbing
Sitting in a red clay mud pit,
in a bucket of lumpy paint.

Snowfall
Glitter falling from an upset craft project.
Walking home at night through light snowfall.

Legal Stimulant
Addicted to joe, that's
one tasty cup of sludge.
Falling toward a black hole,
toward another dimension.

Paragraph to Poem, Exercise 2

Romantic Getaway for the Feast of St. Valentine

She’ll be so overwhelmed
with the décor.

Glowing red of the EXIT
sign over the doors matches
the bright red of the cardboard
hearts, hanging eight in number
from the black ceiling.

The love continues:

Gleaming red heart
tinsel hugs the door
handles, lines the edge
of the shelf, bleeds onto the
large black counter, decorates
the bulky, gray cash register.

Spread more love:

Three glittery hearts,
half the size of my palm;
One sits cheerfully on
top of the cash register,
one waves from the top
of a pastry case, one
tries to disguise itself
as a straw, nestled with
the slender plastic tubes
wrapped in fragile white
paper.

I’m sure you’ll get another date.

Name on the Back of a Black-and-White Photograph

 The curly script on the back

of this grainy photograph

says your name

was Mary Christian. But

what is behind

faded graphite?

Did you always wear your hair

piled up in stylish do

like in this portrait?

Did you marry? Did you

sing? Did you pass on your

famous shepherd’s pie recipe?

Mary, if I said your name out

loud, imploring quietly, would

you hear, would you sigh,

would you say

“I’m here”?

Maybe I’d be crazy,

expecting your reply.

But maybe I’d be lucky to

hear you from someone

else’s lips.

The girl,

the girl two feet from me,

sitting at this café. Perhaps

she is your great-granddaughter,

she has your hazel eyes.

She gets up and says

“Excuse me,” as she bumps

into my chair. She’s going home

to open cupboards, make

your shepherd’s pie.

I see you embracing over a

steaming plate.

A Prayer

Close my mouth, stop

my voice—it cannot

fulfill expectation.

Take your fingers

and hold my tongue—

it moves in unholy rhythms.

Halt my pen, erase

its ink—it wheels

too freely.

Unless

I speak for you,

inhibit my faculties. Unless

I uncover a truth, press

to my lips a hot coal.

Mover of mountains, I say

move the mass that

pins me.

Feel the Love

The floor, filled with eighteen little round tables that are each surrounded by two or three chairs, resembles a maze. People must weave and squeeze through the chairs to reach a resting point. The glowing red of the EXIT sign over the double-door of glass matches the bright red of the cardboard hearts that hang eight in number from the black ceiling. Red ribbons tied to the hearts hang from white hooks. The love continues: gleaming heart tinsel hugs the bar handles on the glass doors and decorates the edge of the middle shelf of a white bookcase that sits just right of the door. The bookcase is a hutch, cabinets and a small counter under two shelves. The counter and shelves display products like coffee, tea, and travel mugs, which make great gifts. Six empty glass canisters sit in two rows of three on the very top of the hutch. They are large, probably able to hold several pounds of coffee beans. But the festive heart tinsel doesn't stop on the shelf. It bleeds from the other side of the doors as well, onto the large black counter that inhabits the entire left end of the room. It decorates the bulky, gray cash register, complimenting the bigger glittery hearts, numbering three, that spread more love. One sits cheerfully on top of the cash register, right above the screen that flashes the amount you owe. Another heart waves from the top of a pastry case. On the other end of the black counter mass, the last heart tries to disguise itself as a straw, nestling itself with the slender plastic tubes wrapped in fragile white paper in a clear plastic container that sits on top of the counter.

Is there a more romantic getaway for your Valentine? Why consider the other options on this campus? Bring your girl here, and she’ll be so overwhelmed with the decor, I’m sure you’ll get another date.

Paragraphs into Poems

In reworking the paragraph about Peggy Clevenger, I attempted to suggest that although Peggy seemed a nuisance to the “Pineys,” what ultimately happens to her (at least what is implied) is surprising and cruel. Did the Pineys steal her gold, lock her in her cabin, and burn her alive? I wanted that to be a possible conclusion from reading the poem. When reading the paragraph, I was most drawn to the sentences about gold and thought bookending the poem with the references to gold could be a nice framework, which could put words such as greed and revenge in the back of the reader’s mind while reading the rest of the poem. The middle portion, containing the two instances of the rabbit and lizard, complicate Peggy’s image. She was bothersome, but did she deserve to die and her gold stolen? I hope that my poem asks this question.

About twice as long in length, the second paragraph allows more potential for differing interpretations. Is Charlie’s son Jim a picker who oversees or just an overseer? I think the answer to that question influences how the reader interprets the old picker who gives the tickets back to Charlie. Will Jim turn in those tickets to earn himself some cash or are those tickets for giving out to the other workers? Regardless, the old picker acts honestly when he could have claimed the tickets as his own. I wanted the picker’s honesty to be the main thrust of the poem, but I don’t think I did a good job. It doesn’t flow in the way I envisioned. If I were to revise the poem, I would try to cut out some of the description, painting a more immediate image of the inside of the packing house and the interaction between Charlie and the old picker. I ended the poem strangely by mentioning the line waiting for the outhouse on purpose, but I’m not sure if I succeeded in my decision. I wanted to suggest that, like waiting in line to go to the bathroom, the whole scene is mundane.

Paragraphs into Poems: "The Witch of Pine Barrens" and "The Pickers"

The Witch of Pine Barrens

(version one)

The Pine Barrens once

had their own particular

witch. Pineys put salt

over their doors to

discourage visits from

the Witch of the Pines,

Peggy Clevenger.

It was known that

she could turn herself

into a rabbit, for a dog

was once seen chasing a

rabbit and the rabbit

jumped through the

window of a house, and

there—in the same instant,

in the window—

stood Peggy Clevenger.

On another occasion, a

man saw a lizard and

tried to kill it by crushing it

with a large rock. When the rock

hit the lizard, the lizard

disappeared and Peggy

Clevenger materialized on

the spot and smacked

the man in the face.

Clevenger is a Hessian name.

Peggy lived in Pasadena,

another of the now vanished

towns, about five miles east of

Mt. Misery. It was said

that she had a stocking

full of gold. Her remains

were found one morning in

the smoking ruins of

her cabin, but there was no

trace of the gold.

The Witch of Pine Barrens

(version two)

It was said

that she had a stocking

full of gold— Peggy

Clevenger, their

own particular witch.

Over their doors, they

put salt to discourage

her visits.

A dog once chased

a rabbit and the rabbit

jumped through the window

of a house.

And there Peggy stood, in

the same instant, in

the window.

It was known

that she could turn herself

into a rabbit.

A man saw a lizard and

tried to kill it, crushing

it with a large rock. When

rock hit lizard the

lizard disappeared

And Peggy materialized

and smacked the man

in the face.

One morning her

remains were found

in the smoking ruins of

her cabin—there

was no trace of the

gold.

The Pickers

 (version one)

We had come to a clearing where thousands

of blueberry bushes grew. In the center of it was

the packing house—a small, low building with open

and screenless windows on all sides. In front of it

was a school bus marked “Farm Labor Transport.”

The driver stood beside his bus. He was a tall and

amiable-looking man, with bare feet. He wore

green trousers and a T-shirt. The end of the

working day had come. Pickers were

swarming around a pump—old women, middle-aged

men, a young girl. A line was waiting to use

and outhouse near the pump.

Inside the packing house, berries half an inch

thick were rolling up a portable conveyor belt

and, eventually, into pint boxes.

Charlie’s sister was packing the boxes.

Charlie’s daughter-in-law was putting cellophane over them.

And Charlie’s son Jim was supervising the operation.

Charlie picked up a pint box in which berries were

mounded high, and he told me with disgust that

some supermarket chains knock off these mounds

of extra berries and put them in new boxes, getting

three of four extra pints per twelve-box tray.

At one window, pickers were turning in tickets

of various colors, and they were given cash in

return. One picker, who appeared to be at least

in his sixties, tapped Charlie on the arm and showed

him a thick pack of tickets held together with a rubber band.

“I found these,” the man said. “They must

have fallen out of your son’s pocket.” He gave

the packet to Charlie, who thanked him and

counted the tickets. Charlie said, “These tickets

are worth seventy-five dollars.”

Getting Tickets

(version two)

The packing house—a small, low building with

open and screenless windows on

all sides stood in a clearing where

thousands of blueberry bushed grew. In front was

a school bus marked “Farm Labor Transport.”

The driver stood beside his bus and pickers

were swarming around a pump and

the end of the working day had come.

Inside the packing house, half-an-inch-thick

berries were rolling up a conveyor belt and into

pint boxes, and Charlie’s sister was packing the

boxes, and Charlie’s daughter-in-law was putting

cellophane over them, and Charlie’s son was

supervising the operation.

Picking up a pint box, berries mounded on

top, Charlie told me that some supermarket chains

knock off the mounds on top and put them in

new boxes and get three or four extra pints, and

Charlie told that me with disgust.

And one picker at least in his sixties tapped

Charlie on the arm and showed him a thick

packet of tickets held together with a

rubber band and the man said,

“I found these.

They must have fallen out of your son’s pocket,”

and he gave the packet to Charlie, and

Charlie thanked him and counted the tickets.

At one window, pickers were turning in tickets of

various colors, and they were given cash in return.

“These tickets are worth seventy-five dollars,”

Charlie said. Outside, a line was waiting to

use an outhouse near the pump.