Reorganizing, updating, changing

I've decided to really change up this particular blog of mine - originally I wanted to use it for poetry specifically, but I've found that I want more freedom to use the keyboard for more than just poems. Sometimes, I need less form.

So now this will most likely turn into a blog for general life musings, and the occasional polished piece. We'll see what happens.

Sorry for the lack of publishing on this as of late, but this has been under construction/almost deleted. Let's get these hands writing again, shall we?

Elegy for Grace Paley

I.

The day of her death was not a dark cold day:
It was the end of summer, and the roads leaked
heat by noon because of the dewy night
and the humid morning.

The town was crowded, and sidewalks full;
pigeons congregated on the corner of Main and Railroad
not doing anything, but you would have noticed them.

You meddled with the mundane, the simple,
yet the voices of thousands bubbled
up through the ink and they spoke
their silences; you used that pen of yours

the black one, as if it were your third lung; you used it to collect
all the life you could. You used it because you knew
you had to. But it doesn’t matter, because few speak
your name; the pigeons don’t care if you notice them.

The sun pulled sweat
from our foreheads that day,
as on every other August day.
You slid from the world quietly,

and the shift in the balance was delicate,
too fine to notice.

II.

What is left, before yielding
to the bitter autumn air,
is a sweetness on the tip of your tongue
when you suck in the last of the summer humidity:
A tender, simple aftertaste.
you can miss it if you breathe
too quickly, and swallow too harshly.
Grace caught the seasons
In her mouth, and mulled
them slowly, savoring each taste
so that she wouldn’t miss a thing
offered to her in this world,
so she would learn to love it all.

Rewrite

Rewrite of Growth


Growth

Well I can see you now,
eyes closed and arms full
of flowers, still dripping dirt,
roots lolling around your fingers,
as I look out through the kitchen window.

You told me the names of the flowers once,
but I can never recall them,
and I suddenly have the urge to ask
you what they are,
because I don’t want to keep forgetting.

Your glasses have slid
down your nose just a bit,
and it makes you appear much older
(perhaps older than I’d like
to admit you are).
I can see your mouth open,
sighing with the strain of age,
as you stand to survey your work.

You take a breath, eyes gazing,
a sense of accomplishment draped
across your squinting eyes, and your half-open mouth.

I can see you now
lean the rake against the tree,
the sun dipping into the mountains behind you,
and I commit this image to memory, because I am terrified
that one day I’ll forget it.

Rewrite

(Welcome to the world of poetry - rewrites are absolutely necessary. The next couple of entries will be rewrites of poems I've already posted. I'm sure you'll see more versions in the future).

Rewrite of Raspberries


My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory is picking raspberries.
Vines enveloped the fence
in a deep green net;
Fat, bubbly berries sprinkled
across the faded wood.
For hours I rolled them across my palms,
leaving tracks of crimson and vermilion.
I bit their waxy surfaces, pursed my lips
and twisted my tongue around the tart pulp.
I never actually liked raspberries,
but I imaged myself layered behind petticoats
and lace, picking berries in a garden
from centuries before.

Skimming Stones

She feels the cool against her palm,
The weight upon her fingertips.
Somewhere a leaf falls.

Her foot breaks
The fragile leaves beneath her,
Fracturing dried veins,
Crushing soft pine needles.
The crack and snap
Echo through the trees
Reaching through the air.
Wind envelopes the newly fallen reds
And oranges, bearing
The leaves through the maze of brambles and branches.

Her hair cuts
Across her forehead and cheek,
Now pink with surfacing blood vessels.
She pulls her flannel around her,
The red plaid melting
With her surroundings.

The river water runs
Slowly gurgling and bubbling
Across gravel and sand,
Leaking into a lake: a crudely cut
Shelf of glass.

Flicking her wrist, she releases
The stone.
It slides through her fingers
That twitch to cling
To smooth, cold surface
As if it carries her life.
It stone breaks the glass,
Shattering the smooth surface.

The wind picks up.
Somewhere a leaf falls.

Raspberries

The earliest memory
I have is picking raspberries
off the fence in my backyard.
I remember the wooden boards towering
over me, covered in deep green vines
creeping over the wood like hands,
like fingertips
(they covered
The fence in a green net).
Raspberries sprinkled the fence,
fat and red.
Their bubbly, waxy surfaces fascinated me,
and I rolled the berries between my fingers,
around my smooth palms.
The juice would leave tracks on my hands:
tiny trails of pink and red,
(as if I were painting
and my hands were my canvas).
I’d bite down on the berries
and purse my lips
(my nose would wrinkle, too)
as the sour juice burst into my mouth.
I rolled
and twisted my tongue
munching on the fleshy mush,
biting occasionally on the tiny seeds.
I’d stand in the sun
for hours plucking
berries off the fence,
holding them in my hands,
in my mouth
in my cheeks.
I never actually liked raspberries,
(But I always imagined myself layered
behind petticoats and lace,
picking berry
after berry,
in a courtyard from centuries
before my time,
like the fairy tales
I saw in movies).

And Suddenly There is a Shift

It was a gray day:
Clouds drifting in and out
of each other.
The sunlight peeked through the masses
every once in awhile to let us all know
that it was still there.
I blink as a knock invades
the quiet chatter in the room,
Three doctors:
2 men
1 woman
walk in, smiling
their starched white coats
hang loosely around their waists.
I fake a smile and wave.
As soon as his eyes move onto the mechanical bed
My face droops back into my disconnected stare.
My eyes trace the wires
lolling around her bed,
twisting in and out of each other like snakes.
Her white sheets wrapped haphazardly
across the mattress.
The IV buzzes and a few droplets
of clear fluid fall into the plastic tube
that twirled in and out of the air,
leading down
down
down
to her hand, wrapped in gauze,
hiding the needle resting inside her vein
pumping the fluid slowly
into her resting body.
I run my eyes along her hand,
transparent skin resting atop weak muscles.
Her face, suddenly frail and small
stares up at the doctor
worry and confusion draped across her eyes.
The bed hums as it shifts the weight
distribution.
She holds her hands atop her stomach,
shaking, but only slightly.
She juts her jaw out and claims there are options,
pushing the tears back from her eyes,
looking sternly at the man who's unraveling her fate.
My eyes catch his,
and then I fall back to her,
then to the small table:
a half eaten bag of Fritos,
her address book,
several duly colored brochures --
"Coping with Cancer," among other catchy slogans.
I drift in and out of the conversation,
not yet saying a word
but thinking only how much I can't stand
to see this happen
right before me.
To stand back and watch the sands of time fall before my face
with no control
no decision
nothing
nothing
nothing but memories.
As anger intrudes my silent thoughts
a loud beep breaks my trance,
and I jump slightly and look for the source.
The male doctor excuses himself and shifts the weight in the room,
leaving. His white coat fluttering
with his quick steps.
I glance over at my mother,
her face pale,
and she seems as weak as my grandma
flailing against the hands of time slapping us in the faces.
The bed groans as she moves her feet, only a few inches.
She fiddles with her nails, perfectly rounded, even, healthy.
Gauze and tape trample her well aged hands.
I look down at my hands, like hers.
I have her hands,
her blood coursing through my veins, hidden
but only because of youth.
The doctor holds her hand and smiles,
and we thank the doctors,
and slip away again as the door slides shut
and their mumbled voices float further away.