37 posts tagged “poetry”

-1-

The girl in the jeans and flannel

Sips coffee in San Francisco

Her husband snapping photos

The pier raging in the background

 

She holds the perfect smile

Like her modeling in New York City

Living out the daydream

Of a long forgotten lifetime

 

A teenager from Kansas City

A divorced father and a mother

And a lover we call her husband

With children coming after down the road.

 

(Chorus)

And I see her in the flannel

I see her when exhausted

I see the wavelength frequency

The crystalline of her posture

 

And I wonder when she breaks free

Waves slipping softly by her

And I wonder when she breaks free

Her arms flapping faster

Toward the shore.

 

-2-

A few years from San Francisco

The lady in the flannel

Loses her brave husband

To divorce and banal weather

 

She looks upon the relics

The vacations and the photos

Sees the perfect fourness

Of her family shaped together

 

Once posing in San Antonio

The piers and harbors fading

With the need for another camera

To tap into the loving

 

To delete the trips of anger

The fights against her lover

With no winner or an answer

Only pages to be turned and turned and turned.

 

(Chorus)

And I see her in the flannel

I see her when exhausted

I see the wavelength frequency

The crystalline of her posture

 

And I wonder when she breaks free

Waves slipping softly by her

And I wonder when she breaks free

Her arms flapping faster

Toward the shore.

 

-3-

But the girl in the jeans and flannel

Looks deeply into the mirror

Sees the gray hairs covered

With golden shapely color

 

The lines beneath her eyelids

Hide her behind the shadows

Of makeup placed near edges

As darkness rages inside her

 

Her body once the cover

Of the magazine and the party

She once walked into the room

Men turning their heads behind her

 

But the control of former glories

Slips into stories of her memory

So she sinks into the mirror

And loses something larger

 

Thirty-four years have passed her

And what can she show us

As she applies her rosy lipstick

And sprays perfume into the solid air.

 

(Chorus)

And I see her in the flannel

I see her when exhausted

I see the wavelength frequency

The crystalline of her posture

 

And I wonder when she breaks free

The waves slipping softly by her

And I wonder when she breaks free

Before she sees the shore.

 

-4-

Let's look into the future

The honor of the mother—

The lady in the flannel—

With her children smiling at her

 

She snaps the photo twice

At her two sons' graduation

She gets the perfect postures

The smiles and silly answers

 

But the long, forbidden questions

The truth of a single mother

Lining up her life's directions

But remembering within her belly

 

The beginning of life's addresses

Her children crawling on the carpet

Blowing their first bubbles

And laughing at their mother's happy voice.

 

(Chorus)

And the lady in the flannel

The lady once exhausted

They know her wavelength frequency

And her crystalline posture

 

They see her in the ocean

Waves slipping softly by her

They know that she is free

Her arms flapping faster

Toward the shore.

 

And they sit beside the beaches

And they listen to her stories

And they throw their arms around her

The flannel and the glory

 

All smiling, smiling, smiling

On the canvas shore.

 

--Moon

The mad sergeant says
in Apocalypse Now,
"I love the smell of napalm
in the morning."
And he skips about
happy and insane.

And our lives are like that--
directionless,
tireless,
worn down to rubber
on burnt tire tread.

and the smoke and thunder
hurling underneath
our breath and terror
spins too out of chaos

until we arrive
in bedroom silence
with our bodies
spooning and glooming
in a tired masterpiece

after Van Gogh's sanity.

The mad sergeant says.
But there are better things
to smell in the morning.

Your breath inhaling my chest.

--Moon

 

Jesus,

On the other hand,

Nevermind my silent prayer last night.

 

I never know my real intent or desires

Next to the darkness of the moon

Going South in my head.

 

Let me explain in common terms.

Each day is a new day rising to the next.

Tomorrow, I want to climb and destroy the world's pain.

 

Today, I just want to sleep away this migraine.

 

child of the earth,

at two,

you played with dirt

and soil

chasing butterflies

across the green lawn

or holding dandelions

in your left hand

as ancient gifts

for your latina mother

 

three months later,

you spent weeks

in country hospitals

doctors laboring

over battle wounds.

the metal dart,

silly toy from the '70s,

tossed by an innocent boy

from an open field

to apple-picking trees,

landed in your tree

and split the bark

of your open cranium.

 

you survived surgeries,

nearly died from penicillin

poisoning,

never walked again

without your bonnet helmet

hiding the hump

beneath your black hair.

 

at two,

you sang the romance

of butterfly dances

springing lightly

in morning-time flowers

but at three,

your wild imagination

lingered

for hours

in other directions.

 

the hesitation

of anxious feet

watching bumble bees

from a window sill.

 

the mad stinger.

Vegas Wedding

Five Years Ago
We parked the rental
on a Las Vegas Street
and added enough coins
for an hour's fare

found the front door
to a wedding chapel
Elvis Impersonator
with a bad accent

and didn't like the prices
or the cheesy pink,
fake flowers,

so we went to the courthouse
and slapped fifty dollars
on the counter
and got married
by a lesbian woman--
justice of the peace--

and raised our hands
while she read vows
we rarely heard
and said, "I do"
A few times
before we were considered
"official."

You cried during the vows
and my heart sank too
happily for us
but more than that

we laughed
and were satisfied
by the efficiency of it all--

the lack of
romantic
engagement;
no expensive ice sculptures
melting in the background
or busy friends we hadn't seen
in years nor cared to see;

no cramped churches
with fossilized relatives
or the pomp and candles
and three traditional songs
playing on the piano
by the minister's wife,
for whom we would have tipped
fifty dollars and complained later
for her somberness;

no father, whom you hated,
to walk you down the aisle
as I would have waited
impatiently with a full bladder
with bridesmaids and groomsman
lined up with tuxedos and gowns
rented or stiched for god knows
how much forgotteen money
we could have used
for a new car.

we've walked through
that shit before
and now
we left the courthouse
in ten minutes
with a signed certificate
on a hot but dry Vegas evening
at exactly 5:30 pm

returned to the rental car
with the meter saying
fifteen minutes to spare

so I took a picture of it
and then we found
the perfect buffet
serving already opened crablegs
and we consumed the food
and the Vegas lights
and lived happily ever after.

-moon

Belong

my sister,

you belong

south in this city

even when college dreams

and city wrecks

rush you in two directions.

my sister,

you stand strong

in our mexican casa

when other fragrant cultures

blend your heart

toward dissection.

big sister,

you belong like grace

in grande gulfs

as your shoeless feet

in forest blackness

once scraped against

the deep rocks

near Texan borders

to find the maze

that almost led you in

to America.

and you, my brave sister,

in your mother's hands

belonged

when flashing lights

and angry jeeps

shattered your little doll

near your bleeding feet

a few miles from the border.

you belonged

my weakening hero,

between the borders

of the holding room of faith

and the funeral dirge

praying for St. Peter

to find that doll

now abandoned for

another little girl

to find its way home.

but you, while we still

dreamed of being born,

belonged with little toddler eyes

to face the border patrol for us

while their spit and curses

denigrated our father's

freedom.

but visa status

and citizenship

finally belonged to you

after the return

to the Texas homestead

then Indian trails

leading you gladly

toward Oklahoman flatlands

and now,

my strong, happy sister,

between early and late wrecks

and displaced and tender joy,

you rise up

in American flames

and learn how not to hide

your rolling tongue

behind gringo idioms.

for you belong to the city lights

and know that any control

from Mexico or America

may seem like firetruck madness

trying weakly to cool down

the heat of your American Mexicaness.

we both know, my Mexico,

how fire and elbow grease

will burn out the water

any day.

the smoke and fire

stream like fireworks

in Cinco de Mayo midnight air

sending your messages

to others who belong.

I am Cherokee
Adapting to the Trail of Tears
And extending the length
of our alphabet
to succumb to the foreign rule
upon our lands
but also to reserve our band
of tribes
lost beyond the pockets
of this mixed-up skin.

--moon

The beauty of kissing

Your mistress

Is like a honey bee

Drinking from a dandelion

And dropping like semen

His steadfast pollen

Before entering

The family hive

With little gifts of nectar

Still wrapped in his bellies

Before the worker bees

Stretch out their tongues

Grip his hind legs

And drink the chambers dry

But he escapes

Again to the perfect dandelion.

--moon

I glance across tombstones
In my dreams tonight
And see us there
Lost in this graveyard

Mecca.

Near the mausoleum,

We sit low
In moonlight madness

And know the bugs
Feeding on our arms
Will not reduce the sadness

Nor forge us through
This imagined terrain.
 

Nor will these vines

That climb and protect

The architecture stone

Sustain our darkness,

Unless we first crawl

Beneath the blood

And bone caskets,

Become a seed,

And spread the roots

Through earth caves

Opening to new flowers.

Then, and only then,

Will we kiss the madness
And leap through

The loops and vines

Of garden freshness
Like a night fawn

Quickening
Her escape route.
 

Then, and only then,

Will we strike a match

To bend time,

And coffin ashes

Will rise and flame

Like a black rose