Green

Spring did not come easy that year
and neither did her happiness.
Both were wrought from cold hard ground,
after having to be tough as nails,
face into belligerent gusts of wind
and relentless rain.

Exhausted they both turned toward the sun
the moment it appeared.
The first bud was strong and sweet
paving the way for full bloom.
Tiny leaves gathered on the branch and
suddenly everything was green.

Untitled

There are places I cannot get to
Unless I leap real high
Cling until my muscles begin to shake
Dig until my fingernails begin to bleed
The truth is hidden in a crevice just out of reach

I once caught two lemons
and with my brave hands
made a martini.
It was shaken, not stirred, and perfect.

Dribbles

These are things that did not become poems:

I used to be able to catch lightening
chase storms as they thundered over the hills
But I am weary now and
Winter is Coming.

******************************************

Time moves slowly due to frost
Even the moon is more tired with the nights so long
No one sits on the damp park bench
The grass forms a carpet of icicles

*******************************************

I once climbed a mound of dirt only
to discover it was a temple.
I kicked a stone and it tumbled down,
terribly unholy.

Ars Poetica

When I was 5, I stole a piece of candy from the grocery store.
When I was 11, with my throat burning, I confessed this sin
to my father, who tilted his head as he looked at me and said,
Why are you telling me this?

Years later I gave birth to my one dear son,
and when I whispered my hopes and dreams
in his ear, he looked at me like my father did.
Now too, I guess, I was not making any sense.

Sometimes, language is insufficient.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer II

Somewhere in Maryland a
young mother is dying.
Down in Houston her mother grieves.
In California her children play together,
as she would have liked had she
lived long enough to see it.

At night sometimes she comes to them,
her smell sweet and familiar,
her hug warm and longed for.
She wraps them tight in memory.

In the morning they say nothing
Afraid someone will tell them it wasn't real.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer I

If you want to know whether life is fair
just look to the young mother dying of cancer.

There is no reason, no rhythm, no why
just grief
and sorrow
and loss
Of hugs
and birthdays
and the future
and hope

They know what we are afraid to admit.
That the only thing this money can't really buy
is more time.

Blackberries

For Allen

My favorite memory will be picking blackberries with you
on the way to Boyle's swimming hole.
The path was well lit and sunny and dusty
like I remembered.
There were no cattails but the reeds were as high as our heads.
Blackberry thorns pricked on both sides.
Ripe fruit was scarce but
I reached into the briars
risking skin and limb because blackberries
are your favorite
and I would do anything for you.

Inheritance 2

If they needed further evidence that our lives matter
they could find it each year at Camp
where I watch Black children of every hue
simply live their joy
seeds expanding into unending potential
kissed by the sun

To know that my son will find refuge
in this place every second week in August
as did I and his grandfather before him
fills me with relief

It is an inheritance of the most precious kind
A place we will always belong

Coastal

It is possible that there are
cliffs like these in other places but
I refuse to believe they are as beautiful.
That anywhere else the sky forms
a more elegant tapestry.
That those other waves crash as symphonically
against such perfectly carved rocks.
That the song the sea foam sings on other shores
is as sweet as the lullaby I hear right now.

The Show

You can pay $18.50 for a ticket to the planetarium 

or you can sit in a field unpolluted by lights 

during the Perseid meteor shower.  

The crickets will narrate 

instead of Morgan Freeman.

The temperature in the theater 

is subject to change without notice

and since the footage is unedited 

your patience is required. 

Still, you can be quite certain 

that the universe extends beyond the ceiling

that the infinity of stars are twinkling in real time and 

that the one you just watched has not already 

been used up on some other person's wish. 

Miss Me A Little

My ego wants to be needed
needs to be wanted
I am facing a fear
It bubbles up from below
I am not longer at the center
at the hub
in the middle of it all
I walked away and they filled my
place and now I am scared the
emptiness didn't hit them
and they won't miss me at all
now that I am gone.
It's my ego speaking, that needs
to be soothed, to feel pity, to
be reassured.
I know I was there and we all want to
leave a piece of ourselves behind
but this world is made of
sand and when the winds blow us away
when the waves wash over
maybe the footprint stays and maybe it disappears
but it doesn't mean you didn't walk
you didn't step
you didn't leave that mark.

Assignment 23: Real Place Poem (Home)

Welcome to Walnut!
The world’s best preserved suburb.
Tract housing birthed in the 80’s still looks fresh and new
from afar.  The wearing wood and fading brick
brightened by trees that never lose their leaves,
not even in winter.

Our strip malls are the best!
A wide variety of restaurants and grocery stores,
car washes, nail salons and shoe repairs.
Our community is diverse -
Have you tried the nachos at the Taco Factory?
Muy autentico!

Perfect for families!
Pristine soccer and baseball fields.
Our parks are so clean -
no crackheads or homeless or
pedophiles or gangbangers or
other unsavory types.

Assignment 22: Imaginary Place Poem

The Wild East

Tumbleweeds roll by the chicken joint.
Vultures pecking at the bones below.
From a saguaro cactus hangs a pair of shoes.
Their barefoot owner remains unknown.

There is only one street leading in and out
The ladies who stand there aren’t proper.
In turquoise fishnets, they entice you to buy.
Come on now, make them an offer.

The general store carries calico and blunts.
The saloon has a special on malt liquor.
The corner boys glare, with suspicious eyes.
Your exit should be much quicker.

Assignment 21: Themed Haiku

Jersey Shore: A Season Three Recap

Jersey Shore summer
Third season of craziness
Trash TV addict.

Come, new girl Deena
Play with the wild drunk Guidos
Go to Karma, dance.

Gym, Tan, Laundry done
Situation on the prowl
Don't fight with Ronnie.

Snooki is so short
Tornado on the dance floor
A whirling dervish.

Jen in sexy chaps
Break up with Tom, girl, so what?
Hot local Roger!

Vinny and Pauly
Work together, get girls and
Stay out of trouble.

Ron and Sam, Oy Ve!
Domestic abuse ensues.
Break up now and cry.

Jersey Shore summer
Lost brain cells will not return.
When is season four?

Assignment 20: Revise an old poem

Temple (Revised 2/2011)

Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are ancient and solid.

From the top my eyes reach
distances hundreds of miles and
thousands of years from here.

Below, the rainforest, la selva.
Llena de arboles, it covers the ground
beneath us like soft, swaying, moss.

Beyond, the lake glimmers beneath a hazy sunset.
It's filled to the shore with crocodiles;
Its shores stretch on and on.

Above, piles of billowy clouds meander
across a deepening sunset sky.  The purple-grey
of a far off rainstorm threatens.

Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.

Their fathers are no longer with us,
but a legacy, built brick by brick,
now lifts me into the sky.

Assignment 19: Sentiment vs. Sentimentality

Inheritance

I don't remember you ever wearing this bracelet.
Don't remember admiring it's smooth exterior,
running my finger along its curve; feeling the Guyanese
rose gold warm as it rested against your paper skin.
Don't remember rolling the two bell shaped ends between my fingers. 
Don't remember squeezing it around your thinning wristbone,
trying to make it tighter as we lay on your bed buying R's on Wheel of Fortune. 
Don't remember it getting caught on your apron (the way it catches my purse straps)
as you sauteed chicken livers for gumbo roux. 

The first fifteen years of me, you were there, then gone.
In your place, this bracelet, the kind of thing you rarely wore
(a gift from your in-laws), but saved away, one for each of your granddaughters
when you died.  It's presence in my life a result of your absence. 
I have worn it every day since then; I never take it off.
They will remember me wearing it before I pass it on.

Assignment 18: Find old Poems

These are poems I wrote on my 2007 trip to Guatemala.  At one point I put pictures with them.

Templo

From the top of a templo

I see
the rainforest, la selva
llena de arboles
covering the ground below
like soft, swaying, moss.

I see
The lake, glimmering beneath a hazy soft sunset
And filled to the shore with crocodiles
Stretches on and on.

I see
piles of billowy clouds meandering in el cielo and
the purple-grey of a far off rainstorm threatening
To join us.

Yaxha, Tikal, La Blanca.
The stones beneath my feet
are thousands of years old.
Their fathers no longer with us
A legacy built brick by brick
now lifts me into the sky.

From the top of a templo

my eyes reach distances
hundreds of miles
and thousands of years
from here.

Ruinas

In the U.S. when something is
old
and ruined
we fix it like
new
or we tear it down
Here
they plant flowers and fruit trees around its existence
leaving
holes,
cracks,
and wounds
centuries deep to heal in the sun
How kind to appreciate something
for what it has been through
as well as what it once was.

Agua

Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
with its swath of clouds
covering its top like a veil
except on clear days
Madre gallina to little chickens
My constant companion
making sure I am never lost.

Out the window, over the rooftops
Always watching
stands Volcan Agua
proof that the earth moves and breathes
beneath us, despite ourselves.

Provecho!

In America, I am running late for work
In Guate, I am always late to eat.
Desayuno, Almuerzo, y Cena
Almuerzo, lunch, the most important one.
Bowls of pepian, tacos chapines, and moles
squish onto my plate with platanos, tomates, pepino,
yucca, patate, arroz, y frijoles.
All waiting to be wrapped
 in fresh hand pressed tortillas made just that hour
as the sound of women slapping maize dough in their hands
echoes down the street
Ana Beatriz, my senora, shops at the market
walking down dusty rows where our Mayan neighbors,
come down from the pueblos, sit and sell
the brightest carrots, the juiciest jalenpenos,
and the brightest tomatoes I have ever seen.
Giant bags of spices all shades of red, brown, and yellow
beckon: smell, touch, buy.
She cooks all day, asking “Como durmiste?” How did you sleep?
How are classes?  How are your friends?
We talk politics, religion, culture, news, and recipes
around this deliciously aromatic table
where family and food become synonymous
I say “muchas gracias”
“Buen provecho” calls the table
“Good appetite” they wish me.
May I join their table again.

Assignment 17: The Writer's Block Poem

I broke the rule about writing what you know, but between New York, San Diego, and Guate, I think this place could exist.

Border Town

Border Town.  El Pueblo Frontera.
A place divided since they built the fence.
My family has lived here our whole history,
On this land, rich, red, and Rio river-fed.
Were we lucky when they decided our Mexican farm
Belonged to the great state of Texas? Been
American ever since.  

I came back from college, rode the train,
caught a bus, found a taxi to drop me off at the edge
of town by San Ignacio. Worn wood and peeling paint, but
Stone steps gleaming, washed clean under the Sisters’ care.  
Walk past El Mercado, eye tacky tourists from the city,
come to buy cheap huraches, fake silver bangles,
bright factory woven bags.

Cross the plaza, walk towards Tia Juanita’s tiny stall.  
Find my cousin behind the counter,  get a warm hug
And a seat, a plate of chilaquiles, all crunch and spice,
Two tamales, rice and beans, which I shovel in my mouth.
Close my eyes and savor every bite, lick my fork shiny.
They don’t make food like this up north.
Good chiles can’t grow in the snow.  

Assignment 16: Write a Villanelle

Broke Heart Morning 1.2

I awake to a morning so gray and dreary.
The pain in my heart too strong to be fake.
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

Splash water on my face, but my eyes are still bleary.
Puffy from crying, my tears form a lake.
Awake on a morning very gray and dreary.

If only I had seen your soul more clearly
Would I be greeting the day with heartache?
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

If my sadness were rage, you'd have reason to fear me.
How was my innocence yours to take?
Awake on a morning so terribly gray and dreary.

This pain burns hot; from inside it seers me.
No sense of this deception can I make.
Work hasn't begun and I am so very weary.

Of future loves may I be more leery
Never again will I be taken for cake.
Awake on a morning so grey and dreary,
Work hasn't begun and I am already weary.

Assignment 15: Sign up for an online poetry class

 This is a revised version of my first assignment:

Tea

My mind swims with thoughts of disappearing dreams,
fading sleep films that slip away as I lift my head from the pillow.
Last night's obsessions, worries, and hopes grow dim
as I stumble into the kitchen,
bleary eyes blinking away the glare of the streetlamp
still streaming through the front window
even as the dawn begins to break.
I open the cupboard and search for my favorite mug,
find it dirty in the dishwasher,
yesterday's lipstains and fingerprints still clinging to the glass.
A glob of soap, a swish of water and I wash them clean,
preparing the cup for our new day.
Cold water from the Brita heats quickly in the microwave.
The sweet smelling bag filled with crushed chamomile,
apple bits, and crumbles of cinnamon is put to steep.
Clear water slowly clouds, steam hits my nose, 
I burn my tongue and begin to wake.