So small the window frames the whole of it,
but only briefly, driving past;
a fleeting photograph no one would take—
only barren hills in Southern Canada,
as she passes on her way to Michigan.
Just snapshot moments, less permanent
than hills framed by the window in her bedroom
where she slept in her parent’s house.
The family moved when she was seven
and she got to choose first, since she was oldest.
She was first to leave too, with new places waiting.
She’s outgrown twin beds, and the room
that has always been slightly too small
but she liked the family of doves that built a nest
outside and sang in the morning, and she liked
the view of the backyard with hills framed in her window.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Elegy
Sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair, watching a documentary
about Bob Dylan, but also about the 60’s, the ’63 march and
Martin Luther King Jr., Pete Seeger, Peter Yarrow
and Medger Evers and, though not explicitly, Phil Ochs, and
a generation, a movement, and protest and music and my heroes,
and the Newport Folk Festival where Johnny Cash and Joan Baez played.
Thinking about Ginsberg, the Beats and the cafes where everything began
and how sincerely all of them believed that they
could change the world (and did in their way).
Watching Pete Seeger speaking I’m reminded
of another documentary, screened at a protest in Georgia—
high school students interviewing him and not knowing he is an “influential singer.”
But mostly I’m thinking about Mel, who lent me the movie
and gave me a candy apple red guitar and taught me
about the blues and jazz and is dying of lung cancer.
about Bob Dylan, but also about the 60’s, the ’63 march and
Martin Luther King Jr., Pete Seeger, Peter Yarrow
and Medger Evers and, though not explicitly, Phil Ochs, and
a generation, a movement, and protest and music and my heroes,
and the Newport Folk Festival where Johnny Cash and Joan Baez played.
Thinking about Ginsberg, the Beats and the cafes where everything began
and how sincerely all of them believed that they
could change the world (and did in their way).
Watching Pete Seeger speaking I’m reminded
of another documentary, screened at a protest in Georgia—
high school students interviewing him and not knowing he is an “influential singer.”
But mostly I’m thinking about Mel, who lent me the movie
and gave me a candy apple red guitar and taught me
about the blues and jazz and is dying of lung cancer.
Driving Flashes
it was the deepest black one might imagine
punctuated with brief bright flashes
strobe light semi-colons spaced sentence length apart
driving alone the distance keeps us apart
ghost-like you appear and I imagine
your hand laced in mine then the image flashes
unseen hands scrawl words that stream from flashes
to blackboard-air piling up but apart
answering questions not yet imagined
i can’t imagine—
us truly apart
life without flashes
punctuated with brief bright flashes
strobe light semi-colons spaced sentence length apart
driving alone the distance keeps us apart
ghost-like you appear and I imagine
your hand laced in mine then the image flashes
unseen hands scrawl words that stream from flashes
to blackboard-air piling up but apart
answering questions not yet imagined
i can’t imagine—
us truly apart
life without flashes
Acer Saccharum
It was too early, but the farmer
strung the Christmas lights
on his favorite young maple
bright in the chilly sun.
Soon the lights would be
the only covering it had.
Naked in its least favorite season
passing hikers would comment on
the beauty of snow glistening
on the maple’s slender boughs
smooth like young boys’ legs.
And oh, how jealous the maple was
of the apple trees, producing
such lovely fruit that
the farmer picked it
to make cider and pies.
When the maple matured,
in its fifteenth year,
only small winged seeds
would attempt to laden its branches
spinning like helicopters in the fall breezes
of years yet to come,
When the farmer’s children would carefully
dissect them, and stick them on their noses
pretending to be elephants, giggling in the shade.
It was jealous too of the chattering squirrels
racing up and down the worldly oak,
collecting acorns and building nests,
and ignoring the maple, finding little use
for small branches and seeds.
And though the maple wanted to shed its own bark,
to produce something more useful, or delicious,
what it wanted most was just to reach
its fifteenth year.
strung the Christmas lights
on his favorite young maple
bright in the chilly sun.
Soon the lights would be
the only covering it had.
Naked in its least favorite season
passing hikers would comment on
the beauty of snow glistening
on the maple’s slender boughs
smooth like young boys’ legs.
And oh, how jealous the maple was
of the apple trees, producing
such lovely fruit that
the farmer picked it
to make cider and pies.
When the maple matured,
in its fifteenth year,
only small winged seeds
would attempt to laden its branches
spinning like helicopters in the fall breezes
of years yet to come,
When the farmer’s children would carefully
dissect them, and stick them on their noses
pretending to be elephants, giggling in the shade.
It was jealous too of the chattering squirrels
racing up and down the worldly oak,
collecting acorns and building nests,
and ignoring the maple, finding little use
for small branches and seeds.
And though the maple wanted to shed its own bark,
to produce something more useful, or delicious,
what it wanted most was just to reach
its fifteenth year.
Snow
Mud cakes my sneakers as we
explore the 70 acres of country land
with vast fields of pines, spruces and firs,
but the bulldozer across the street testifies
to its inevitable descent into suburbia.
As I cut down our Christmas tree
I remember a picture in my house:
I am five of six, winter hat too big,
Puffy coat and mock fur lined boots.
We trampled through the snow to find
the perfect tree, tied it on the car
as my uncles threw snowballs.
Piling into the car, my uncle pushes my
grandmother into a snow bank
and everyone laughs, but I am concerned.
In the picture I yank my grandmothers hand
determined to help her up, but I’m too small;
even the snow bank is taller than me.
explore the 70 acres of country land
with vast fields of pines, spruces and firs,
but the bulldozer across the street testifies
to its inevitable descent into suburbia.
As I cut down our Christmas tree
I remember a picture in my house:
I am five of six, winter hat too big,
Puffy coat and mock fur lined boots.
We trampled through the snow to find
the perfect tree, tied it on the car
as my uncles threw snowballs.
Piling into the car, my uncle pushes my
grandmother into a snow bank
and everyone laughs, but I am concerned.
In the picture I yank my grandmothers hand
determined to help her up, but I’m too small;
even the snow bank is taller than me.
Of Soldiering and Fasion*
Her closet is filled with kooky, pretty things:
slinky Missoni sweater dresses
polka dots and
girly illustrated tops from Tsumori Chisato
Chacharel floral frocks
She was selected in the special talent recruitments at 12
To see what everyone was wearing at the Oscars along side
High ranking women in uniform.
She wanted to serve because she loved her country
I look too stiff in Prada she says, sighing, as
congress and the military question whether women are ready for ground fighting
A blight has fallen on the red carpet.
*This piece was created by taking random sentences from a random book pulled off the shelf in the library and a fashion magazine and synthesizing them.
slinky Missoni sweater dresses
polka dots and
girly illustrated tops from Tsumori Chisato
Chacharel floral frocks
She was selected in the special talent recruitments at 12
To see what everyone was wearing at the Oscars along side
High ranking women in uniform.
She wanted to serve because she loved her country
I look too stiff in Prada she says, sighing, as
congress and the military question whether women are ready for ground fighting
A blight has fallen on the red carpet.
*This piece was created by taking random sentences from a random book pulled off the shelf in the library and a fashion magazine and synthesizing them.
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