POEMS NO LONGER POSTED HERE

For those of you  who follow the blog, I apologize, but I'm finding that poems posted on a blog (or on facebook) constitute "previously published work" for many journals and publishers.  This means that the hundred or so poems here are no longer eligible for publication in a lot of places.  So I'm changing the way I get poems out there.  I can send them out via email.  If you wish to be on the email poem list, send me a note at hendrixfiddle@gmail.com  I may post here on process from time to time, but the poetry bonanza has to stop.

Miss B

Miss B

We hit Miss B. like a pitcher of water
Hits a brick wall.
Racing into junior high
Full of ourselves.
Top of the heap
From sixth grade small ponds
Where we had been big, bad, best fish


She ruled at the top of the stairs
Fog horn voice slowing the headlong rush,
Quieting the roar of teen adrenalin and hormones

Leaning her muscled, bulldog form on the metal railing
Overlooking the stairs,
She saw us all as God does
From impossible distance. with horrifying accuracy.
Commenting on our careless clothing, headlong rush, or furtive hand holding
With deadly aim
Naming names

"Miss Reid, tie those laces before someone steps on them?"
"Mister Brown, SLOW DOWN!
"Miss Rollins, Mister Jones, sex is not a spectator sport."

Impartial, firm as rock
She offered a no-compromise bridge
From child
To adult,
Impulse to control
Headlong and loud to civility

She rode us hard
From the top of the stairs,
And the front of her math class
We complained about her loudly
(when she wasn't around, )

　
　
And we
Who slowed down on the stairs,
Reluctantly released sweaty palms,
And tied our shoes in the middle of the lunch rush,
Remember her still,
Stance wide, folded arms, fog horn voice,
Forty years later,
Long after the math
Has gone clean out of our heads

Learning to Walk the Tune

Learning to Walk the Tune

At first
It felt like following someone who knew the tune.
Walking that unfamiliar path, 
Balancing the bow lightly on the strings,
Ready to travel wherever the melody went,
Weight shifting, core wobbling over black ice.
Loose gravel, uneven concrete.
High and low surprises in the pattern,
Long or short notes, up, down on the strings.

Fingers poised over the neck,
Quick, but not always fast enough,
Finding the right note, first, third, predictable arpeggio,
Always a little late on that weak fourth. not used often
Feet mostly landing on pavement,
But not always.
Sometimes sliding on ice, adjusting quickly to firmer footing
Except when that knee
The right one,
Twinges and misses, painful lurch.
Off note.

By the time the tune has gone round a few times,
And I have rounded a few corners on the switchback path,
I have the rhythm of it.
Ready for repetitions,
For the feel of the same slide,
Got my balance
Got the melody
With all of the necessary swing.

 

Bungee Jumping

Bungee jumping

It took a while for the winter days to catch up with me.
The accumulation of cold and dark
Like some potent drug
Building in my veins

Even as the brilliant afternoon sun gains strength
I nod and yawn
And by evening
When the sky still holds a little light
Lethargy weighs me down like a diver's lead belt

I am not unlike the planet,
Cooling down for months after the sun has retreated
And begun to advance again

What was resilience,
An orderly descent into dark
Is now a plummeting helplessness,
Free fall against the rise of light and warmth

I hope, with the torpid inaction
Of a freezing or drowning soul,
That the cord to which I am clipped
Will grow taut and catapult me up
Into spring,

I Could See It Coming

I Could See It Coming

I once hit a tree while skiing
It was small,
A scrubby pine, no higher than my hips
And all alone
On a white sweep of snow

I was fine, though embarrassed.
It wasn't my blindness caused it,
Though they assumed it was and teased me for it.
I didn't correct them.
I could see it coming.

Why was it there
In a slight fold
No others around for shelter
No pollination on bee-rich summer days
Or rattling conversational shiver
Shared in a night of bitter moonlit wind

Some mountain bird or rodent
Dropped a seed in a fold of land
A little dirt,
Trickle of water
Just enough to live and grow;
Solitary,
Slow and patient
Unharmed by elements
Or even my blundering impact.

I reached that mountain at fifteen,
Awkward, with thick glasses
Having watched childhood friends
Grow wise, realize and
Distance themselves from my difference
Thoughtless as a slap of wind driven snow

Small wonder
I was drawn to that tree
Strong, ancient,
Persistent, self contained,
Alive.

I could See it coming

Earth Worm Haiku Suite

While visiting a gardening education project in an elementary school, I learned this odd fact.  Same assignment as "Gamine"  

Earth Worm Haiku Suite

Five Hearts in a line
Pumping through the cool brown earth
Passing through gardens

Five hearts not much brain
Eating and beating; no thought
Passion without wits

Five hearts, lose one and
There are four others waiting
Beyond shovel's edge

five hearts, not true ones
Aortic arches they say
Just pumping muscles

Five hearts for one worm
for earth, food, travel, sex, life
What else are hearts for?

　

Gamine

The Assignment: Write a poem in praise of something in the world of nature that is not commonly praised. (without being sappy.)

Gamine

I can not fault her for her taste in chocolate,
Clean linens, paperbacks and over-stuffed chairs.
I love them all myself.

And she certainly is elegant
Moving lightly on dainty feet,  Dressed in black velvet fur.
Quick, observant black eyes, delicate ears,
Refined nose

In the summer house,
left alone for months at a time,
She is like the teenager whose mother and father are gone,
Hosting a party, which gets beyond her. 
I am sure it is only low life acquaintances, crashing the party
Who scatter food, chew carpets, and pee in the bedding,
Abandoning her to her fate
When they hear the parental car climbing the hill home.

Here in town,
A delicate rustling in the walls hints at her presence
I only become certain when the cat lurks,
Enormous and black, low to the ground
By the cupboard where pasta, oatmeal and cocoa are kept.
His patience is surprising after his intolerant yowls for morning food.
Waiting
for the panic which will surely give her away.
His speed is improbable and terrifying when he makes his move
And the terrible game begins.

Despite the droppings in the linen chest,
The chewed corner on the box of fancy baking cocoa,
The wasted food, cleaning and laundry to follow
I step in,
Scooping her from the huge black paws.
I use a wash cloth now,
After my one late night experience with needle sharp teeth,
Lots of blood
And a quick search to find out about mice
Rabies (no) and Tetanus (Yes)

I gently deliver the elegant, fur-clad lady
To the front door
Hoping that memory will keep her from retuning
That she will now heed her wise mother's warning
About the moral and corporal dangers
Of  the city's decadent food, warmth and bedding.

And yet, I am in awe of her daring,
All out of proportion to her size.
Glad
When she scampers away.

Walking Through Change

Walking Through Change

At first,
I walked quickly,
Puffing out breath on the cooling air
Grit and pavement under foot.
Trustworthy,
Unlovely.

Even as I walked the short, familiar path,
I could watch the crystals forming,
Quick glints on the black backdrop
of pavement.
Copious as sand,
Whimsical and treacherous
As fairy dust.

Under foot,
Tiny, shifts and slides,
No telling in which direction.
Weight, balance and walk change
Exploring,
New gravity on a different world
Taking the risk
Of walking on diamonds,
New-born in the cold
Winter dark.