Tuesday, November 13, 2018

gray november

A soft gray shawl, pulled
in around the earth, warm, wispy,
near: November sky

 *

Invisible birds embroider November:
Long satin whistling,
twitters picked and clustered,
french knots
in a gray flannel sky.
And at brown bushes
and leafbare branches,
they loop their songs,
crochet their lace around
the world's winter border.

 *

this warm november
the sky
is soft and gray and sweet
sad
like a beloved, outgrown toy

damp and close on the earth
and on shoulders
pressing down the corners of your eyes

it says, curl up your toes
your eyes look tired
sit down awhile
sleep

*

let's be bears today
it's too damn cold to get up
november morning




haiku september

less angry sun. The waspsbuzz around the eaves, the bush,
buzz loud, do not rest

one last rose, magenta
magnificent, full blown, drops
lazy petals down

the grass, full green, strewn
with dropped leaves dried to old gold,
smells dry, smells warm, smells sweet

sometimes through the gold
still air, a furtive giggle,
a hint: fall visiting






Thursday, September 27, 2018

moments

Each day is a fist
full of moments.

Snot smeared fingers
brandish a bouquet
of boogers:
Here, Mom!
They are always for me.

Let's pretend
I don't notice you, quietly
poking little sticks
into the seams of the brown couch
and unpicking them.
White fluffs of stuffing drift
like spring flowers.

Let's pretend
you are dinosaurs, lumbering
through strewn toys;
you are better at sharing
when you are dinosaurs.
I am the mountain sleeping
on the brown couch,
I do not want
to erupt.
This volcano can sleep for
millions
and millions
of years.

The baby, walking
Here: hold
my huge finger
in your little fist.
Your folded hands are warm and tender
as wilting flowers.


Friday, August 31, 2018

angry

God help us
it were better to have drowned

than to come before your throne
and be found
wearing chains that we hammered

hammered and bound
around our hearts and our children's

nailed to our doorposts
nailed to our gates
nailed to our foreheads
nailed to our feet

You told us good news:
we made dead gold copies
of the gospel
and wore it like crowns

Made chains out of grace
God
help us--
it were better to have drowned

GUEST POST

First ever guest post. Original poetry by Geneva Pritzel. To be performed with dramatic hand motions.

KICKING POETRY

Tootie is the most cutest creature I have ever seen.
I love her very much.
Even when she kicked me
Under the piano
So I had to hold up a Star Wars box lid to shield myself
From her kicks.
I wish she was kinder.
Like Mom said in her poem,
She is really agile.
When she scoots the piano bench
To the piano
She climbs up onto the piano bench
And then up onto the keys
To get up to the top of the piano.

I am ready
And set
To read
But too excited
Since my Grandma Vivi
And Aunt Helen
Are coming to visit!
Yahoo!
I can't wait!

Mom says it's time
To turn off the poem.
So bye bye
Until she lets me write another poem!

Monday, July 23, 2018

How To Write A Poem

Ignore the baby screaming.

Ignore her little sharp and feral teeth
sunk in your neck
behind you in the seat
year old and agile:

ignore her screams
and nod to Jar Jar Binks
propped up and earless
by the screen--

Nod to Jar Jar Binks
search for the file--
it's been a week, two weeks--
it's been a while.
Type a line. Delete.

Type a line. Delete.
Ignore the baby's screams,
her urgent teeth.
Move Jar Jar Binks.
Adjudicate a squabble.
Type.
Delete.

Ignore the baby dancing in the chair,
Felix pulling out Geneva's hair.
Spank everyone.
Throw Goldfish into bowls.

The baby's typing now,
with Jar Jar's feet.
The baby's dancing Jar Jar on the keys.
Delete. Delete. Delete.

Peel the baby from your chair.
The big kids, too.
Spank everyone again.
Cry. Type a line. 
Save changes, if you dare.
Close out the file.
Come back tomorrow,

next week--

It could be a while.




Saturday, June 23, 2018

found an old poem from baby felix

Don't ask me to string together syllables
abstractions or analyses--like beads
my brain congeals--these days
are thick: concrete, real
with rosetender skin
soured milk smell
squawks and squabbles, babbles
whys and wipes
stepped-on rice grains gluing themselves to socks
my body and my heart on call
to be poured out or spread
for hungry mouths and minds--

Dear god, make me the widow's cup of oil
this drop i have, this last drop
this very last drop
and still finding the last drop there 
to take
with one last fist of flour
hands falling into the familiar knead and press
to bake, again,
into their daily bread