Costa Rica Questions

Tell me, is the rose naked

or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal

the splendor of their roots?

Is there anything in the world sadder

than a train standing in the rain?

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Since ticos call the sun amarillo,
does it roll off of their tongues?

Are trash-strewn streets imitating
the leaf-covered forest floor?

Why are beans and rice inseparable?

Is a coffee bean picked by hand equal
to a word written instead of typed?

Does the banana get green with envy
when it sees a fried plantain?

Were tourists peering into Pompeii   
before it popped open?

How long would you wait in traffic
to see the crater on a clear day?

If the frisbee is the color of the sun,
will it fly up to meet its mother?

Why is the ocean always so thirsty?

If I forget the word for purple
will Saprissa lose the game?

~ Costa Rica 2013 ~

Hard Soles

His moccasin house shoes

of soft leather

and hard soles

hide in the corner

between the sliding glass door

and La-Z-Boy.

Once the casserole dishes

are scraped clean,

and the phone has ceased

to ring for days,

she pulls the vacuum out

to begin the quiet routine

of erasing the dust

from their final day to days.

She strains her arms

to push open a window.

Carnations, chrysanthemums,

and hyacinths

sigh from the kitchen table,

coffee table, mantle,

and every other surface that

is empty enough to hold

a funeral vase.

She leans down

to plug in the vacuum cord,

her thin nightgown

brushing her knee,

and sees the moccasins

underneath the cat’s

indifferent nose. 

The moccasins were

a Christmas gift,

the leather now stained

an earthy brown

from the mud beside the trashcan

he wheeled out

every Thursday

and Sunday.

The laces are frayed,

still tied

in the same knot

from when he left them

lying there.

She slides her feet out

of her plush pink slippers

into the matted wool insoles

and shuffles down

the driveway

to get the letters that will

still bear his name while

she bears all the rest.  

* This poem is a break from form, which given the guidelines I set for myself is a form of cheating, so which means it is still a "form", right? Ha.

This poem came from an exercise in the wonderful book The Poet's Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux.  The prompt said, "Describe a pair of shoes in such a way that a reader will think of death. Do not mention death in the poem."  I thought of it this week because Brian has been away visiting family in Florida. He'll be back soon, but I started thinking about what it would be like to have lived with someone for decades and then to suddenly have to face life without them.  

puppy walking pantoum

my puppy pulls me into the present
through thick summer mud that sucks at my shoes
across slippery stones that span the trickling creek
under sunshine that squeezes sweat from my brow

out of thick summer mud that sucks at my shoes
across a path peering out from leafy detritus
under sunshine that sighs against cool cheeks
into overlooks aflame with autumnal fire

across a path peering out from rotting detritus
we duck through the door before daylight closes
into overlooks squelched by snowy extinguish
through air that nips and bites my fingertips

we duck through the daylight door left ajar
across slippery stones that span the rushing creek
into overlooks awake with springtime wonder
my puppy pulls me into the present

Sonnet (of sorts) for an English Teacher

I walk into my classroom each weekday

and change the date, the chairs, sharpen pencils.

The boys come in; boisterous puppies at play.

Homework’s not done? Well, I will be gentle.

This ritual helps me to feel prepared.

A well-kempt space can make sense of the world;

as commas and paragraphs keep thoughts pared

down. We give space for knowledge to unfurl.

Like a balloon string barely caught before

it soars up to the sky, kids let their words

fly up and bump against the window, door,

and wall before they want them to be heard. 

Students let their thoughts go to see them fly
then look to us to catch them going by.  

A Sestina in Anticipation of Skiing

The skis that whisper down the mountainside

are simple vessels for the urge to fly

We clip on equipment to overcome

human short fallings; Opposable thumbs

mean nothing when our reach exceeds our grasp

The snow we’re carving beneath us won’t last

Just last season tree boughs reached out bare and dry

The whisper of winter spoke inaudible

We grasp transient seasons on the tips of our tongues

Earth is a paltry vessel for so much carbon

The opposable desires of stability and speed

clip at our heels as we ride shifting snow 

Clip a bird’s wings and he is insatiable but safe

We want life to last but hurry through days

Opposable forces propel the human race

Trees poke the sky, whisper, and anxiously wait

Our vessels carry blood toward the heart, then away

We’re grasping at straws – but that’s a cliché!

Straws on the riverbank give us something to grasp

A well kempt, clipped lawn leaves nothing to bloom

Earth’s vessels, tree roots, are not to be tamed

Entropy is the only lasting law on the books

Still snow blowers whisper and spit pristine white

Bare tree trunks stand opposite snow-laden slopes

The opposable wisdom of beauty and might

Leaves little snowflakes clutching the strong mountainside

Snowy crowds whisper and jostle grass blades aside

We clip on our skis

for one last ride

These eyes are feeble vessels for so much beauty

Our skis cut open blood vessels along the mountain flank

Opposable urges to preserve and to take

On the last ride down, the sun starts to drop

Over the edge of the slope and just out of grasp

We unclip our skis to step back into our skin

The whisper of winter melts away

These bodies, soul vessels, reach beyond our grasp

Our opposable thumbnails at the surface scratch
Winter whispers and sighs its last

* Thanks to Gene Christopher for the pics!

You can have your cake...

You can have your cake --
and eat it, too!

My mother let me lick
the electric mixer
whir of spinning bliss
tongue between prongs --
once it stopped.

She would slop a cloud
of icing onto the cake
and spread it across the top.

Chocolate cliffs rose at Christmas,
Cinderella's dress swirled with vanilla,
coconut tendrils curled
from the Easter bunny's whiskers.

Each cake sits on
bakery shelves
in my memory --
still warm, still moist,
icing smooth and soft.

And so it is with poetry.

Gobs of gelatinous similes
stick to our fingers
as we lick language
from the sides of the bowl.

We sink our teeth
into slice after
stanza.

* This one wasn't a strict form I suppose, but there were restrictions!  The poem had to start with a twist on a cliched saying.  Then, it had to include the words mother, lick, whir, cloud, and cliffs. This is what I came up with for the exercise. Yum!

Flu Villanelle

Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!
The world outside your window won't stand still
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

Lie still, don't move, to ease your aching head
Deadlines, dog walks, can wait for you until
You stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!

Sunlight streams in, an interrupting thread
Outside the window bird songs seem so shrill
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

The day's once moving parts have now stopped dead
Your plans, appointments, others can fulfill
Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!

Piles of books are waiting to be read
Such knowledge lies untapped, for now a frill
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

Perhaps we love life most when close to dead
The act of waking up demands no bill
Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead