april 23 . teaching, and learning

4:50 am, time for coffee
morning news
cereal
shower.

6:45 am, time for buses
screaming children
honking horns
bell.

9:30 am, time for lecture
loudest class
smartest boy
lowest grade.

11:05 am, time for lunch 
almost-pizza
flying french fries
sticky hands.

1:20 pm, time for recess
black top basketball
jump rope
caustic looks.

4:15 pm, time for aftercare
homework help
silly stories
tired feet.

5:30 pm, time for family
celebration dinner
scenic drive
selective memory.

9:15 pm, time for me
sleep
dreams
sleep.


** 
This one's for one of my best girls--who takes amazing care of everyone else (including me--<3 you!) and is learning to take care of herself.  

april 22 . spring forward

into fresh cut grass
sleeves disappearing
dry skin clearing
fresh fires
igniting
and the birds
all fighting
for the earliest worm
with the slowest
crawl

april 21 . according to my mother, as i have come to understand it

there is absolutely
undeniably
cent per cent--
vraiment
no point
in romantic love
except
of course
when it can't
be helped.

april 20 . lover i should have known to leave

strange, to see you now
fern at night, your leaves
retracted
so soft and folded
in on self
talking to her and
tossing looks over shoulder
to check my pulse

i imagined you
a giant oak
firm
tall
commanding
but see you now
in night's shade
unsteady
small
complacent

and here i am,
heart beating
strong
eyes staring
straight ahead

april 19 . Blanche Devereaux

Damn, I'm good.

I guess I'd better

go get dressed.

There is a fine line between 
having a good time and 
being a wanton slut. I know. 
My toe has been on that line.
Flirting is part of my
heritage.
But

I treat my body like
a temple.  I'm going to slip
into something
that will make me look--
Nobody ever believes me when
I'm telling the truth.

Anything can happen
on a leap year's full moon
if you just believe.  
I like a fairy tale with 
a nice prince in it … but
I'm nobody's little girl anymore.

Like the fatal blossom

of the great gimson weed, I entice

with my fragrance, but can provide 

no succor;

a one night stand only lasts
one night.

And
some people just don't
know when
to quit.


**
For the record, this was a found poem.  IE, none of the words are my own (all quotes from Blanche Devereaux), but the arrangement is.  And I had so much fun with this one, I think I might do the other girls later--Rose is especially one I'm looking forward to.

april 18 . to listen but not hear

the neighbors are listening again
as the bed next door
squeaks all night.

but it's not because
anyone is having
any fun.
no, the squeaking is merely
the symptom of
a poorly put-together 
bedframe in need of
some WD-40;a slanted floor
in a neglected apartment
building; the inefficiency
of hardback books
as stabilizing agents;
and a restless
dream.

but the neighbors, sexually
frustrated, imagine otherwise,
and bang at the wall to
QUIT BEING SO DAMN SMUG
ABOUT IT.
**
I have learned from my procrastination and catching-up experience that it is much easier, and more fun, to try and write one good poem in a day than it is to write three mediocre ones without trying much.  

april 17 . magnetic forces

Is it only polar opposites
that truly attract,
the rest left
repelling each other
for sheer distaste
of seeing their own likeness
in another?
The key, then, might be
learning to love the mirror,
reversing 
that negative pull.
**
Since Saturday's prompt was "a science poem," I thought about just posting the new Insane Clown Posse video "Miracles." Because it cracks me the hell up.  Seriously, please go watch it.  "Mothafuckin magnets, how do THEY work?"  Love it.  So much.  Hence the inspiration.  And then, of course, there's the SNL version from last night, "Magical Mysteries."  Which might as well have copied the song exactly--no real need to mock it, is there, when the song does the job itself?

april 16 . sushi rumination

smoked salmon sashimi

tender and moist

falls apart

in my mouth, and
i lower the chopsticks
to savor the taste,
sweet, and salty, and soft,
sliding around my tongue
and down my throat.

i feel less human,
wanting to devour
this raw fish--

so close to life,
this little death that feeds me.

**
So, I haven't had time to write all weekend because my best friend/"brother" Tom was in visiting from Baltimore.  And sometimes, priorities just don't include writing.  But I'm back and working on catching up... though this will probably mean a few short poems.  Hope everyone's weekend has gone well!


-Lindy

april 15 . a poem for my mom, the day after her 26th anniversary. she says this is what marriage is like.

every time i try to call my mother
she is experiencing another
communications difficulty:
her cell phone is off,
or her portable phone isn't charged, or
like today,
at&t has failed her again
with a broken line,
so it rings once and then 
sounds to me like
she's there,
on the other end,
choosing not to speak;
but really,
we're both talking
to a dead line
and no one
can hear a word.

april 14. my island

no man is an island,
sure, okay,
but i keep swimming
back to the same floating
piece of land;
it moves away from me
and towards me
and away again,
but i never lose it
in my sights;
and no matter how hard i kick
or how long i lie there
and stare at the sun
and wonder if i'll always
just be lost at sea;
i know that forever
you will be my island,
my compass,
my home.

april 13 . Would you let me take root?

What if
love is not 
an unraveling sweater,
an accidental splitting;
but rather
the shearing of sheep,
the spinning of wool?


What if
love is not
an inevitable autumn,
a stripping of oak trees;
but rather
the stubborn hope of a
dandelion in spring?


And what if
I finally saw this,
and blew you
a dandelion kiss?

**
So, I did twofer Tuesday; but clearly my heart was not in the anti-love poem (Ha. Ha. Get it?).  Oh well.  I'm feeling pretty damn accomplished, what with three poems in one day.  Somebody hose me down, cause I'm on fi-uh!  And clearly in need of sleep.


... and on the dork side of poet this evening.


Good evening, all(?).


-Lindy

april 13 . Love, like a yellow sweater

If,
in the end,
the fabric
unravels,
why not
go naked?

Oh, yes.
It gets cold.

april 12 . Johnson City,

you are a stillborn sneeze--
that tickle, that tingle in the back
of the throat, by the ears,
that makes me feel like I must have
forgotten something
or lost it in the chaos.


You are a discolored tattoo
on the blade of my shoulder
where only a few can see
the fading lines, the awkward
geometry,
permanent on me now.


You are a deck of cards
tattered and dirty at the edges,
played so many times with
so many people that 
the patterns are mixed now, 
the jokers too many.


You are a Lisa Frank diary,
the keeper of my secret history,
obfuscating the moral of the story
with your garish cover art,
the lock design replicated
so everyone has a key.


(revised 5.1.10)
**
I have had such trouble with this prompt (the prompt being "use a city as a title") because in my exodus I am really struggling to figure out what Johnson City means to me exactly.  So I wrote and rewrote the stupid poem, and finally came back to it today.  And as it turns out, I picked a terrible day to skip posting, since today is Tuesday--which means two prompts to work with instead of just one.  And to complicate matters, the prompts for April 13 are: 1, write a love poem; and 2, write an anti-love poem.  I feel like these poetry prompts are trying to destroy me.  But I'm giving it my best effort to fight back.


Also, is anyone actually reading this?  I've started to wonder.


Onward ho.


-Lindy

april 11 . The last dress she tried on

after hours of pulling on
and throwing off
and sighing through the racks of
inadequate fabric--
the last dress
(always the last dress)
greeted her like an old friend.
It wrapped itself tight
around her shoulders;
gently caressed the 
tired breasts that had
fed those hungry mouths;
played hide-and-seek
as it frolicked
around her belly button;
danced and waved as it fell

to her calf muscles.
It was a springtime picnic

by the waterfall.

And she was 32 again.

april 10 . sunscream, or, a single girl spends a day in the suburbs

the things that rip
and tear at you
linger not in the shadows
but in the corners of light;
so audacious that they
proclaim themselves captors
in the brilliance of day.
the blades of grass come alive
and swallow you,
burying you under a lawn
that this morning
was perfectly manicured--
and will be so again
tomorrow--
right now
the garden is simply
digesting.
you have become the mulch--
your sweet naiveté,
your delicate skin,
your impossible
reminiscing
feed the suburban monster
you so ignorantly tried to befriend.

april 9 . this woman

these hips

are the same hips

you fondled and praised;

that i tried to hide

but have learned

to embrace.

these lips

are the same lips

you trusted to know you;

they speak without knowing

what they try

to relate.

these eyes

are the same eyes

you swam through and drowned in;

they are open and blinking

in the glare

of winter.

these thighs

are the same thighs

that squeezed you and loosened;

standing alone now

in a tree pose

that falters.

these hands

are the same hands

that wrote out your name;

the pen now abandoned,

palms
     open
          wide.

april 8 . suspect vehicle

my camry twists

over the mountain,

sliding too quick on those

hairpin turns.

while the rain whips the trees

and bombards my windshield,
i can't help but wonder
if my accelerator might stick,
my car spin out of control--
thereby avoiding 
the metaphorical wreck
that i know is coming next.
but this one is safe,
this one has avoided
the dreaded recall list.
this one will carry me home.
home?
and i will cross this mountain again,
u-haul filled with 
bookshelves and dresser drawers
that are made for holding
but can't hold me.
careening away from the streets
my car has learned to
read like braille,
that my heart 
has come to drink
like sweet tea
on a summer day.

april 7 . until music spills from your fingertips

the world exists
in a state of
pause:


milk refusing
to ever sour;


nests half-built
outside the window;


a peace lily
never thirsting;

a pen balancing

on the edge of a word;

twilight lingering
in the evening's corners;


and a heart
hoping
beyond the stillness.

april 6 . Hurricane John

A storm is coming,
swift and strong.
He sends leaves fluttering
adrift with his breath;
his gaze sends a shiver
down the spine of a song;
and the touch of his hand
brings a subtle death.
She is right to run,
with the leaves, and the doe;
and to fear the distance
invading her shore.
If she ran from the beach,
she might avoid the throes
of a life less ordinary.
But she wanted more.


ekphrastic poem prompt from: annie liebovitz' "pocahontas"

april 5 . exhibition

sometimes 
i like to dance naked
from the shower
to the bedroom, and
flaunt my power
all through the kitchen,
just twirling and skipping and
watching my fat wiggle,
using my arms as maracas,
feel them jiggle 
like jello,
freshly molded,
light and springy.
i like to crack the blinds, just a little,
like to twist that little adjuster thingy
so the slant is sufficient 
for me to see out
and the lights to see in
so far as i let them.
and oh, will i let them--
front row, center stage
for my stretchmarks, like
shooting stars;
my round belly that could,
with a single rub, soothe a war;
for breasts that float
like hot air balloons;
and these goddess' thighs
that will butter you up;
don't dare avert your eyes.


sometimes
i like to dance naked
and i want you to watch.