Things I like

This (little)

that (big)

green balloon, plastic chair,

cigarette smoke in

night air

a lamp post and moth,

one dollar gum, sometimes

straight I will drink

my rum

often afternoon, grass blade prick

feel it play my leg,

just a familiar trick

old piano, spoons and a kettle;

I leave a footprint in dawn's fresh snow...

...and I think I'll watch

till Spring grows.

But for a walk

Today it is a Friday morning. 

it screams of joy to the business suit world, 

of summer love and restlessness, 

of the eventual night

of bar-hopping students,

fake ID glory,

and stiletto heels

right now it is still morning, a beautiful morning:

clean and warm, it welcomes the weekend;

I like it and how it dances on construction workers'

faces and their orange hats 

(you can see the sweat already

mixing with the cement and tape,

what a beautiful morning)

I sat on the bus, thought only of what

workday might bring and the banana I had packed,

slowly bruising in my bag (a testament to my mother,

who said I always carry too much)

I sat on the bus, saw something

no one else did:

a private tragedy walking the neighborhood streets

...they probably took that walk

because it is such a beautiful morning.

From city-bound wheels, I saw them walking

saw her, old lady white hair

and pastel pink pants

and him, old man white hair

and darkened sunglasses

and saw her 

crumple

into her walker

saw him

catch her

hold her

lower her to the asphalt

(and the walker was forgotten)

the bus drove on; 

it was only a matter of seconds, really,

that no one else saw

I wonder what happened - was it just a stumble...

when it looked more like a heart attack

I had seen so many times before

on the mindless TV...

it spins in my head now

- oldladycrumple,walkeraskew,oldmanholding

followoldladycrumple,walkeraskew,oldmanholding,

follow...and what thoughts

slammed through his brain,

a reckless train of red and blue lights flashing,

emergency gurney, stale hospital air...

and where were they going...

...but for a walk that turned into something greater

more terrifying

beneath the 9 am sun

(isn't it strange?)

old walker woman and sunglass man:

I'll never forget.

and I selfishly hope this isn't an inconvenient end

to something timeless,

unnoticed by Friday-frantic world...

where were you going?

and where are you now?

Technological kingdom

Ah technological kingdom, sweet day

of flying cars and falling stars, I wonder will one

hit the pavement beneath my feet?

but

there is no pavement

anymore

a flashing holographic reel we walk, a motorized tread

...we applaud obese America;

do you also remember when

there was once a candle

before the lamp,

before there were a thousand light bulbs

to light the night...

their company, I share with darkness,

and I no longer feel

lonely;

but

I fear for the sun

(its time will come, do you

see it?)

I fear

of Solar Conquest, Operation Galactic Doom;

and all we are is we are all pawns.

This

Maybe one day

we'll shed the snake skin

-- quicksliver into the grass

and make friends with the flowers 

once more

and the day after that

maybe we'll shear the tensions

-- a roll of thunder and heart slick, quick,

step quietly with the sunset

(this, our pink-cloud-rocket-sky).

For a front porch

Wait till I show you this,

it looks like dust and bricks but really,

there's more.

Up here! I say, climb these crumbling stairs

and don't worry, our dreams are 

yet strong.

Push back the plastic sheen, this is my

front porch.  You can see the whole city

from my front porch.  Look, how I own all these cars and people,

they don't even know it.

Do you like my front porch?  Do you feel the sun

warm on your back, like a lover at night? 

Or are you still looking at my calloused hands 

and dirty fingernails?

I built my front porch, with these calloused hands,

and now I see the city.

Blue jean office girl

Humdrumpickuprush

dialtonebumpbumpbump

my ear is numb in onetwothree...five

phoneringcalltone,

hell! this number breathes with

stupid verbiage, it fogs the air and

my voice goes up five thousand octaves

maybe even a dog in England can hear me now,

come prancing across the ocean

to see me sit here, office girl in blue jeans

spitting on cue:

hi my name is...and you don't really care

but now the secret is

neither do I.

Rain dance

I like when I can hear the rain

hitting the roof above my head:

splashlove, dewdropfall, heaventears, hellfear;

it keeps me safe,

I think,

when all the stars rush my mind and crowd my ears,

when the tree branches drown the cicadas

and all I can hear

is that soft little dance 

-- the shingle hoedown --

weaving rivulets into the night.

Tree rings

Maybe it's because that one time

I fell asleep in laundry,

baby rolls and wrinkled toes,

and you were there to see it and know

all I needed

was a beer

maybe it's because they say:

"the apple falls not far from the tree"

...but did they know?

listen:

remember that time

I first rode on two wheels?

you were there to take off the training ones,

kiss my shins,

and patch my soles

worn by pavement tread and childhood dreams

remember that time

I was Minnie Mouse,

and you, my bodyguard?

I laughed in rouge cheeks,

heavysweetcandybuttersmile;

you grinned and said,

"don't get yourself sick"

and held my hand when I did

remember those Sundays?

when we'd float into Monday,

lazy...

just like the charcoal-salmon-onion-smoke rising in our front yard

where you sat,

malt beer in hand, 

watching that rusty old grill

remember that time

I first switched gears?

in that little red car, we traveled neighborhood streets

(and I still thought 25 mph was fast)

you said:

"there will be stalls,

but there will always be a start"

remember all those apples you bought?

sweet braeburn,

those were our favorites;

I always liked the way they looked in their

orange, plastic

bowl:

fruit parade, kitchen glow

and do you remember that time

we first said goodbye?

I cried.

you stood there and said:

"you're beautiful..."

(I never knew it, but for you,

I believed it)

"...I'm so proud"

(and I hoped it was true)

they say

"the apple falls not far from the tree"

but what if apples turned into trees

and I grew beside you...

I'd say trees are the best observers

but trees grow older too, you know:

they have the rings to prove their years

and how wise they've become...

and I don't think I've ever seen as many rings

as I do on you

sometimes I wonder,

how many of my rings,

I'll get growing next to you.

You and eye

Another look, a perfect ray

dancing on the windowpane --

the shoulder leads with a collarbone demur, and your eyes

kiss the sky like an

iris

boulevard...

(I want to race down this

speckled street,

golden-glinting-fissure-deep

where I touch feathertip lash

but in my sleep).

For dida and baka

I.

I always liked our autumn walks

sunburnt leaves crisp beneath us,

the doorway hot behind us;

you smelled like things I didn't know:

muffled skies and apartment complex,

gypsy fires burning under highways...

...and sometimes

a spatula moon-dancer.

a little guilty, I would wish

that you wouldn't act so

"foreign".

but secretly,

I was glad 

when you chased me into the bathroom.

I said I wouldn't come out.

I did.

II.

You called me your "sunce"

and bought me packets of strawberry chewing gum

when mom wasn't around,

and when we'd race back from the store

laughing so wild, I'd scream for you to

hurry, hurry dida!  I'm winning!

I thought I was fast on my three year old legs;

now I know it was you

who let me be fast.

Mom always said I reminded her of you

and I thought it was strange.

I guess she meant that we were both strong

but I don't know if I'm strong like you.

Sand

Sometimes it seems

life is like a handful of sand:

I watch it falling --

beautiful crystals, earth debris treasure

t

  r

   a

         i

              l       i

                                  n

                                       g

behind me through the soft air --

between my fingers,

these fingertips reachggraspingfeeling

...seeing where they fall together,

perfect

harmony.

First post, second thought

Although poems do a well enough job introducing themselves, humans do not.  After all, how to introduce oneself better than through words, which is what the poem can do without even trying?  I am not a poem; I write them.  Still, I wouldn't call myself a poet.  Rather, a writer who fancies herself deep enough to spare a few verses and nonsensical stanzas.  Entertain my nothings, and hopefully I'll entertain yours.  

This project will begin as a collection of poems I have recently written, and grow as I write more.  How long shall it be?  Who knows.  Not I.  Nor you.  Naught but on a whim has it begun and therefore will it end.