Wednesday, December 31, 2008

February 2008 (c, d, e)

February (e)

When I Stopped Dreaming This Morning

When I stopped dreaming this morning
black trees upon a white mist
quietly sought my eyes
making me
their untakeable offer.

As the white sun ascending
cleared the clouds,
I became convinced
I had a home
in a shred of mist
clinging to a redwood branch.

Later, when the day
broke off a fragment of blue
to share with the children playing
in the black and orange garden,

I wondered how
I had ever failed to love
the leaf-strewn bench
too cold to sit on.

When the moon rose,
we agreed to resolve our differences.
Then, I began to dream.

-Deanna Hopper

February (d)

[or, Bard in the Yard]

If Billy Collins came to my house,
The first thing he would not see
would be the neglected landscaping.

The gall of blackberries gone wild,
Now binding patio furniture to the deck,
[Really] a keen advantage in the high March winds.
The aged cracks in the walk, pure guile.
The torn awning, picturesque, flapping above small skates,
Bent Hula hoops and rusted rakes;
Still life in motion.

At the door the cocky duck sculpture
Would make him smile, assured.
He would feel at home before I even
Answered his knock.

If Billy Collins came to talk to me,
We both would prefer coffee over tea,
With fresh blackberry ice cream, and later –

We would say who we liked and who we didn’t;
Just like that,
And not always agree.

“This is such a surprise,” I would say,
Feeling suddenly shy.
“Why have you come?”

“I saw your calico cat caught
between heaven and hell,
Armies of armored tendrils holding her back
from mounting her attack on a fly.

Did you know your massive blackberry
Patch can be seen from the sky?”

-Jane Rogan
Inspired by: I.K., B. H. and of course, B.C.
Written as an apology for my husband, Phil
February 22, 2008

February (c)


Lust and the room grew
small as zero.


So, I escaped everyday
to my silly restaurant job
watched Santo
in the kitchen peeling shrimp,
extracting blue veins from flesh,
with the kind of grace
you lacked.


There’s no salvation
in distractions,
only moments
of “what ifs” driving me
back to the ocean
to search the seaweed
and sewage.


Clawless crab, gull bones, syringe.

Man of War, deflated and blue
like balloons the morning after a party.

I carry them home
set them on the bathroom sink next to the soap dish.

You don’t want to touch them.

-Terri Carrion

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