Rain on Tulips

This is very simple, and has spawned something much cooler and more interesting, which is currently in revisions and will be posted next weekend, but for now you can see where next week's poem began. And yes, it is raining on my first three tulips that have bloomed so far this spring.

Dripping, soaking, drizzling

the wet soaks through

soil, clothes, skin.

They are rooting

spreading themselves out

underground

becoming stable

reaching for the sun

bursting bright colors into

the world, embracing

the sky with their roots deep

and strong underground

drinking the rain

life from the clouds.

Wet days make the dry days

bearable and beautiful.

If every day was sunny

they would die dry and cracked

give thanks for the rain

that feeds the joy of

sunny Spring days.

Medusa

This comes from the poetry prompt for my Advanced Creative Writing class, where we were to write something in the style of Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red

Appendix

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Gorgon: having the face of a human female, with venomous snakes for hair. looking

    directly at her turns mortals to stone.

Medusa: A gorgon. Beheaded by the hero Perseus.

Going Out

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She felt like an anti-vampire, only going out in sunlight.

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She put on her slouchy hat and mirrored glasses,

checked her reflection

nothing peeking out from under her hat

she couldn’t se her eyes.

She stepped out of her door and into the bright sunlight

she only went out when it was bright

that way she could wear her hat and sunglasses

people still stared though

it is hard not to get stares when your hat squirms

or hisses

Just don’t stare back, don’t look people in the eye

even through dark glasses

a returned stare could still harden hearts

and faces.

Blind Date

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Dating is such a complicated thing.

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She finally had a date with someone who wouldn’t get stoned

just from one look

someone who could be with her and not make her feel guilty.

Her friends had set them up

a private screened booth in a fancy restaurant

no one staring

She could even take her sunglasses off once the waiter left

her friends had left instructions

no one was to come in for half an hour after the food had been served

they would have time

for her to explain the hissing, the rustling sounds

she would tell him

not to touch her face, her hair until it knew him better.

Bad Hair Day

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It was one of those days where nothing was going right, and she hadn’t even had breakfast yet.

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She had been fighting with her hair in the mirror for fifteen minutes

it wouldn’t hold still

hissing, slithering, twisting, twining

they wouldn’t take treats

how was she supposed to go out with her snakes acting up?

they hadn’t liked him

the blind date. It had gone fine, he was polite, quiet, blind

but the snakes didn’t like him

they didn’t share her loneliness, her need for company

the snakes had each other

who needs a human when there are serpents around

but it wasn’t fair

just because they didn’t like him, they were throwing a hissy-fit

literally, and loudly

Bag of Bones

Bag of bones,

sack of guts,

is skin all

that contains what is

inside?

Worm food or

Soylent Green.

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust,

from the earth we came

and to the earth we return,

bones and guts and

ashes and dirt

all wrapped in

skin.

Where are the muscles,

the tendons,

the strength?

People are more

than jiggling sagging bags

waiting to burst

and rot.

The prompt for this week was to write a poem that constantly noticed what was inside things, and this is what came out of that prompt and my head. I've been in a bit of a mood lately.

The Bouquet

         Someone had sent her flowers. They sat now, arranged in her best vase, brightening the breakfast nook. She hadn’t sat at that table for almost a year. She never went into her breakfast nook anymore. But that table is where bouquets had always been put, and that is where she found this bouquet waiting for her. It was where bouquets belonged.

There were roses, and daisies, and Baby’s Breath, and carnations, and other flowers whose names she did not remember. It was a beautiful bouquet, big and showy, and it must have been expensive. There was a small card that had come with the bouquet, but she had not opened it. She was afraid to read it, afraid of who it might be from, and sad because of who it could not be from.

But he was the only person to ever buy her bouquets. He had made sure to get her a big bouquet for their anniversary every year, it would be waiting there on the breakfast table in the morning when she got up, leaving him still asleep in their bedroom. And it was their anniversary, or would have been if he had not left her here, alone. Almost a year ago, now. She had held his hand until he was gone. He had said that he would always love her, that their love was eternal. And today there was a bouquet.

Midwinter Naptime

Outside, silence.

No birds.

No cars.

No dogs barking.

Mute snow drifting

to muffle the world.

Everything stops.

Frozen outside.

Inside music and

warmth.

Fake fireplace on

the TV.

Music playing.

Dog below the TV.

Dreaming

of a real fireplace.

Cats dozing,

draped over comfy chairbacks.

Midwinter naptime.