I Am A Poet

Hello, my name is Cornelia

And I am a poet because

I need to condense this moment, now     the

who, what, where, when, why,  and how... of it.

I have a purpose, a tenacity, crystal clear.

Plus, I want to choose from an endless list of black and strong 

to go with my Einstein bagel and schmear.  Also, teach Kimmie how to say

Ursula (Err-sue-LA) 

 

TRULY, I am a poet 

Because it doesn’t mean a thing

If you haven’t got that zing

to people in the bayou

with alligators for neighbors

and mosquitoes as big as flying saucers

those who want to drink your blood

and leave welts the size of basketballs.

BIG...ORANGE...HARD...BALLS.

The balls that it takes

to stand UP and SHOUT 

about SENIORITY and AUTHORITY

and about the assonance and consequence

of our actions.

 

I am a poet

because of the reason and the rhyme, marking time 

Dripping off my tongue-- aged like fine wine.

Lyrical and magical 

Like ALICE

Chasing a rabbit into a hole, out of control

hanging on a cliff, with a NOTE 

high on hope, instead of dope.

Set adrift, on a sinking ship with a Fever

unrehearsed and cursed, to just be.

 

I am a poet 

because of sibilant S’s 

and because I want to weigh the wind 

on an impossible scale next to a fish tail that never pales, 

smells stale or          fishy.

I want to be shackled to a form and not mourn.

To show the flaming red dawn  like a phoenix rising from the ashes 

to give birth to the music of my faith 

Forever skewed, on strong WORDS,

RINGING in my ears, HIGH ABOVE THE HERD

until my LAST measured day, on Earth.

 

The Barber's Theater

 

He is magnificent.

Standing there in his white shirt and dark trousers, he takes slow, deliberate steps in a well-worn semi-circle.

His sharp scissors shape and clip, carefully clicking along to a favorite tune.

An eclectic mix of light and dark locks 

heap on the floor,

a bushy witness to his art.

A favored comb is well-positioned in his back pocket, ready for its cameo, then placed back as the razor continues to hum. He finishes with the Asian man before me: neck freshly shaven and brushed, cologne dabbed, and, too soon, the smock is removed and shaken.

The black and white checkered floor is swept. He pivots from the polished chrome and black leather chair to announce,

Next...

It is gripping like a one-act play,

and I am the only woman in the theater.

He smiles and looks towards me, repeating the invitation.

I amble towards him, no longer confident of the lucidity of my whim, then purposefully plop myself down in his chair to stare dolefully at my reflection. He swings the chair around so I can no longer see and proceeds to work. It doesn’t take long.

After he finishes, he hands me a mirror. My neck is quite pale above the old hairline, and I sense sunburn in my future.

I am not sure why, but I pay him.

I suppose that I am star-struck. He is Barnum, and I am not.

He nods curtly as I am dismissed, and the regulars continue to file in. 

The leather chair is still moist from my heat.

Broken Glass- ABCdarian

A

Broken Glass

Clearly

Defines the moment.

Evident in the 

Forefront 

Grabbing my attention.

How does the

Imperfect yet polished

Juxtaposition

Kill my mood

Leaving

Me

No choice

Of course, but to

Pick up my pencil 

Queue it to experience

Reflect on the moment

Savor the lost sip

Thread it into the story

Underscore the importance

Value the color

Wheel it this way and that

Xerox it, then sail off on a

Yacht and study

Zen.

The Bald Wonder

 An excerpt from The Katya Chronicles

 

 

 

 

Why must it always come down to that?

Didn’t they know he had connections with the spirit world?

 

He could fly without a machine

and higher than any human or feline.

He’d spotted the band that way

promised them that his kind did not carry off toddlers

All they had to do was entertain his boss.

 

That was when he noticed her orange hair

just like the prince, but uncombed.

A sign.

 

He would put them together. 

Perhaps she would donate her luscious mane,

to the Royals.

In exchange for sundries. 

That way, the heir could have a spare wig.

He was far too young to be spending all his extra time in the turret.

Barter worked well with the serfs. Besides,

the prince had a soft spot for young pussies.

She could wear a bandanna until it regrew.

Very stylish in upper cat circles.

 

Katya would improve her lot 

The prince would have a new kitty to play with

It was a win/win.

There was something about this one, too.

She was smarter than the rest

Perhaps he could teach her chess.

Meadow Pause

 Meadow Pause is what he called it.

But Meadow Pause made me feel like a confused,

overheated cow pausing in a meadow beside a guava tree.

A plump famished cow

Nay, a tail swatting cow

swiping a multitude of relentless flies.

Mooing in a high-pitched voice to Mother Nature about trade-wind breezes.

Causing my mood to surge from pink to blue and then see red, while sliding down a temperamental roller coaster in a pinball machine, stirring up a myopic zeal to murder Father Time.

A confused, overheated, plump, famished, moody, myopic cow, plodding down a meadow path in a sticky pasture, contemplating the change.

before my milk runs dry and I become irrelevant and invisible.

Or worse, before I cease to exist and someone turns me into a giant bag of rawhide dog chews.

The considerable dilemma of one confused, bellowing, moody, myopic, fat cow that would not go quietly through the rails.

No, indeed

This pacing, panting, drooling cow promises

to alert the other cow bitches

that are sure to follow.

Ft. Shafter Ladies

 Pacific golden plovers

Do a hopscotch dance,

Parade on dense fairways 

through sprinklers advance.

Stalked by a female tribe 

swinging metal shafts,

chasing after dimpled spheres 

of a bone-crushing blast.

 

Then, frightened by a thirsty sow 

midst eggshells littered mean,

as a pig dog lounges, on a nearby

 red-flagged green

 

Now three metal cranes stiffly survey 

from an urban rain forest in concrete dismay.

 

As this senior, giggling, practiced group 

stuff another four-inch hole,

with multi-hued and coded balls 

In measured, arthritic control.

 

They pause at the ninth to add their separate scores 

Then resumed their play to win this local Army course. 

Finishing eighteen with time to spare, the weekly game, 

And collect their winning shares. 

 Wild Catch

 

It was hot again that night,

on an isle of sea and sand.

A small wild girl sat fishing, 

scraped knees upon the land.

The tide was rushing out,

as twilight had begun,

exposing crabs and clams, 

by dinner’s midnight sun. 

She’d crouched into the water still,

while seagulls flew on by,

and waited for a tempting bite,

beneath the star-filled sky.

The prize she waited for, 

while gliding on its way,

did not surpass this small lass,

who waited in the bay,

and as it swam, she reached out her hand,

and scooped it clean away.

She took it home to show the clan

this trophy fish she caught with her bare hands

to confirm that daughters can also do

whatever in hell they set their minds to.