Solitary brooding wolf
howling his icy breath
still visible
on the horizon.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Hemorrhoid Hilda
I'm dedicating this to my Doctor--Susan thanks for the inspiration****
She is not cancerous
just a
pain in the ass.
A stuffed vein
screaming for
an extra glass of water
that should
cut out the
ice cream
and red meat--
red wine
cut back on
the
brie--
groan,
chocolate.
Add more leafy green
assorted bits of orange
and yellow
to her day.
Allowing
her
to cool down
have fewer flare-ups.
Soothed
by another
woman
named hazel
who
comes
highly
recommended.
She is not cancerous
just a
pain in the ass.
A stuffed vein
screaming for
an extra glass of water
that should
cut out the
ice cream
and red meat--
red wine
cut back on
the
brie--
groan,
chocolate.
Add more leafy green
assorted bits of orange
and yellow
to her day.
Allowing
her
to cool down
have fewer flare-ups.
Soothed
by another
woman
named hazel
who
comes
highly
recommended.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Weather Forecast
Stubborn
slant
across
wide
forehead
interests
curious
bystanders.
forecast
predicts
intermittent
periods
of
rain
and
shine.
Clearing
to be
followed
by a
some
growth
spurts
and a
couple
phases
of
hormonal
flux
gradually
descending
into
tolerable
and
intolerable
bouts
of
suffering
eventually
coming
full
circle
learning
then
forgetting
about
weather.
slant
across
wide
forehead
interests
curious
bystanders.
forecast
predicts
intermittent
periods
of
rain
and
shine.
Clearing
to be
followed
by a
some
growth
spurts
and a
couple
phases
of
hormonal
flux
gradually
descending
into
tolerable
and
intolerable
bouts
of
suffering
eventually
coming
full
circle
learning
then
forgetting
about
weather.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I Came to Hear
I came to hear -- the last train whistle leaving Berlin,
escaping to the West-- the only sane noise
left in a young girls ears, blocking out the bombs,
wiping them clean from her memory.
I came to hear-- the growl of empty
stomachs churning from too many days
of gobbling raw potatoes stolen from the farmer’s field.
Bald headed mothers and children—classified undernourished C.
I came to see --the hopeful stare of a mother with five children
who vainly searched for her husband--
drafted and missing.
I came to smell the horror-- of a child
exhumed a month after he died, wrapped in nothing but a blanket,
reburied by his brothers-- tormented with lit cigarettes and cold steel.
I came to learn-- the truth of a young couple and their infant daughter
who immigrated to a new country
glistening with opportunity,
unschooled in the language,
having only their youth and wellbeing.
I came to know-- a young girl
who helped her parents learn the slang and the dialect,
who lived in the railroad apartment on the second floor,
of an old brownstone in Manhattan, where she learned to hate vegetables
and climb fire escapes.
The one with the crooked bangs
and the stubborn smile
who waited and held on tight,
and never forgot
what her Mother told her
about the horror
of war
evil men,
and shame.
A story passed down
piecing together fractured lives,
seizing-- stolen moments,
storing up-- the laughter
and the tears.
I came to hear.
escaping to the West-- the only sane noise
left in a young girls ears, blocking out the bombs,
wiping them clean from her memory.
I came to hear-- the growl of empty
stomachs churning from too many days
of gobbling raw potatoes stolen from the farmer’s field.
Bald headed mothers and children—classified undernourished C.
I came to see --the hopeful stare of a mother with five children
who vainly searched for her husband--
drafted and missing.
I came to smell the horror-- of a child
exhumed a month after he died, wrapped in nothing but a blanket,
reburied by his brothers-- tormented with lit cigarettes and cold steel.
I came to learn-- the truth of a young couple and their infant daughter
who immigrated to a new country
glistening with opportunity,
unschooled in the language,
having only their youth and wellbeing.
I came to know-- a young girl
who helped her parents learn the slang and the dialect,
who lived in the railroad apartment on the second floor,
of an old brownstone in Manhattan, where she learned to hate vegetables
and climb fire escapes.
The one with the crooked bangs
and the stubborn smile
who waited and held on tight,
and never forgot
what her Mother told her
about the horror
of war
evil men,
and shame.
A story passed down
piecing together fractured lives,
seizing-- stolen moments,
storing up-- the laughter
and the tears.
I came to hear.
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