let’s avoid allusions
illusions
& pretentiousness
I want to write poetry
that rolls in the mud
& is happy
sleeping in sun
on the windowsill
or drinking in rain
like the thirsty dirt
I so want to make pies of
yes, let’s not
pretend to be clever
& instead
bite into this world
like a ripe melon
then rub the juice
all over our faces
there are
elements in this process
I might have neglected
along the way
like use of meter,
alliteration,
or assonance string-
ing syllables taut,
so it doesn’t sound
like a Blue Mountain
Greeting Card;
because free verse
is often confused
with pretty words
dripping down a page
begging forgiveness
or hoping to get laid
(or both,
on a good day).
Imagery is easy for me;
I dream in simile
& loved the Star Trek episode
where the aliens only spoke metaphor
(Next Generation,
of course–
Capt Kirk
never got that
freaky).
So,
since I don’t
write in tight meter
or count syllables
(except in haiku)
it is miraculous
that sometimes
this language I use
to translate image
into thought
stumbles into poetry
in spite of itself
She wakes,
shaking off
2 full nightmares, complete
with story lines
& nothing for comfort
but the heady promise
of coffee still brewing
she paints her morning
with cryptic comments
in her Facebook status
that her friends
will “Like”
or read over,
shaking heads–
still trying to figure out
what “So sorry
that you had blinders on”
really meant
at that particular moment
***This is a poem (or fragment–can’t decide which) for my high-school friend Nancy, who I warned I was going to steal her status updates for a poem one day…..
may is the month
for remembering
my sister’s birth
my mother’s death
separated by years,
only 4 days apart
on the calendar
the flowers I place
carefully
over their graves
spice the air
like cinnamon
coloring the palate
remembered love
& newness
so closely woven together
with lilacs budding
& spring planting
I do this every year
if I look up
from where I kneel
I will see the house
where I grew into
the woman I am;
while my children run
along the cemetery road
where few cars pass
my mother sold it
years ago,
not wanting to see
where she would someday
be buried, reminded
every morning
drinking her coffee
so a stranger
owns that house now,
though it will
always be mine,
always ours,
the way we own forever
the places that shape us
I brush dirt
from my knees
& stand up,
done with the task
of remembering
open my arms
in a stretch
& move on,
intent
on this business of living
magic happens here,
how buried seeds become life
new leaves greeting sun
share this hour with me,
gray and drowsing before sun
dreams sweet on your tongue
Susan Daniels Poetry 