I wake up humming
a song from 1984
I sing later in the shower
flashback to
Lauper’s orange hair
& brilliant eyeshadow
rasping my ears
like a happy
raucous parrot
girls just wanna have fun
I guess I still do
though now I claim jazz
& classical
as favorites
the intellectual flights
& pauses
hide old vinyl
in the back of my closet
where it belongs
Maybe the title should be “Confessions of a Poet Stalker.” You’ll have to let me know. Many years ago, I used to hang out occasionally with a very talented poet and activist, Brian Brown-Cashdollar.
After I started writing again in February of this year, I was reviewing 17-year-old poetry, short stories, and the novel that’s been in my desk unfinished for years, and I started noticing Brian’s editing marks on my work.
This naturally led to me trying to see if I could find any of his work online, and I did. Here.
And then I decided it would be a great idea to put my material on here, too (after all, it’s only going to be read publically a few times a year, and otherwise will sit in my desk drawer collecting dust). So here I am, so very glad to have met all of you, all because I typed Brian’s name into Google with poetry tagged on the end.
So, it’s only fair I direct you to his blog here, http://unfinishedpractice.wordpress.com/
Hope you enjoy!
turning cartwheels
in the church garden
(mercifully
on the grass)
dark chocolate eyes blaze joy
yes, she is
the breath of God
resuscitating life
it is easy to love you
while you sleep,
arms wide in careless abandon
small smile curving your lower lip
so much easier
than when you wake,
yesterday’s anger
still framing your eyes
do not forget
it is our differences
that draw us together
flint and steel
together spark fire
Monsanto, maker
of agent orange & roundup
crafts what’s on our plates
strive for 5 poisons
a day, make some leafy green–
kids, eat your spinach
potato beetles
dead striped shells clinging to leaves
they dared to devour
maybe some foods kill
to occupy Monsanto
we’d have to live there
find your bliss
Campbell used to say;
where to look?
the bright core
inside all of us
ecstatic
encountered
unexpectedly
& we leap
for more, but
cannot capture it
bliss finds us
we Sunday drivers
take hard turns
along curves of language
hit potholes of preaching
spin tires in mud
of our own making
when we go offroad
but hear us sing
& sometimes
watch us fly.
Susan Daniels Poetry 