Susan Daniels Poetry

Stained sneakers scuffing sidewalk,
hands stuffed in the pocket of a torn pea-coat
Daniel in bluejeans screams sermons
into frozen air.  Red-bearded,
handknit cap hiding long curls,
he’s a latter-day prophet promising damnation.

Across the street
Neojesus preaches free love,
thrusts safe sex pamphlets
into gloved fists.  The gospel
of sterile needles and sanitized sex
shall save us.

Prophets are ignored in their own country.
We slip past, eyes downturned
as words ricochet, embed
in the psyche.  Our bodies hide the shrapnel
of countless Sunday mornings, sharp fragments
that poison the blood.  We will not listen.

Their voices draw fire from air
as they read the words spray-painted on the wall:
Me’ne, Me’ne, Te’kel,
Uphar’sin.

God has numbered our kingdom, and finished it.
We are weighed in the balance, and are found wanting.
Our kingdom is divided, and given over. 

We will not listen.

I am impatient
in love

just like that first yellow crocus
knows it is foolish
to open early
but still pushes
through the thin crust of snow

expanding eagerly
inside March air

clean & treacherous
as ice

I collect old loves
the way my grandmother
collected china patterns

I know, intimately,
the colors and textures,
the graceful turns
of gilt edgings

I want to create/with you
some live thing

memories
are for old women
to display carefully

away from children
and cats

A flowershop rosebud opened too soon
your petals crumble to ash
in my palm

traces of gray I carelessly brush
from my fingertips

She fits you easy as torn jeans,
moves to your motion,
never restricts.

She is cut
to your pattern,
unlike me,
the thrift-shop Friday-night shirt
you buy on impulse.

Too colorful
for every day, uncomfortable
if worn too long.