POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: Urban Poet

Nights like hot biscuits in a plastic bag
I lie in my own perspiring,
mesmerized
by the ceiling fan's quick ticking
and willing it to struggle harder,
to lift the house
and me to anywhere else
Outside, muffled screams of fire engine
and resonant thumps of police chopper
whipping air like cream.
I try and fail to convince myself
the traffic's static
is Victoria Falls.
Can any good poet come out of the city?

Streams and fields and log-fed stoves--
that's what makes a poet.
Berry and Luci Shaw,
Wordsworth and Frost,
all products of natue,
although perhaps country alone
is no guarantee of purity--
I heard from a neighbor of Wendell's
that he is now raising tobacco.

(Unpublished)

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: Mercy

When you have given birth,
the uterus must be kneaded firmly
or there can be serious consequences.
Sometimes it takes a nurse
plunging her hand into your tired stomach
and squeezing for all she's worth
to do the job right.

When a nurse did this to me,
I grabbed her arms with both hands
and tried ineffectively to force her away.
As I did, recognizing that
the pain was necessary,
I gasped, "I'm sorry!"

O God, who will not let me fall
--although I try--now hold me fast.
I hear the charming siren's call:
Lord, chain me to the mast.

O God, I struggle raw--
I rave--
against Your love, and gnaw
the hand which keeps me
from the one I crave.

Lord, make me true to You
although it bring me to my grave.

O God who steers me opposite
my heart
until the rules of heaven change,
keep us apart.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: End of the Road

God stood at the border
and in His hand
His flaming word
turned every which way
to keep me out of Eden.

Beyond,
(craning my neck
to see around Him),
was the only tree I wanted.

But it was God Himself
who blocked me--
not cherubim
or jackasses--
so I had to listen.

And turn back.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: Waking

You broke the spell,
my figment prince.
The fantasies are in fragments.
How could illusions survive
your bursting out your door,
young with panic,
lobbing stones at California:
"Don't come any closer!"

I get the picture.

Stirring within the glass coffin,
I heard you say
you would not have slept with me.
Don't flatter yourself:
who said I wanted you to?
I wanted you to take me sledding
with your children,
let me sit with you and talk,
sipping hot chocolate.
I wanted to read poetry aloud with you
and fall asleep together
watching old movies.
Who said I wanted you
to sleep with me?

I feel cheated.
You slept with other women.
Why not me?

I am bad
because I want my Daddy
in the only way he taught me
I could have him.
I am bad
because I want you--
savagely,
newborn
at the breast--

I will go down to the bus stop
on Anaheim Street
and the first man
who propositions me,
I'm going to take him up on it.

I am not altogether
repulsive
you know.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: This is what love looks like

This is what love looks like
dissected,
on its back,
formaldehyde drying the gray fur stiff.
Paws sprawled,
head back,
eyes shut,
gray tongue caught
between gray lips.

I'd rather curl up in your lap
and purr.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: When with goodbye

When with goodbye
I laid you by
and quietly
prepared to die.

I would not let
myself forget
how much I owed
and owe him yet.

Though others may
explain away
their vows exchanged
their wedding day,

indulge wtih ease
their fantasies,
and with deceit,
brief pleasure seize,

quite clear of eye,
I choose to die--
I lie because
I will not lie.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: The box is gold

The box is gold
and satin-lined,
its limits wide
its contours kind.
Within its walls
I lie confined.

It doesn't mean
to be a cell
How wicked I
to see it hell.

I know my role--
to keep control!
I'll lose my self
but save my soul.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: I came alive

I came alive
when all around
was dead and proper,
rigid, bound.

When round about
they lay asleep,
I felt released
to laugh and leap.

Asleep, they lay
while I, on toe,
could hardly keep
my heartbeat so.

On toe, aflame
with rare delight,
I poised for
instant, giddy flight.

Delight from staid--
between, a wedge--
I fluttered on
my coffin's edge.

A wedge placed all
I had against
all that was me--
or so I sensed.

Immensely grieved,
they hurt to know
my readiness
to lift and go.

Though hurt, they
generously gave
good reasons to
stay in my grave.

And so I laid
myself to rest.
Life isn't safe--
they know what's best.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: I live on wind and tears

I live on wind and tears,
I walk the pleasant shore,
Content with what appears
And restless to my core.

Too late for me to sing;
My life in good array,
I wouldn't change a thing--
But give it all away.

I've reached by way of prayer
The harmony I'd sought
But such a wan compare,
I'd leave without a thought.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: To Walk the Silent Forest Floor

To walk the silent
forest floor,
pine needles
damp beneath my tread,
to let the first
meandering flakes
dissolve unfelt on
hand and head,

To gaze, until I'm
full at last,
on cloud-capped
peaks and ferny caves,
to wade in
cooling streams and watch
the seasons and the
pulsing waves--

Ungrateful heir
to deeds and cars
to wish instead
for stars.

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: For safety I hop

                                   For safety I hop
                         pretending a wounded wing,
                                 away from my self.


                        (Written November 26, 1991)

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: Possum

POSSUM

Watch me play possum:

Reynolds women,
my brother calls us with amusement.
Not intellectual
(although I have as many degrees
as he has),
not interested in serous study
of the Bible
(although I'm the one
with a degree in theology;
I got the A in Greek.)

Watch me play possum:

Women,
my husband says fondly.
Not much good at technical stuff,
are you?
Though I got an A in electronics,
I am the one with the ham license,
I am the one with awards
for photographs I took and processed
and he cannot run the computer
without me.

They think they know me
and what they know is not threatening
so they leave me to myself.
I hunker
in the corners of life,
overhearing it
and am content.


(Written November 26, 1991)

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: Reconnaissance

When I nose down
into myself
to map my pain,
my mind locks
and I cannot pull out.

How many times have I died this way?

POEMS OF THE ROUGH TIMES: It's harder being an adult

It isn't that kids don't suffer
but that the pain each ouch brings
is not one more in forty years of stings.

To wince once, recoil and recover
is easier than springing back
from blows so many we've lost track.