Back, sadly

I did write over spring break. Perhaps not a poem a day, but I'm not flagellating myself about it. I'll post them as I get them typed, unedited and unpolished, as usual; mere sneezes on the page.

Spring Break

Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."

The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.

Today,

I am on spring break. Those words alone are poetry enough to my ears.

Yesterday's poem,

which I wrote (well, sneezed) yesterday, but which I could not post as I am without a computer right now. (Hard drive full; how can such a thing be possible?) I'm stealing some time on POM's laptop.

Maundy Thursday

Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.

Short one...zzzzz...

Four a.m.
comes early, ma'am,
and I must go to bed.

Hey, it's raining (yes, in SoCal)!

Today's prompt (actually it's tomorrow's, but being on the left coast has its advantages): List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame. If all else fails, write a list poem giving your old flames new names.

an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.

i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.

he ran away.

i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.

Late Poem

That's right, folks! We have everything here: highbrow, lowbrow, and whatever comes below that. I wrote this last night but was too sleepy to post it.

Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.

Of the moment

Not a NaPoWriMo prompt poem, but a poem nonetheless, completely rough and raw and essentially unedited, as are most of the poems I publish here.

Palm Dualities

He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.

What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.

My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.

On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.


[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]