12 midnight. Poem 22. Bisquik Pizza
12 midnight. Poem 22.
Bisquik Pizza
With her Bisquik box
Mom made white lady pizza.
Dad went nuts for it.
Ground beef sausage cookie sheet
Pizza. So L.A. suburbs…
Angel
Her eyes, like stars, shine in the night,
And make my world a place of light.
Her touch is soft as gentle breeze,
A feeling that brings me to my knees.
I love this girl with all my heart,
And pray that we will never part.
She’s the one I want by my side,
In her love, I will always abide.
So, my dear, know this is true,
My love for you will always renew.
With every breath, I’ll cherish thee,
POET VS. PIZZA (hour xxii)
My friend, in New Jersey, spoke into a parcel
that was delivered to me in Lagos
Her words screamed out of the parcel
“You can’t please everyone
You are not pizza.’
I will sustain my silence on pizza
for I am still not pleased by it
23~13
my job
it seems
is cleaning
cleaning up
shit
literally
from my
furry sick babies
figuratively
cleaning up
shit from others
the people around me
leaving
all their shit
for me to clean
always filthy
forcing smiles
i scoop
i scour
poop
Hour 21 – A Polyamory Handbook Invites Me to Imagine A New Front Yard
A Polyamory Handbook Invites Me to Imagine A New Front Yard
“Even in my own fantasy I cannot see how to love the way the world begs me to. Like a weed, but what we’ve named a weed is just soil surrendering” – Joshua Elbaum
Did you know grass can grow 24 inches tall? Become its own jungle for the crawling? We have been cutting down their redwoods and calling it neighborly. We’ve been wasting water– their water and ours– for the utterance of “lush” or “tidy”.
I have dreamed a yard that does not honor green at its core, nor a shrowd of white to protect it. One that taunts the lawnmower, lets it rust or run in another sphere of living. I have dreamed a yard that is observed with mouths agape– aghast in horror or in wanting.
I will plant mandrake and alder, cinnamon and rosemary, yarrow and mugwort, belladonna, basil, lavender, even rue. All the herbs to protect each extension of my love. Have an itch in your throat? A stomach that rumbles? The Earth will have its remedy here.
I will honor the growth through teas, salves, and tinctures. Take only what I need, resist guilt as it gives me more than I expected. The plants expand and breathe and perhaps grow toward me. Can phototropism be redirected to a new source? Can someone grow toward nature, too?
I will name each seedling for a different love, planted by four steady hands. Nurture, feed, water, pray at the altar of their roots for a blooming. I will not blame the wilting on the flowers, nor give credit only to the stigmas and styles.
We will tend this landscape together. All of us. Gardeners filtering through revolving doors of kisses and caring, softened conflict that mutates into understanding. We will build a word together for all the little things and think ourselves among the bees and butterflies that thrive.
Quarters
Wednesday.
Grocery Day.
And if I can find a quarter,
I can ride the merry-go-round
at the market
when Mommy goes to town.
‘Apollo’ and I
will fly round and round–
and never leave the ground…
So, early, to grandma’s, I run,
To sweep her porch,
Get chores done.
Under the arching elms,
Sun-dappled, dew-laden,
Dandelioned and buttercup-strewn,
Past twining roses,
the breeze splashing about
in the fragrant cloud,
confetti of pink petals
clings to my bare feet.
At the back door,
I can hear through the screen,
friendly chatter,
the milkman delivering
the usual two gallons,
boxed donuts,
cartons of eggs–
‘almost as fresh
as the biddie’s used to bring’–
And brief company
for a lonely old woman,
past raising her own chickens.
“Well, hello there, my friend”.
Though kindergarten stole me away,
my Wednesday-friend is still the same:
“What is behind your ear?”
Mr. Hooper, dark-rimmed glasses
that rest more on his cheeks,
than his nose;
wavy, white hair
curling out from the uniform cap,
reaches close,
retrieves a quarter hiding there,
just where he said,
where I was sure
I had scrubbed good.
He winks at Grandma;
waves goodbye, steps out
to his yellow delivery truck,
that waddles through the holes
in the gravel drive,
puddle-jumping
as it goes.
II
Wednesday.
Grandma is gone.
So is Mr. Hooper.
I have long-since stopped
hoarding quarters
for the merry-go-round
at the grocery.
Every Wednesday now—
and all the other six days beside—
study and essay,
notation and grade-point.
Quarter point between me
and valedictorian–
and scholarship.
Campus, littered with filtered shadow,
trees sway in golden light,
fringed with fragrant roses;
Pedal-strewn, the sidewalks
call me onward,
Miles to go,
around the academic calendar,
circles unrelenting.
No time for puddle jumping.
One quarter until graduation.
If only a quarter of a grade point
hid behind my ear;
I reach my finger up,
and check,
just to be sure.
III
Wednesday, again.
Where did all the Wednesdays go?
My editor marks off
the approaching deadline.
Deadlines met, passed, forgotten;
Replaced by the endlessness of task.
The next quarter-installment.
On Thursdays,
and sometimes on Fridays,
when no new deadline exhales
its dragon breath
through the filtered light
of a long and happy marriage,
where I seek quarter, find respite,
I can smell roses,
mostly from memory.
The neighbor’s chickens,
scratch along in my yard,
gift eggs under the roses,
where I’m certain there were none before.
Grandchildren sweep my back step for pocket change.
IV
There are no more milkmen.
Late on Wednesday,
I head to market, alone.
Park under a shady elm.
Over the clamor of folks
hurrying here and there,
I catch a hint of wild roses.
I still need my quarter,
to wrangle a cart,
from its locked corral.
I shop from a list of cans
and cannots,
meant to keep me well,
to extend my life.
With 90 in the rear view,
to what purpose?
Every Wednesday:
vegetables, fresh fruit, prunes, and salmon.
I forego the box of cereal twigs.
I get the regular coffee anyway.
And the muffins.
A carton of eggs–
nowhere near as fresh
as the biddies used to bring.
I head for the car.
There is a puddle;
Sadly, I am too tame,
have forgotten how–
My shoes would get soaked.
I let the coin-laden cart
run wild in the parking lot…
Relinquishing my last quarter.
Sej 2023
WORD VOMIT
How does one silence the mind anyway?
The thoughts pour out,
Steady stream,
Non-stop,
Like word vomit.
Coming so fast I barely have time to make connections,
Forgive me for the incoherent banter.
Burning Bush
The Burning Bush
But what good is God is He stays away, hidden
under words and signs, unperceived. Shouldn’t He be
right at our nose, holding our hand, walking beside?
Not a whisper in the willows, a light on a hill,
ice melting before our eyes. How can you capture
nothing? That’s when we fall. Unable to hear, we
go away. We wait for things to change, to know
before we leap. But we can only stop so long
until we must move. And we do, right or wrong. Feet
step down their path, hoping. We follow our voice.
How different life would be if He wasn’t fire in a tree.
24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 22: A Tribute to E. E. Cummings II “A Strange Little Town”
the street was adorned
with many wayward feet
bustling, in no particular direction
creating confusing circles in my reflection
patrons offering a certain type of encouragement
helping by suggesting a destination
like Mrs. Flanagan’s half-price sale
where you could also pick up your mail
I like to call it milling about
after all, it doesn’t have to be market day
to see how much Debbie McCabe’s stomach is growing
and yes, her face is glowing
procuring the most said phrase of all
Holly cumquats, look how much she’s grown
Millicent Miller is only fourteen
and has grown seven inches, and is still a string-bean
in a tradition of lore, cousins marry cousins,
there’s no law against it I guess
but it creates a simmer of distaste
for some who judge in their haste
openly telling of their dreams
and mentioning what Miss Winterbottom did,
“She always goes a bit crazy,” Sally Vickers said
when the colour of the leaves change to red
and the embellishment of the Boer War heroes
it’s better than telling of the jail sentence
for setting fire to Mr. Stone’s paper clip plant
because he didn’t like his political slant
The new mayor is well-trusted
he’s kissed every baby in town
and his best friend is the banker
whose son works at Madame’s in a gown
They know of the sun
the moon, the stars and the rain
as well as all four seasons
which are as predictable as Sammy Fontaine
He’ll get as drunk as a skunk today
and sleep in the stable tonight
Hour 22- Woe is the Lonely Pineapple
I don’t understand why people do not like pineapple on their pizza.
Why do they hate?
Why do they turn up their noses at it?
Why do they ignore its sheer deliciousness?
But most of all
Why should I worry what others like?
Why would I be expected to turn up my nose at it?
Why shouldn’t I order it over and over.
What I understand most is
Why I love pineapple on pizza.
Why I lift my nose to inhale its tangy fragrance.
Why I will stand up for and include pineapple…I do not discriminate!