21/30: TAL#175

Her strictly Catholic mother called her a whore
before she even knew what it meant,
how to spell it even, her mother's eyes
stabbing judgments into her back, so she did
what any kid who wants to survive a parent must do:
she lied.

Their name (she said) was McCreary, a lovely family,
the son six, the daughter five, the wife
just lovely, charming, kind and the husband
busy and important: a secret government agent,
so she couldn't give her mother the phone number,
or the address to the house where she babysat;
it was a matter of government security, of course.

They had a summer home, too, near the lake,
and she had to go with them, and her brother
went too, a good role model for the son, they said.
They spent every weekend out there, all summer long
and her mother was so pleased, her eyes now
clear, now proud, asking the most important question:
"And what do they think of me?"
She gave the only possible reply:
"They think you're wonderful."

Years later, after the McCrearys moved away
and the girl grew up, made her own family,
a real one, she confronted her mother one day,
called her out for all her wrongs, her lies,
each nail she'd hammered in and she broke down,
cried: "I did the best I could."
It was the first truth the girl could remember
being spoken between them.

Rory Names the Spanish Colors.

Oh, I know this one. Rogue? Rouge. No, Ro--
ro. Rogo. Rojo. I know that one. Gr...
No, bear. Day. Verde. Oh, me! Don't
tell me. That one's azul. Negro. Blanco. A--
Ahm. Am-ee-yo. Ah-ree-yo. Ama. Amarillo.
Can I have the candy now? I can count to ten next.
Oh, that's the hard one. That's. Ah. Ahna.
Ah-rah-do. DON'T TELL ME. I can do it.
Ahna-rah-do. Anaranjado.

And with that, she climbed into my lap
for a hug.

what is and isn't in the photograph

an exercise in poetry as photography:

the one in the yellow
sweater
hoodie
is my little sister.
you can tell by her eyes
that don't want to focus
the whole world is new to her still.

the girl with the scowl
beneath wicked curls
is myself.
by my face you can tell
i'm at least old enough
to have learned
what it means
to hear "no."

in the photo i
lean toward her as she
fails to notice.
perhaps she already is planning:
the move to the city,
the life left behind,
the sister she never
will visit again.

NaPoWriMo day 15: meh.

I couldn't get happy with what I was writing so instead I'm posting some haiku/senryu/short poems about childhood. I'm not proud. But honestly, I'm still fucked up over the fact that someone out there found my drafts. I'm okay with sharing to people I've approved to be on my friends list, but these were on paper, these were real and printed and had edits scribbled. What's more, I also lost my class schedule for fall and I'm supposed to register tomorrow morning... Looks like I'm getting up early to make calls...

Forgive me today, poets, I've no idea what to do:

brave heroes leaping
from couch to coffee table:
the floor is lava!

kick those little legs
until you swing so high that you
feel like you might fly

sidewalks become moats
bicycles are great white steeds
nothing is not real.

three children laughing.
underneath hypocrite fists,
one child is crying.

what joy can be found
in huge piles of fallen leaves
and their destruction.

NaPoWriMo day 14: the "write about a childhood game" draft

I'm pulling this poem back down until I'm more happy with it.

napowrimo: 4/4 or adolescence hung

Adolescence hung on the laundry line
like a paper doll tied up with twine,
no strength to move her fragile paper limbs.
Adolescence hung her head in shame
while everyone pointed and called her names
and brought their scissors out to have a trim.
I suspect there’s a less lame-o rhyme for limb I could use here... but then I’d have to change the second line in the next stanza as well...

Adolescence’s legs swung in the breeze
while scissors threatened to snip at her knees
and paper tears fell from her paper face.
I’ll tell you what Adolescence is:
She’s not grown up, but not a kid;
a feeling that you don’t fit anyplace.

She’s thin but not quite thin enough,
She acts it but does not feel tough,
and one strong gust could carry her away,
and every laugh within your view
seems to be aimed right at you.
What’s reason? You know true fear needs no base.
I slip between "she" and "you" because I want the poem to remind people of their own adolescence, but wonder if it works or if it’s too awkward or if there’s a way to fix it.

But Adolescence has paper wings
budding and growing and dying to sing
into air and take her far away from the crowds.
Adolescence got away just in time,
her tough paper arms ripping the twine
and soaring up to float among the clouds.

Adolescence is a lonely bird
made of paper, she feeds on words,
so when you feed her words, do not be rash.Who’s got an idea of how not to have to repeat "feed her words" here?
Withhold ugly, don’t use dumb
feed her beauty and brilliance, achievement and fun,
’til a paper phoenix rises up from her ash.Again: too obvious? I could come up with something different I’m sure of it...