May - Poem 18
Waiting / Desirae Chacon
waiting to wake up
waiting to sleep
waiting to live
waiting for eternity
waiting to walk
waiting to run
waiting for solitude
waiting to be in love
waiting for money
waiting to spend
waiting for arrivals
waiting for departures
what do we do when we wait?
what do we do in the in between?
what do we do in the pauses of life?
though may not seem like productivity
is at stir
yet these moments are never wasteful
rest waits to arrive
joy walks to run
solitude awakes to great company
Life waits to live
And Love finds a way.
The Unicorn Longs / Heather Frankland
The unicorn longs
for its brutal origins
no maiden lap for it
no Rainbow Bright
no cotton candy horn
no Lisa Frank image
no glitter
no protecting the forest
no cleaning pools of water
no giving eternal life.
It wants rage.
It wants a horn
that punctures like
the tip of the sharpest knife.
It wants the mud.
It wants the cave.
It wants to kill
any idea that
it is this lazy unicorn
daydreaming on maidens’ laps
letting its mane
be braided with garlands
of bright flowers.
It wants to escape
to join the shadows
to control them,
bend them to its will—
erase its beautiful features
become the vicious creature.
What pleasure to be free
to become the monster
to embrace the beast
to strike fear, not sweet relief.
Waiting for a Train (Part 1) / John Hanright
I.
Here I stand waiting
My suitcase in one hand
In the other my pride –
It is just as well
Beside me on the platform
People also stand waiting
For a train…
Some of them will go
For the 8:30 into the city
Others will wait
For the 9:30 – impatiently
Tapping their feet
Yet riveted to the spot
Only the spiritually destitute
Regard as necessary
Such an (in)human invention
“The Schedule”
Yet here we stand waiting
For a train…
I loved
My job
The sum of over thirty years now
Years folded over years
Like the stiff shirts in my suitcase
Clutched in a fist
My pride dangles limply
Hopeless to try a new game
Now, routine is better than uncertainty
Casual / Jillian Humphrey
I began in earnest
and I continued
into vigilance
and all self-
consciousness. As the times required
I learned to be self-aware
which was terminal
if necessary for understanding
that no one wanted
such an eagerness
nor sincerity nor trying.
I was trying
but needed to demonstrate
that I wasn’t even
thinking too much.
Nothing was hard,
and everything a big laugh
after all. I didn’t want anything
from you nor did I have need
of anything. I didn’t take anything
too seriously because I was
not supposed to, and I was
not obedient, only naturally
likeable. Could anyone believe
this? Me —
only a little wafer,
thin and pale and flavorless,
meant to dissolve on your tongue.
KOOS / Shane Moran
for Lee
Shaded
fernery
chest
fever hunts for the flowerless
I tell her she has not grown old
and the sun’s still friendly
Another mourning body fleshed still boned
Adoring deadselves? Good for nobody Remember skin
like ferns still in their garden (grown) need sunlight
Come wear your floppy
hat I’ll bring cherry sherbert
tell me which bird sings
B. Jay
P. Finch
Crow.
To The Sun And All Her Friends / Christina Vagenius
It’s ok if you don't want to stay a little longer.
I understand your conundrum; the praise
of Easter morning. The blanket white toast
of the cathedral wall. The lopsided shadow
edging you out. Isn't it funny how we thought
we could go for days and never lose you —
to the wind, to the geese and their push-pinned bodies
spun like a donkey’s tail against the concrete sky
blindfolded to what doesn’t hold. But here we are, again.
Dumbstruck by the loss. Winter’s broom pushing us
back to the bell’s center. Asking us to listen, to tap the walls.
See if there’s some dark part of us that still hums.
Squirrely Girlie Dream Diary / Sonya Wohletz
(1)
Squirrely girlie caught in the manufactured siding—mama is here, but she can’t save you. Chew your way out. Use your teeth.
(2)
Of course it started the way these things generally do:
you asked me to dance.
We waltzed for an empty orchestra. In case you couldn’t tell, I have reverence
for formalities.
What you took to mean a certain indifference—my reserved bearing—
I must confess, was my way of containing my unlearned nerves.
Then, you suggested we trade partners.
I find Finn. Finn knows how to have fun. Finn
as it turns out, will find a rich bride.
That is why we have rhythm—we both know it is not meant to last.
We cut up the floor without even touching once.
My shoes go all silky; he marvels at my footwork.
Later I comb my hair, prepare myself for you—
but you’ve already made your decision.
Had I been instructed to inhabit
my senses, surely
you would have offered something to my father
in exchange for my affections?
(3)
Spring Sunday at Church, hoping to find you there.
The mass presided by the very lovely Ms. B—the first female priestess of the parish.
She was consecrated, I am told, by a French bishop.
The liturgy is energetic and full of light. Let me point out—
this is only because the roof has flown.
Children are invited to dance near the altar.
The dream dictates that the altar must be a sunken area in the center
where the rainwater collects. It is not holy or symbolic—
it is just rainwater. Another diversion for the children, since no one
can account for their mothers.
The children become, in a sense, a prop of the mystery.
Blood is blooming richly
through my pants again, though no one seems to notice.
If you pray correctly, your legs will grow precisely one inch, nothing dramatic.
Funds are requested at each hesitation, each suspended belief.
(4)
The new prayers include three (III) actions: I) Speak out loud the words you remember. Do not muffle the consonants. When a woman is priest, she will make sure everyone says the whole thing properly. II) Rather than bring your palms together for prayer, hold your left hand up and curve it like a “C”—move it towards the person on your right. They will form the other half of your heart. III) Prayer provides a natural transition to the unfinished business at hand.
(5)
Unfinished business:
why do you insist?
Maybe I hallucinated that phone call from Texas: “I love you, come visit”—
Why, always, the false promises?
What my heart witnessed was what my heart
wanted me to learn, though I
have learned nothing.
What then, did the heart witness?
(6)
Squirrely girlie appears to have retreated further into her hiding place. Flies pour in through the open hours, through the trap doors she has cut open with her own mouth.
