July/Aug Nom thread

[sonoranpoet]

we waited on the July poems until this month. ONLY TWO poem go in from each forum now. So take care on the votes. Consider if you will the judge and the strength of the poem and how it will do competing against other wonderful poems from other boards. Thx.


Burning a Hole

I never wanted to scrimp,
week by week,
month by month,
squeezing every nickel
until Jefferson screams,
saving in January
for September’s school-bright laces—
not caring how proud
I would have been
to tie them,
virgin white
with sacrifice
and unsoiled by the dirt
of summer’s maculate garden.

I wanted them then,
the whole pair of sneakers,
to squelch in the dangerous muck;
to jump high
from high places
and land in the middle
of trouble
and turgid brown water.
I wanted them soon,
and I wanted them
fast,
so I could run
like the poltergeist wind,
away from strange men
with red faces and contracts,
away from the bullies
who wanted my lunch,
my change,
my interest

compounding.

Dark Daddy

Daddy took me up in his plane,
fed me Chinese food with chopsticks,
called it dragon stew.

Daddy crashed his motorcycle,
wrapped it around a pole,
had a friend take photos of his bleeding body,
battered head, black eyes, broken nose.
Wounds so grisly that make up men at Paramount
wanted copies of the pix
for their notebook on mayhem make up.

Daddy had cars, cars, cars, forgot to put oil in,
left them rusting in the backyard.
Daddy had a plane, had a plane, had a plane,
all repossessed, taken away, never seen again.

Went higher in a glider with a loud speaker,
advertised shoe sales and used-car lot openings
until one day the police, more's the pity,
nabbed him when he landed
in a celery field just outside the city.
Daddy and the glider went to jail.
We didn't visit him.

Daddy was a sound man,
we'd see his name in movie credits,
he always worked for someone else.
Daddy wanted to be the boss,
sit behind a big desk,
with a bottle of expensive Scotch and a Cuban cigar,
cut deals and give starlets the once over twice

Producer Daddy.
Seducer Daddy.
Randy-ready Daddy.
Director Daddy,
you've never seen an erecter Daddy than mine.

Daddy sometimes got married,
and sometimes not.
Not to mama, but strung her along
until she broke,
spoke her last word,
disappeared - you take her, she said.

Daddy did,
I got to know those girlfriends and wives
whose lives Daddy wrecked,
leaving them flecked with sorrow.
For Daddy, it was always tomorrow,
never now, never here.

I learned not to fear,
but steer clear of blue-eyed men with an easy grin,
not to sin, or give in, or take to gin,
but to spin on my own,
alone, not with anyone, especially Daddy.

[sonoranpoet]

Ellie: Red and Blue the World

There is so much
where out the door
the world
the wide whole world
there was just me
my black my white
my gray tv
mother is tired
and now
out there
the terrible loud
and red
even with my crazy
blue glasses
blue crazy glasses
outside
and then Ellie
came up the stairs
in a basket
a little yellow basket
big she is
a big girl
who is being five
and is this many fingers
of smart
but too too very small
for wrestle my daddy

if you could see
my little room
with the slanting in
the damned roof
is saying Father
you would know
just where my number cards
will always be
and how I like
Bewitched
each every day
in white and gray
on my tv
and you would see
my bed so always neat

and everybody loves
everybody loves that ellie up
because she doesn’t
mess my room
or make me go
inside inside
of screaming

she helps tuck in
the corners

[sonoranpoet]

Alice nominated this earlier

Once upon, upon a time

I simmer in a pot of summer,
striped lawn chairs, plastic shovels
snippets of conversation that wade
in and out of earshot. Blends
of sage and naive voices percolate,
play upon the shadows of maple leafs
along the boulevard. You touch my hand
and I'm in '85. My body leaner, my smile
easier. I remember temperatures
more than I remember words.
I stop you with my eyes before
you lean in with a kiss.
I hold you in a thimble of forgiveness
and blow softly on your forehead
as if you're the fuzzy head of a dandelion.

[dancuddy]

Not My River

I’ve been driving
by this spot for months
daring fate
on this crowded boulevard
to gaze down
at the amazing spectacle
of actual water in a river bed.

I’ve been longing for a river.

Here, where the American River
narrows, an ancient bridge
stretches below the modern
road, crawls with kids
on bikes and skates,
bandana’d dogs on leashes.

I follow the signs, pay my five bucks,
drive on curving, dusty roads
and finally arrive at the parking lot
beside the old bridge,
where the scent from green and yellow
latrines blasts in the open car door
along with 95 degree heat
as I slide out, fasten Darcy’s leash,
head for green water.

Struggling over rounded river rocks
like hot coals from hell,
we reach the water;
Darcy wades in slurping
but I fear my balance
in the slippery moss
waving through the water
and barely touch a toe.

No beaches here, no lovely paths
winding with the river;
just dead grass and thickets
of old growth brittled by years,
of raging sun and water.

This can’t be my river.

We pick our way back
through searing boulders,
up onto the old wooden bridge.

I finally stand there
part of the scene
I’ve glimpsed so often.
I look over the railing
of that beckoning bridge,
and stare down at swirling water
below, inky in the sunlight,
dangerous and dirty, like
a boiling cauldron.

I gaze up at cars speeding
along the busy highway
and decide I’ll just
have to keep looking.

This is not my river.


---------------------------

2nd poem

The Nights Are Never Hot Enough

When I was young
and fair of form
I sometimes pulled off
my prim night dress
on hot nights
and lay naked
under the sheets
to stay cool.

But I couldn't go to sleep like that,
I felt different, exposed,
juicy and ready for I knew not what,
and I always put
the nightgown back on
before I went to sleep
to cover myself
as if God could see me
or, even worse,
Satan, and think me lascivious.

And, not only God
and the Devil, but
I knew that if ever
our house was burgled
it would be on a hot night
with the windows open
and the thief would
come in through my window
and, seeing my nightgown
on the floor, think
the wrong thing about me
and take more than
jewelry and clock radios.

Now that I'm old
and would welcome even a thief
the nights are never hot enough
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