Tuesday, April 04, 2006

NaPoWriMo Poems - April 1-5

April 1, 2001

The Milk That Does Not Lie

Between fever and fewer
she lay there, faceless
and defaced, she lay there
expressing less, needing more
than a handle to hold her,
wanting more than a crank to
start her, a locked chest,
a box of hope or sorrow's key:
the latch that would unhook her.

He held his own, the vanished skyline
over the ridge of memory. Her hair
brushing the softness from his face
as he looked at her, unseeing.
Defacing as she lay there. Heaven,
a fatal flaw, a missed exit,
a feeling.

April 2, 2006

Our Ways, Our Whys

Why does the season fly off
the handle? Why do the trees
resist the birds, the passive
passing of autumn, the migratory
monarchs? Why does the single
stand of oak still long
for the acorn? Why does the milk
sour and lie?

Our ways wind across the valley
of our lost loves, the beaten paths
pour into rivers of rain. The ways
of children hurt us, often. The why
of willful folly, the why of sinful
golly still hovering over pursed lips.

Why does the winter hold us
to the fire and then let go?
You hold a hand, forgetting to let go
of the heart. You see a flower
still holding to the petal and
blow it off. Your fingers, a ring
of fate -- then, take it off.

April 3, 2006

White Walls Are Great For Poetry

Chuy came late or not at all.
He pissed off the principal and pulled
the hair of the pretty chola by the cholla.
He dissed his homework, fed the chinchilla
barbeque Doritos until it died after excreting
a brilliant orange mound of dust. He jabbed
the janitor in the face with his pencil
then furrowed the brow of the brow-beaten
teacher. All the classics passed
him by. All the books with spines
he let fly. He broke the headlights
of the head cheerleader's car then
sling-shot the lights in the parking lot.
He stole all the hotdogs from the cafeteria
then ate all the strawberry popsicles
too. And afterwards, he picked up
a pen, and followed his fate, he
scrambled up to the scribble
letting long vowels and longing
go chomping at the gate, his open
hand, his heart in a great O
of wonder. Oh, white walls are great
for poetry.

April 4, 2006

How to Get A Car Wash

Take a five dollar bill, fold it,
throw it away. Take a penny,
scold it, make it pay and then
spend it. Take a chance, hold it
to your heart, blow on it, send it
to a friend. Take a moment, extoll
it. breathe fire into its face.
Face it. Then forget it.

All the ways the highways go,
drive them in a silver sedan.
Ride past the grandmother with the palsied
gait, the old man shuffler by the wooden crate,
the child holding a blue balloon waiting
by the grate. Forget them. Remember
passion. Remember where you put your keys.
Recall registers ringing on Christmas eve.
Record voices and shrill sounds
still ringing in the leaden ear.

Then pay the master, pay the slave,
fill up on tanks of rage and rest.
Gun the engines of your folly. Flee
towards the second best, the third eyes,
the favored relative, the sullen child
cheered by snow. Feel your way
back to the second crossing. And, there
by the fresh grave in the mirror,
open the hoses, shine the chromey cheeks,
polish the head -- and care.

April 5, 2006

The End of the World As We Know It

happens on the dot of an "I", in each
patter of a millipede's feet, in every beat
of a hummingbird's heart. I see the field
frozen to steel, feel the frost split
the single blade, favor the awakening
of a fern frond, feel for the hungry tongue
awaiting the forever ripening. I go out
into the woods, mark my way with a yellow
ribbon, scatter the crumbs of love longing
to get back home. Remembering to close
the door behind me, I breathe in the smell
of my name in the wind, succumb to something
smaller than myself. Feel my way back
to the grinding -- my metal
to the pedal, that awful rowing towards God.

for Anne Sexton


Blogger Diana Marie Delgado said...

Lorna Dee, I can't (can) believe each one of your NaPoWriMo poems rock. You should call yourself an arsonist. You are setting my world on fire!

5/4/06 07:27  

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