for nothing
a small woman
with a chain saw
can make quite
an impression
turn it on and, suddenly
it is leaping
yanking at the leash
it wants to tear things
to pieces
I can take down a building
cut things down to size
I could chew you up
if I wanted to
(but I don't want to.)
Shall I read a poem to you on the bus,
Just to you? Yes, to you!
Shall I get up from this sticky blue vinyl?
Can I get up in your face,
In your sad dark velvet moment,
Sing a song about my sadness,
Tell you: you, you're not alone?
Can I walk and prance and beam up down this aisle?
Should I place my loving palm upon your shoulder?
Will you smile because beneath your shell you've got one saved up?
Will you dance with me tonight, uncontained on this rolling blue ballroom?
And laugh about my audacity
And speak back witha mockingbird's conviction
And meet me next week over coffee?
And you, will you break all the rules
To smile out loud and be my friend?
If I stand up to touch our eyes and damn the fluorescence
If I shatter my glassy silence and sind
My riding song
Then will you please stand and blast that wall
And read your poem too?
like sand
I grieve when I see the last few grains
clinging to the palm of my open hand
But there is always more
Howling or Gentle
Wind Water Waiting
Hope
There will be more sand
hovering
in the corner of my eye
And
Hope is the carrot on a stick
always out of reach
but always promised
And
Hope is Wylie Coyote off the cliff
in the moments before he remembers
the lack of wings
And
Hope is our little girl
in a white dress
at the top of the stairs
listening
And
Hope is a shaft of light
down the well
where we are stuck
And
Hope is incense
atop the stench of death
And
Hope is candles burning
candles lit
again and again
Yes
Hope is bees humming
centuries of wax
And Hope is a wax figurine
translucent
melted and remade
going up in smoke
and returning
in living clay
day swallowed by night,
prarie stretched long, then longer,
until the distance almost blinds,
like a stare into sun.
God put me on this trail,
alone except for my ragged dog,
half asleep in his footsteps.
At the horizon a tree rises above the dust
stirred by the feet of many winds.
My life has been simple.
My hair is woven in the style of the past,
my skin knows only cotton cloth.
Yesterday, I let Godâ•’s eyes wake me,
walked to lonely timber left in the new clearing.
The hair of God hung in the branches,
the breath of God rustled among the leaves.
Near a splash of grass folded in the shade,
I lifted my sundress, let wind touch me
where no one has ever touched me.
My life has been simple.
Memories of Mother comfort my childhood.
Her beauty never changes, floats
as summer rain rides on warm air,
streaks the face of barren soil.
My land has no corn, no cattle,
only the smell of hands stealing the forest,
easing trees like aching tongues into mouths of wagons,
leaving long scars anchored in the earth,
the earth of long hunger.
My life has been simple.
Today I leave my name among the tales of wise men,
yield my soul to the Rope-Spirit.
Mother will be waiting, holding a place for me in Paradise.
Only my dog is here, to nose my bare feet,
smell my girlhood furled in my dress.
An old dog, so old he should come with me.
But his duty is clear - mourn my spirit and defend my offering,
a simple brown body
swaying in the last breath of a summer afternoon.
(Larry Fontenot)
One turned to the man nearest the firewood
and asked, "brother, place another log
on the fire to warm us."
As he grasped a long stick, the man realized
thousands of termites were living there & had carved
a hollow through the stick's center.
"Brother, why do you hesitate, we are cold
and waiting," said the other
but the man did not burn the wood and termites.
Instead he scooped them in his hands
& waved his arms across the sky.
There the carvers stayed to become the stars
and even through the coldest nights,
they warm the minds of people everywhere.
Then the man placed his mouth over
an open end of the stick & played
a warm song for his companions.
Come close & put your ear to the breast
of my voice.
That noise, it is the sound of life
rushing through me.
Benina Goodman, aka Barbara Beglinska, aka...Michael A. Rosen 3/97
such strange sparse gear you brought
for your journey
the tiny round brim hat
a photograph etched with
your name here
a coat too thin
to keep out cold
but strong enough to catch
wind and toss you across time
Barbara is that your name
so much you left behind
lives like mileposts or compass needles
pointing back You can find them
hidden in curtain folds
behind distant corners of streets
they are dispersed across the breeze
like smoke or people If you imagine back
maybe you'll see them
maybe not
What is your name
all your landmarks are scattered
tiny footprints smeared by boots
Nothing can save you but something did
it must have been the wind caught in your coat
propelling you forward
almost helpless like everyone else
with your face
spread by something so strong
not only your hair is blown back
Michael A. Rosen 3/5/97
in the carpel of a lotus flower,
or stride a leaf
of giant clover?
Has anyone told you we exist
on our magnificent fruit stone
at the core of meaty and fragrant flesh,
or that we live
atop an illuminated isle
whose sea is the white page teeming
with calligraphic fish?
As for romance-
you surf a sheet of glass over
depthless seas
of molten iron.
A tortoise hauls us through the heavens
among the paths of ice missiles.
Everything we are or own
or see jetted from a fireball
pushed across the sky under the feet
of a giant green beetle.
The perfect universe is
a double-orb gourd joining
paradise to earth,
and the source of all life
is a golden egg.
If the world ever seems ugly
or imperfect,
remember just
one of these things.