A small, occasionally changing, selection of published and favorite poems.

The Girl Circus
A Man Creation
The Longing Chair, A Transobjectual Poem
Lifting Number Prints
Letting Go Mantra

 

The Girl Circus
(I Can't Be Your Virgin and Your Mother (Shoots & Vines Press) – May 2009)

Toe-holding the high wire,
on waking,
the balancing act begins.
Juggling with my tongue out
and my face screwed up
while wearing a pink tutu
and glitter, or a checkered apron
and fuzzy slippers.

A one woman, one ring,
one-day-at-a-time sideshow.

I throw the knives,
ride the elephants, tame the lions,
fly the trapeze, cavort with clowns,
trick trip for laughs,
work without a net,
outside a tent, absent the fanfare,
lights, balloons,
and cotton candy.

No posters and billboards
herald my coming.

No ticket booths, my admission
is free. It costs only
time and a good eye
to watch me wow
the invisible crowd.
Come one, come all,
to the greatest little show
on earth, a stealthy circus, woman,
mother,
lover,
wife.

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A Man Creation
(The Girl Circus – future chapbook)

I appreciate a man creation,
something made of wood,
drilled, power tooled, a finely
restored automobile. I like
to watch the way he touches
her, his baby. The slide of
hand over a smooth area
of surface he has worked
to perfection. I know after
watching a man wax his car
if I want to get him in me.

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The Longing Chair, a Transobjectual Poem
(Gutter Eloquence Issue 2 – March 2009)

I didn’t ask
to be made this way,
Scarlet legs sturdy,
rooted where placed
and re     placed.
No wobbles under
the fattest ass.
I tried
to just fit in,
waiting to offer you
my support. While
inside, I was never
happy.
Well
made, but made
wrong.
I should have
been born
a bird.

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Lifting Number Prints
(The Poetry Warrior – August/September 2009)

Mixed multiples,
a riddle of repetitive number sentences,
numeric beat box
beneath the surface.

30 years
3x10
three distinct blocks
built of life.
beginning, middle, the end
of the past, brand new beginning.
Now.

I hated math when I was a kid,
but now I add, subtract,
divide, obsessively,
everything.

Small matter numbers,
like the price of the gas pumped
to fill the tank.
$16.00 even adds up to seven,
and I really don't like seven,
so I push it to $16.01.

Large landmark mathematics,
like my life is three tens,
and I carried my children
for 3x3 months,
each = 18 = 9x2
and nine is 3x3.
My birthday is 3/11,
but I see 33.

Today it's threes.
Some other days it's five.
5 generations of women
in the family photo,
5 kittens in the newborn litter,
5 blackbirds in the backyard.
5 bills in the mailbox,
5 friends in a circle.

I've always liked 8,
the infinity of 8,
the figure,
the fertility-goddess-finesse
of a bawdy swooping 8.

I add the clock face to the barcode,
and the number of tiles
to the panels of drapery.
I add the freckles on my forearm
to the number of cigarettes in a day.

Occasionally I add orgasms,
but most often I lose count.

I'll add our birthdays together
and tell you if we're soulmates,
subtract my age from yours and
countdown the years until I've known you
longer than you are older than me.

I love the smallest dividend,
a moment
with a multiplication table,
the musical mixed messages of math.

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Letting Go Mantra
(The Legendary Issue 2 – March 2009)

Occasionally I hate you. I ache to quit you.
I will spend the next 40 nights meditating
on your release. I will ask myself
to scorn you like nicotine. Then I’ll stop smoking
to celebrate. With my 108 rudraksha I will
mantra my way to freedom from want of you,
baking offerings while I am not thinking of you.
Om with cinnamon for Ganesha to remove
you, my obstacle. Hrim and apples
for the Maya to rid me of remembering you.
Krim, a dire pinch of salt, Kali-Ma make me
a tower above you. Hum with rough sugar
to sweeten my tongue after the taste of you.
Shrim, an ocean of milk to bless me, while
washing you away. When you are gone I will
start again, a mantra to fill the hole you’ll
leave.

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