Jun 7 2012

i want to be
a windmill keeper


and live in this spot

with this view

with the man that drives me here

and stops for ten million photos

and thinks i’m a little bit crazy

but never says so out loud



he buys me dip-tops




(a dip-top is my favorite kind of ice cream cone, chocolate ice cream
dipped in chocolate coating, and hard to come by where we live)

Jun 5 2012

between the lines

it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week

i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now

and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound

and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me

and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and

flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never

cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn

and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise

on someone else’s


Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

Jun 2 2012

war stories

she cooked for an army because she had one
yours, mine, ours and this bunch had nothing
in common with the bradys

mostly i remember white uniforms,
being paid a quarter to rub wintergreen
on the hot, swollen feet of a nurse
and i could never imagine her dancing

past the faux-wood metal shelf
filled with knick knacks i was forever
in danger of breaking all mingled with
the smell of starch and the best
molasses cookies ever made

i rubbed pink lotion and collected
my coin but back then
i didn’t know all the stories
didn’t know there was more to be told

in the world my mother grew up in
fairy tales lived in a bottle and evil
slept in the corner one eye open

shhhhh, be careful not to wake him be good be good

except good was never good enough
and in the end the deepest scars
smelled like wintergreen and antiseptic

fingers worked to the bone never quite
disguise enough for a flawed heart
not made of gold not made of love
not made of anything but broken

and broken begets broken
fosters heartbreak and failure
and i like to think intentions were good
i like to think survival shouldn’t mean
damaged children but all i know are stories

and all i have are a teapot and a photo
of a hard-working woman who cooked for
an army because that’s what she had

but the soldiers she raised needed so much more
than the purple hearts they received

This poem started out being about my grandmother’s work as a nurse,
and then it took me someplace quite different…
Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Poetics, Workin For It, join us!