Posts tagged ‘2012’

Wednesday, 29 September 2021

For the Buyer of Breakfasts in Salem by Colleen Michaels

I wish for you a lifetime of eggs
over easy, poached, sunny side up
on a raft, scrambled with Vermont cheddar

I wish for you that every time you walk
into the diner on Washington St.
somebody says, “What do ya know, Jo.

You’re that guy, the one who secretly
shelled out to strangers. Just ‘cause.
Hot ticket. Mayor of the counter.”

I wish for you that when the story gets
english muffin dry and day old stale
you will still be known as a lumber jack.

Pass him the sports page, pass him the syrup
give him a warm up, little creamers on ice.
No, bring him the real milk from the cooler.

Every small generosity is now yours to pocket:
parcels and postcards, secret santas,
the resurrection of men’s hat departments.

All those hats worn by other nice men
who will search for you on sidewalks
just for the opportunity to tip a brim in your direction.

I wish for you full satisfaction:
not from the silver-dollar pancakes
which are on the house at my thank-you counter,

but because, when I took your cue
and bought dessert for the couple two tables over,
it tasted sweeter than cannoli.

From: http://www.eatthispoem.com/blog/2013/2/12/for-the-buyer-of-breakfasts-in-salem-by-colleen-michaels-che.html

Date: 2012

By: Colleen Michaels (19??- )

Tuesday, 17 August 2021

Temperature by Rose van Son

if the weather clears
she will take the sea road
walk along cliffs
hang out near rocks
where seals swim with purpose

if the weather clears
she will tie a line
behind the chook shed
hang dirty washing
in the sun

she will smother weeds
walk to a neighbour’s house
slide her heart in her pocket
hide it under a red jacket

if the weather clears
she will smell the last rain
tie her hair in a scarf
catch the last train
leave a letter behind

From: http://cordite.org.au/poetry/no-theme/temperature/

Date: 2012

By: Rose van Son (19??- )

Wednesday, 23 June 2021

To Spring by Roger Greenwald

Dreaded season when light’s too long too soon,
winter turns to you before its work is done.
Along with snowdrops, forsythia, anemone,
along with tulips breaking out of their bulbs,
comes the long memory of the fatal spring
when I was thirty-three and my love wasn’t there,
had gone without waiting and said she’d return,
but winter’s work done, was still gone.
Absence stronger than flowers, steaming in sun,
poisoned the season, buried morbid winter
and filled imagined summer with vapors. Light,
light spring drifts in like a feather
used for torture, its touch
too much and not enough.

From: https://poets.org/poem/spring-1

Date: 2012

By: Roger Greenwald (1945- )

Monday, 19 April 2021

A Capella for Four (Post) Colonial Voices by Anne F Elvey

1. pass the index cards
2. William B. has
3. a flagon
4. and Wilma next door

1. arrivals: ship: the Marion
2. bare feet
3. in a paper bag
4. plays tennis

1. name: William E.
2. a feather armband
3. hugged to a chest
4. sunned, sunned

1. distinguishing marks:
2. beads for seeds
3. Will
4. sweeps the court

1. self made tattoo
2. and hair braided
3. claims the park bench
4. and waters

1. around the right thumb
2. by a willy willy
3. and the grog
4. to settle it

From: https://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2012/04/anne-elvey-paper-tears-scored-around.html

Date: 2012

By: Anne F Elvey (19??- )

Monday, 5 April 2021

Hershey’s Got No Baby Ruth by Maureen E Doallas

Hershey went looking
for his Peppermint Patty,
convinced only she could be
his LifeSaver. No Dum Dum,
he was ready, willing, and able
to go all the way to Mars and back
to bring home a little Bit-o-Honey.

He’d show her Good and Plenty,
climb the highest Almond Mounds,
gladly strip off a 100 Grand
to run a hand through her
Cotton Candy hair. He’d waited so
long, too long, to be her Atomic Fire Ball.

Patty’s tastes, alas, ran more
to 3 Musketeers and Lemonheads.
She loved them for their Whoppers,
the way their Chunky Singles’ bodies
would sway to the Charleston Chew nightly
at the Heath Bar. How they’d get down
and dirty doing Rolo’s famous Tootsie Roll!

But a Sugar Daddy Hershey refused
to be. He’d long ago tired of tending Peeps
After Eight, settling his Sweetarts’ Skittles,
giving his time to Smarties whose Snickers
behind his hard if hairy back left him a cold
and not so Jolly Rancher. To hit PayDay,
he’d have to dispense with these Hot Tamales.
Besides, it was true, what his mother
always said: You won’t find
your Mary Jane hanging with Mr. Goodbar!

So, no more Hot Lix at his side, Hershey
Jelly-Bellied up to the Symphony Bar,
ordered double Doves with a side of Twix,
noticed how even Junior Mints could mix
with Ghiradelli, their eyes intense, big
as DOTS, their figures slender as Twizzlers,
not one Sour Punch in the bunch.

No Airheads, no Goobers, no Nerds feeding
Nutrageous appetites. Just a room full
of sweet Almond Joys, cool Ricola singing her aria
to the sounds of Original Herb, and sunny-faced
Kit-Kat eyeing Nestle’s Crunch, his caramel arms
all rippling muscle. The Almond King himself
couldn’t want for more Amazin’ Fruit in one place.

Italian imports? They’re the best, Hershey overheard
her say, her voice dark as licorice. Turning, facing
her, feeling Perugina’s breathy, minty coolness
on his neck, he just knew. He couldn’t miss Starbursts
in her eyes, the way she wrapped herself around
his Butterfinger, covered him with Kisses,
all the while whispering, O Henry! Let’s just Take 5.

From: https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2012/04/06/candy-a-little-sweet-for-national-poetry-month/

Date: 2012

By: Maureen E Doallas (19??- )

Thursday, 18 February 2021

The Naked Mole Rat by Liz Brownlee

(Heterocephalus glaber)

Yes, we’re
BALD.
TOPLESS
and
BUTT NAKED.
BARE.
We have no clothes,
we have no hair,
and we don’t care.

We’re NUDE.
Not
a STITCH.
In
the BUFF.
To
be honest, love,
we just can’t get
STARKERS enough.

EXPOSED.
In
the RAW.
And
WRINKLY.
In
the absolute PINK.
And we’re gorgeous!
Don’t you think?

From: http://www.poetlizbrownlee.co.uk/site/the-naked-mole-rat

Date: 2012

By: Liz Brownlee (19??- )

Wednesday, 23 December 2020

Some Bright Elegance by Kayombi (Kayo) Chingonyi

For the screwfaced in good shoes that paper
the walls of dance halls. I have little patience.
I say dance, not to be seen but to be free, your feet
are made for better things. Feel the bitterness
in you lift as it did for a six year old Bojangles
tapping a living out of Richmond beer gardens
to the delight of a crowd that wasn’t lynching
today but laughing at the quickness of the kid.

Throw yourself into the thick, emerging pure
reduced to flesh and bone, nerve and sinew.
Your folded arms understand music. Channel
a packed Savoy Ballroom and slide across
the dusty floor as your zoot-suited twenties
self, the feather in your hat from an Ostrich,
the swagger in your step from the ochre dust
of a West African village. Dance for the times

you’ve been stalked by store detectives
for a lady on a bus, for the look of disgust
on the face if a boy too young to understand
why he hates but only that he must. Dance
for Sammy, dead and penniless, and for the
thousands still scraping a buck as street corner
hoofers who, though they dance for their food,
move as if it is only them and the drums, talking.

From: https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/some-bright-elegance/

Date: 2012

By: Kayombo (Kayo) Chingonyi (1987- )

Saturday, 24 October 2020

Imaginary Portrait by Joshua Ware

You stand in a desert somewhere
west of Reno and rant about cowboys,
nationalism, and murder. But you also lie
in a budget bed in North Platte, Nebraska
and watch yourself on a computer screen
as you stand in a desert of grayscales
somewhere west of Reno and rant
about cowboys, nationalism,
and murder. But you are also words
in this poem, which is to say
the joyous confusion of pronouns.

From: http://thejournalmag.org/archives/1398

Date: 2012

By: Joshua Ware (1977- )

Sunday, 4 October 2020

At the End of Life, a Secret by Reginald Dwayne Betts

Everything measured. A man twists
a tuft of your hair out for no reason
other than you are naked before him
and he is bored with nakedness. Moments
before he was weighing your gallbladder,
and then he was staring at the empty space
where your lungs were. Even dead, we still
say you are an organ donor, as if something
other than taxes outlasts death. Your feet
are regular feet. Two of them, and there is no
mark to suggest you were an expert mathematician,
nothing that suggests that a woman loved
you until you died. From the time your body
was carted before him to the time your
dead body is being sent to the coffin,
every pound is accounted for, except 21 grams.
The man is a praying man and has figured
what it means. He says this is the soul, finally,
after the breath has gone. The soul: less than
$4,000 worth of crack—21 grams—
all that moves you through this world.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/55853/at-the-end-of-life-a-secret

Date: 2012

By: Reginald Dwayne Betts (1980- )

Thursday, 9 July 2020

Dispatch From the Future by Leigh Stein

In the future, we are tender.

We temper our irreverence
with intimacy.

It’s, like, slightly wonderful.

We pronounce magic
like we’re from Michigan,
and all our mothers continue
mothering, like harbors,

indefinitely.

There’s a sense of indeterminacy
with mothering and we take

turns standing like breakwaters.

Life is dangerous, wild, and yet
we welcome it.

We’re in therapy.
It’s called water.

From: https://www.mhpbooks.com/dispatch-from-the-future-four-poems-by-leigh-stein/

Date: 2012

By: Leigh Stein (1984- )