Poems
Sarah Biggerstaff
1
When I was five years old,
Mom wedged my sister and me between
14 stuffed animals, 6 puzzles, 2 suitcases, and
One thermos full of hot coffee in her white
Chevy Luv pickup truck.
Over the river and through the woods,
To grandmother’s house we went…
Hours later we wiggled out of the truck like
Butterflies escaping the prison of their cocoon.
With teary eyes, Mom grabbed our sticky hands,
And led us along the sidewalk where she had played
Hopscotch and jacks a lifetime ago.
My tiny feet traced a still cheery "Welcome" on the mat
And we went inside. The familiar, comforting smells
Of tomato soup and Vantage lights faintly intermingled with
Morphine codeine xanothine Dramamine and whatever
Other pills they had used to try and ease her pain.
How is it that her house could smell the same?
The couch sagged in the same spot it always had,
Right were Grandpa parked his butt to watch
The Cincinnatti Reds and 6 o’clock news.
That stain on the rug where I spilled Kool-aid
Last Christmas–it was faded pink but still noticeable.
How is it that her house could look the same?
The next day, I stood in St. Mildred’s Church and
Tugged at the lace trim on my new pink polk-a-dot dress and cried
As the men in my life carried Grandma down the aisle.
She was gone but we were not. I could still breathe
The second hand smoke from grandpa’s cigarettes.
I could still eat homemade tomato soup. I could still play
hopscotch and jacks, but she never would.
How is it that this world could be the same?
2
Creeping into my sister’s room,
I trip over a black school bag and 6 pairs of blue jeans
Just to watch her sleep.
Now harmless and peaceful, hibernating like a grizzly bear,
I cannot see the fire in her eyes but I know it is there.
17 months apart but we’re joined like Siamese twins
Constantly pushing then snapping back together.
I feel older and act wiser,
But when she is not looking I stare in awe of the woman she has become.
Her advice is always right…too bad I never listen.
She rolls over and looks like a small mountain
Under her rainbow striped down comforter.
An arm (peach we called it when we were young--never white)
Hangs over the side of the bed.
Her golden curls are knotted and half hidden under a sheet
As her round chipmunk cheeks puff out.
I cannot help but smile and love her so much that I think my heart will burst.
Too soon she awakens and the sleeping princess disappears.
A walking mood swing, she opens her mouth and
Anger spills out like a river of venom and vomit.
THIS IS MY ROOM!!! she screams in her teenage angst.
I am allowed in only by invitation from the queen.
Defeated, I hang my head and wonder where that princess went.
Gingerbread Soldiers
Whipping stirring beating folding
The ingredients of desire. Sugar
And eggs mix in a storm of
Vanilla and flour. The smell of
Sweet heaven wafts through the
whipped cream air like loving fingers
and caresses me seduces me loves me.
pulled from the oven, a small
army of gingerbread soldiers stands smartly at attention.
God, I love a man in uniform!
Forehead hot and mouth slack with desire,
I yearn for the moment when I can devour
My man. Spent, I fall into a peaceful sleep
On the soft Berber rug outside my kitchen.
4
Alone in Mammoth Cave,
somewhere between Fat Man’s Squeeze
and a huge stalagmite, I sit on the
floor. Cold and alone…stranded without
electricity or love. He comes to me,
torch in hand, and guides me home.
5
Tick
Tock.
Tick
Tock.
I always watch the clock.
Who knows my pain?
They all do.
13 men and 3 women (including myself)
stare into space as the green
robot stands upon his pulpit
and preaches to deaf ears.
The Bernoulli Equation…WOW!
Mach number. Who cares? Die
You hairy beast who traps me
in this room. Let us fly free?
NO.
Rules dictate that you must stay.
Stay and die.
Stay and die in this land of Fluid Mechanics.
Memory Sensation
Pat Thomas
Waiting for the thought to come
I sit, patient as wet stone in the rain.
This is the time when memories hatch
Dragging me back like an angry, whipped Clydesdale
Pulls a sharpened plow through loose, dirty soil
Creating the scratch in the earth
That, when healed, impregnates, created new life.
The bent farmer, a tiny Zeus, commands
The life to allow and the life to deny.
Callused, bleeding hands, masters and yet slaves;
Barbarian architects battle black magic wizards.
In the night where I personify sculpture
Waiting for the thought to come.
Education
Pat Thomas
Watch on its side keeping time
But to the understand its language of seconds
I must tilt my head to it side.
Slightly. To align its numbers to my eyes.
The cruel minutes pass and I am powerless.
Powerless to stop them.
This clock a mere soldier of wise Father Time
Who remains victorious
Rain comes down steadily
Knowing it need not hurry
When hidden by the shadowy
Darkness of time.
Glimpses of Red
Pat Thomas
Incomplete and roaming, half-starved
I find myself.
Catching glimpses of red.
The sun, a fellow hermit, forced like me
From another body feels my pain and helps me
By giving glimpses of red.
And warmth, a smile from the sky like
Her smile; her lips sent from heaven;
Glimpses of red.
The world in slow motion waits for the
push of love lying guarded.
Among glimpses of red.
And when I see her
All is set right.
In a glimpse.
Simple As That
Pat Thomas
I find new patience in her eyes
The milky white glossy reflection
Awkward when rounded
Give me quiet peace
And happiness like that of an eager
Child entering the Christmas morning
Living room to find a tree whose
Roots are magic, multicolored bundles.
Gifts, wrapped, joyous affection.
However, with her it is not
Christmas it is today and
The gifts are not bundles
Under a tree
However I am still the child.
Simple as that.
Throw Off the Bowlines
Mike Lang
A quiet, feathery field,
Corn swaying and all the rest,
The Dairy Queen lighting the service route
And the single gas station attendant
Watching the only traffic light turn
From green to yellow to blazing bright pink.
A brilliance so grand and perverse that he
Starts to move behind gas pumps
And air hoses, but becomes fixed, rooted.
He realizes how welcoming the change is,
The grand clash of mixed chemicals and reality.
He wants to break open stored trips
And sail on junks through polluted waters;
To stretch his mind so that he can escape
And roll the script of life into fresh joints.
The Cold War ends at Jimmy’s Bar in Assumption, Illinois
Tyler Lewison
In the corner booth next to the stuffed fox,
I smile at Eruzione’s leaning goal in Lake Placid,
And hoarse voices of Italians in the Olympic stands in New York,
And the pride filled parents of Minnesota,
Feeling superior.
All the American patriots are content in place,
Their fears gone like erased blackboards,
Dripping of water.
Therefore,
Their hopes spill from tipped paint cans
At the end of the Red reign,
And stain minds with star spangled dominance.
The Cold War Ends in Jimmy’s Bar
Tyler Lewison
This poem is structured after "Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio"
by James Wright.
In the 1980 Winter Olympic games, the U.S. Hockey Team defeated the Soviets in
the semi-final round. The American victory was considered a "miracle on ice"
because the CCCP Team was viewed as far superior than the Americans–a group
of college kids from Minnesota. Many political scientists consider this game to
be a turning point in the Cold War because it marked the end of a Soviet era–symbolizing
a shift in the balance of power.
How proud we were of Johnson, Schneider, Braton–Minnesota boys
stunned stares of CCCP players from overseas,
CCCP
Mike Eruzione #21
Winning goal with 10 minutes remaining
On one leg used the defenseman as a screen
Minnesota boys
Miracle on Ice
#9 Braton
"guess where he’s from?"
22 was the average age
Johnson —2nd (1 sec remains in the 1st period) and 3rd goals
Buzz Schneider 1st goal
6 seconds left "do you believe in miracles?" Al Michaels
"holy neck hair"
Jimmies bar —patrons stood and sang the national anthem
Soviets beat the Islanders, Rangers, and Quebec in late 1979
Lake Placid, NY
Busted out teeth
Split front tooth
Bloody mouth
Stained sink
Touch on my shoulder
Seat occupied, eyes averted
Cracked hand–split ivory
Gaps
Assumption, Illinois
Hiding in shame (soviets)
Cheaper by the Dozen
Tyler Lewison
The victrola played over my shoulder
as the dying man’s voice boomed.
From offstage you could hear the racket,
Lance’s character fumed.
"It’s time for a family meeting,"
bellowed my high school chum,
"there are some things we must discuss
before my days are done."
"I want to talk about saving motions,"
(our father’s monologue begun).
"I want to talk about silk stockings"
my sister interrupted–and stunned!
The play went on from there
for about an hour more.
But it’s that scene that grabs my attention now
–that scene from years before.
Lance’s face shocked from the stocking stun
stands firmly in my mind;
it was as honest as could be expected
from an actor of his kind.
Now the programs were passed out
four years ago the week
Matty and I visited
Lance and his internet chick.
It’d been a while since we’d seen our friend
–we didn’t know what he’d done; where he’d been.
But that girl, she was the one
we were most interested in.
She was the kind of girl that justifies
polishing off a cookie or two,
a bag of chips, and a drum stick
as long as she does so with a diet dew.
So we slammed him with weight jokes,
walrus references, and such;
Our words were not without cost though,
We were about to feel their cold bitter touch.
"I want you as my groomsmen," said lance staring at his plate,
What the Fuck?
Matty mouthed to me
my jaw dropped
–no cameras to catch our shame–
that stunned look from years before returned once again
this time it was I and this was no play
But honestly stunned
was the message conveyed.
Because There Are No Original Thoughts
Tyler Lewison
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the soft eyes opened.
I gave them all the grief I have
and thrusted it in my mouth, and gnashed it down,
and sucked the blood:
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
I have wasted my life.
The Occurrence at Number 12 Thayer Road
Tyler Lewison
I
In preparing for the pony show, they donned
tight leggings, padded bras, and phony smiles.
Even without ears, I heard them clucking as they
clogged the sidewalk with the clopping of pumps.
They swarmed to the door.
Who are you impressing? I thought.
You are just a house for larva. A feeding ground.
Twenty-one women gathered gifts in arm
at the colonels house for a bridal shower.
It was hard to breathe in the woman barn
After bathing in a cloud of clinique happy.
Those poor souls.
Painted faces, designer dresses, and colored nails–
They really wanted that blue ribbon door prize
for being the best pig.
So, I looked across the room
to see whose side Charlotte was on
but she was tucked away in the corner;
eating my brother.
I was just a fly on the family room wall
puking up lunch, minding my own
until this story my eyes saw
and struck my silly bone
II
About an hour into the show,
after a few deviled eggs
and buzzing conversation,
the shower went awry.
Guests teamed up and
decorated each other
like Barbie doll brides.
Using toilet paper and tape,
they constructed two-ply
gowns and veils.
Then it happened.
One brave flickering flame
danced out of his wax
coated candle case.
Carpe Diem –
the Charmin changed tones
while bursts of flames
erupted as unexpected as
Vesuvius.
The den filled with
spooked pigeons
colliding in mid-air
flapping, flailing fearful fauna
reacting irrationally.
Pots of water flung
across the room
directed everywhere,
sporadic and misplaced.
One of the feathered beasts
tore through the packages;
banging boxed kitchenware
flipping presents sideways
searching for her gift
of a fire extinguisher
bought from the
Target registry.
Meanwhile,
the first blazing bride
was flung to the ground,
stomped on, and
patted down.
The second
Flamenco danced
around the room
until the spinning
out spun the flame.
And the third of three
ripped off her skirt
revealing a thin, plaid g
and spanked the blaze
unmercifully.
Just then,
as though written in some script,
the Colonel returned from church and
entered the den bug-eyed to
charred carpet,
burnt women, and wet upholstery.
And I,
I left the barn
flying in drunk spirals,
laughing.
The American Public
Tyler Lewison
Three consecutive disrupting chimes,
each piercing the stale air of my unvented room.
This Tyler? the deep southern drawl
reached through the receiver
plucking my drums in true banjo style.
"Yes, Sir it is."
You don’t call me sir.
My name is Tommy Clemens
from the western corner of the great state of Virginia.
Big Stone Gap…that’s where I’m from.
Son, I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you
and the work you boys are doing.
As his words streamed,
a violet crayola marker crammed
far against the corners of my lips absorbed my firm bite
like a horse’s metallic bit. I tried to listen, not laugh.
I imagined him with a truck full of gas station snack wrappers.
Bullet hole beer cans. Vintage eight tracks.
He was a good ole boy, he was a bubba.
Now you may think a bubba is not a smart someone,
but really a bubba is a man who will do anything for you.
They call… me Bubba…Thor,
he said with improper pauses and Honky Tonk twang,
Bubba ‘cause I’d do anything for my friends
and Thor ‘cause i’m six foot four, three hundred pounds.
11:03, 05, 08, 12, 17…the red digit colon chasers ticked away
til Bubba was done talking–twenty-seven minutes.
But the time passed pleasantly
as a rebel flag flapped freely on his porch.
Yep, he was a good ole boy, he was a bubba.
Whenever I pause to blink: Mr. Clemens’ final remarks stick with me,
printed neatly on the backside of my lids:
Well I just wanted you to know that I’ m your bubba
and if you want the moon moved, I’ll try my best.
Meditation with bubble gum in my mouth
Tyler Lewison
I forgot. Hard to focus chomp on
clearing chomp my smack mind chomp.
Now the
BUBBLE YUM
has lost its flavor.
So, I wait no smack until the no chomp
alarm sounds.
At the Butcher Shop
Tyler Lewison
I
Toro, you’ve lived a good life,
you know: fatted, fed, free to roam
pampered until this day–your Corrida.
But your death was marked calendars ago:
short, Spanish ranchers shooting rum
profiteers smiling over chilled sangria.
Habana puffing ticket buyers jeering, cheering as you charged waving white ‘kerchiefs
for stab clean
Picador riders: armored, groomed, back-barged assistants partaking in the wound
routine.
The Banderilleros: spiking, spearing, wooden barbed sticks tearing meat in perfect
form
but of all the pain you heard most: etched-echoed taunts, bloody kicks;
the judge’s nod caused the storm.
II
Don’t blame me for your demise.
I pierced your heart, it’s true, but I didn’t drop legs from under
you–with/without me death would ensue.
You can’t blame me for greedy flies
feasting on blood coat. Many men cast a vote sealing your fate–choking
my throat.
It wasn’t I who shut your eyes.
What’s all this anger for? I was the Matador. I did my job–nothing
more
Damn it, Toro I swear I didn’t cause your demise.
You can’t blame me for greedy flies.
It wasn’t I who shut your eyes.
Sucking Station (Imitation of Elizabeth Bishop's Filling Station)
Jen Mitchell
Oh but it is orderly!
This little patch of New York
People-soaked, tradition permeated
To a disturbing, over-all
Gray translucency
Be careful with that change!
Colonel wears an orderly
Starch-soaked green suit
That sags with brass
And several quick and polished
And obedient cadets assist him
(it's a cadet brigade staff office),
all quite thoroughly orderly.
Do they live in the office?
It has a long table
Behind the door, and on it
A set of neat and flushed
Micromanaging regulations;
On the waxed floor
A trash can, quite empty.
Some unit flags provide
The only note of color-
Of certain color. They hang
Upon a big concrete wall
Draping a legal dimension
(according to regs), beside
a six-inch raised window.
Why the aligned window?
Why the legal dimension?
Why oh why, the concrete wall?
(painted recently in plain white
with cadet hands, I think,
on a Saturday morning.)
Somebody painted that wall.
Somebody measured that height,
Or guessed. Maybe. Somebody
Aligns the windows so that they softly say
We are the same.
Somebody molds us all.