Papers glare at me
from the table
bills unpaid letter unanswered
all promises unkept
You were there
last night
telling me asking me
all words unspoken
Your figure stood
like a painting
then turned and left
The ending of a bad movie
Now the glint
of an edge of sun
on the table
reminds me echoes you
all dreams unraveled
RESPITE
The houses near the water were the first to go
Fleeing into the mist like squirrels from a dog
Then up the hill it came like a pot overflowed
Until it reached the hall, the dorm resisted the fog
As it flowed around its base, climbing windows, brick,
Eating the grass below, swallowing people whole
Drifting and dodging and disguising, playing tricks
On the unwary eyes. The campus was full
Of the clouds floating around, draining down
pulling away like a tide surging back
Revealing first a little, then the rest of the town
Allowing the sun to peek through the cracks
In the sky.
Like a dream it was over and then
I turned back from the sight to my studies again.
I do believe I can get away with calling this a loose Shakespearean Sonnet. I have stated in the past, and probably will state again, that I don't like freeverse as much as I like iam and other solid, rigid, formed poetry. A sonnet, even a loose one like mine, is a solid, rigid, formed poem, and that makes this poem one of my favorites in my own collection.
I wrote this poem in a class, looking out over Bellingham Bay from the fourth floor of beautiful Old Main at Western. The dorm that got "eaten" by the fog was Mathes and Nash Halls. I watched the fog more than the professor that day, but I think I got a lot out of the class anyway.
WAITING FOR THE FIRST SNOW
The air is folded
along lines of perfect stillness
breezeless layered
stacked page on page
It slides into my lungs
like chunks of granite
speckled with the rain
My heart beats in rhythm
with my steps
thunk thunk
up the wet stairs
Even the birds
find it is too wet
to sing
The Western part of Washington state rarely gets snowfall, down at sea level, at least. But usually there is one good storm per year, one that makes nature hold her breath until it comes roaring in, down from Canada and Alaska. Being a romantic, I always prefer the snow to the cold and wet that comes before it.
PAPER CLIPS
I wonder where the paper clips go
and why we always order more.
Do they run away after a certain number of uses
and flee to where the lost socks go?
I wonder if omega is really the end
or whether more comes after.
Why is any letter the end,
And how can one come first?
I'm filling out the forms again
Paper clips, Pencils and Post-It notes.
Post-Its and Pencils return to dust
But where do all the paper clips go?
I'm writing Greek letters in the margins.
The ancient Greeks didn't have paper clip,
or one hand clapping, or lonely trees falling.
I'll set my pen down. I'll close my eyes.
There is no gold at the end of the rainbow
All you'll find is paper clips.
This slightly whimsical poem is due to me working in the English Office for a couple of years. I never did figure out where all the paper clips went.
A KISS
You said,
"Close your eyes
and count to fifteen."
After a smile, I obeyed.
"One..." the world was made.
"Two..." the last dinosaur glared at
an empty sky.
"Five..." Socrates swallowed the bitter
Hemlock.
"Eight..." Sutter's mill became famous.
"Eleven..." Pearl Harbor flamed under
a rising red sun.
"Fourteen..." Tiananmen Square, the Berlin
Fall, death in the
middle east...
Before I could reach fifteen,
your lips touched mine,
silencing history.
RENDEZVOUS AT BREAKFAST
I peeked out into the fog-held
dawn, then glanced
back at my still sleeping roommate,
envious.
I walked into the river of cold,
holding the door
as a torrent of air
chuckled in, searching.
I shut the door to the sleepy groan.
I shivered to the Ridge Cafeteria
and eased into the familiar chair
and waited while I ate
the ritual donut.
But he didn't come.
THE FIRST WEEK AT COLLEGE
The rains came today.
First they dripped down
when no one was looking.
Then they fell on uncovered heads
as we walked to class.
By nightfall they whipped through trees
and carried the pine needles to our noses.
At eight o'clock the phone rang,
a friend's senseless suicide
thundered
and the night
went on
and on.
During my first week in college, my roommate received a phone call from her father informing her that an old friend had committed suicide. He hadn't called earlier because he didn't want it to disturb her classes. She had missed the funeral, and it disrupted her life for a painfully long time.
DORM DREAMIN'
The cold is choking the sunlight,
and despite the cold rays
I am unnaturally warm.
This room is suffocating me
in its loneliness.
A computer generated song is plodding
across the terminal in the corner.
I miss home, with the loving insults
and inside jokes. I miss the
way I can talk and not be heard,
and say everything without speaking,
intentional or not.
Three walls and a window, I am
impatient for that certain shadow.
The digital monster shows its numbered moments.
I close my eyes
(for a moment)
and sleep through the expected knock
on the cold metal door.
SEEING YOU IN CLASS
THE NEXT DAY
too many sharp edges
on the world.
too many lines
too well defined.
my hands are bleeding.
blades and points.
even grass can hurt.
twigs snap, break.
stones are cracked.
the rain spikes
onto my uncovered head.
I duck into my room,
my books fall into the corner,
my bed is a stone slab.
I pace the room
and close my eyes.
my hands clench emptiness.
I can't let go of the pain.
HOMEWORK
I see an open book:
It rests, like a tiger,
on my desk.
It is hunting me.
I am scared
of its script black teeth
with sharp bends and curves
That will rip into my mind
and chew on my brain cells.
It is ready to pounce.
It follows my movement.
I am tense...
I see the open book
so I close it.
Heh. As you can probably tell from the poem, I didn't get much studying done.
[FINALS WEEK]
The sky is a blanket twisted after the nightmare
ragged, grey.
My hand feels like the creeping tendrils
of sticky noodles freed from my soup,
squirming uselessly on the table.
My eyes feel like shrieking, spinning comets
looking for a fiery death
in some cold outer atmosphere.
My legs feel like flat tires
empty and collapsed
unable to support my reeling body.
My ears hear nothing
but the muffled boom
of exhaustion
and the weight of books
fighting the skin of my bag
to slap my legs.
This is what finals week feels like. Really. Honest. I wrote this during "study time" for a test that I thought I was doomed to fail. It really felt like this. Honest.