the can, of soup

the past tense of can
is did
       or didn't

& reason matters little
in the moment

until
     on aisle two
among the soups, you
realize,
        your finger gliding
down a Campbell's label,
tracing the ridge
              of every firm rib,

you could've.

written for Magpie Tales.

Poetics: Renape

from his pedestal outside Nordstrom
he does not sing The colors of the wind
as his daughter does in the movie by Disney
but collects them from pigeons
in white, purple and green

like tributes once paid by his nation,
thirty tribes brought together, only to be laid low
by settlers, invaders, it all depends on
who holds the pen

only children stop to stare at Chief Powhatan
and stumble over his given name,
WAHUNSUNACAWH
which rolls like marbles, foreign on the tongue

one, her dress a spring day
gathering around her legs, shiny black flats
on her feet, maybe her Easter adornment just
bought at one of the high end shops, asks

"Mommy, who was this man?"

and i want to say, "he was once a man
who was willing to fight for his people
and his land, whose daughter was stolen,
who watched brothers & friends
desiccated by disease dry up like river beds,
slain by pale hands as they defended their freedom
and family, displaced & lost in history
to the romanticized legend
of John Smith (not Rolfe) & Pocahontas so that we
could build---

shopping malls
to fill the void of consumption
once there were no more
great conquests"

but her mom sums it up in,
"an indian"

& they are off to another anchor store,
as i down the last bite of soft pretzel,
and nod not to the monument
but he who was willing
to stand behind it.

Process Note: Renape is Algonquin for "true humans"

Today @ dVerse Poets, Victoria has a wonderfully sculpted prompt for us. Hehe. Don't stand there frozen like a statue, come on over. Doors open at 3 pm.

55 - son of a son of a son of a

snow crusted lip,
breathed grey by exhaust,
ditch, in which sits

a beer can
dented & crushed, slow
eaten by rust, intox-

ication consumed, only
one golden drop left, to catch
the sun, un-

noticed by passing cars,
face, window pressed
watching power-

lines murdered by crows
the whistle wind blows
desperado

& he,

daddy,
come home

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over at dVerse today, Blue Flute is running the bar for FormForAll examining a different approach to our writing by using tanglible images. 

The tyranny of socks & everyday radicals

so much depends on
the color of our socks

we'd get them at Christmas
and by January first,
we lost nearly half

knowing this, they'd get us
all the same color
so what was left, could still go together

and i remember enough
of what little
fashion sense we were given
to know they should match

in case the pant leg climbed up
when you crossed your leg at the knee
or in one of those growth spurts
where you found yourself ready for high water
whether it came or not

there was always someone
that had nothing better to do than notice
if you were not careful in your selection
or rushed to care

'heaven's child, your socks
are the wrong color,' or

'why your mom let you out the house,
i will never know.'

off to our room we'd go
or be sent to change

at the library, today, i saw an older gentleman,
cross legged and peering at the news through
nose end glasses, sporting
one black an one green.

garnering his attention,
his bushy brows raised ever so slightly, i said

'sir, you are beautiful.'

questions filled his face,
but before he could ask
i was already on my way
out the door to enjoy
a new day
in the revolution of living.

written for Poetry Jam.

OpenLinkNight - in-NO-sense lost

my boys put ketchup on everything,
even mix it with ranch dressing,
mad scientist gleam in their eyes
as they stir it with green beans

& i have brushed my teeth a hundred times,
yet the taste still clings to my tongue
& that dangly thing in the back of the throat

char & ash

the air, my clothes, my boys hair
where i go for the solace
of innocence---

they say it started where the clothes drier
joins the wall, now scorched---
but awaking at 1:30 AM to a house full of smoke
it doesn't matter---

does anything?

my grandfather was a fireman,
and on Sundays after church,
we would go for dinner, his helmet,
coat and boots by the door,
just in case a call came,
smelling of the last family
he saved or---

we are safe, damage minor,
but i would give anything to sense
something else,

even ketchup
mixed with ranch dressing.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - The wonderful Natasha Head is hosting this evening. So go write something poetic and join us. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

I will be a little slow getting around the next couple days. As you may have gathered from above, we had a small electrical fire in the middle of the night last night. All are well and we are in the clean up/fixing phase at this point. We do have heat back, so we are making progress.

a broken hush

 
here
      in the 61st day of winter
the world has fallen

to the hush
                of snow,
                           broken

only by glee-filled
         down hill squeals

                                

Magpie Tales: No Quarter

JESUS SAVES, is written
in black magic marker, block letters
on the bathroom stall door

above, for a good time call
and some number & i
                almost
                      do
                           but fear
if the pastor answers,
it might be all he has to offer

as if our happiness were the true measure
of a life
          well lived.


written in response to the picture prompt, which can be viewed at Magpie Tales.