Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
SATSUMA
Crescents of tangerine cool nipples
that purse like lips as
O of navel grips its slice &
taut shiny glans raises its
section to the sun, hot through
blue-green leaves of eucalyptus;
tongue slides between citrus & skin
belly arcs smooth,
teeth release juice bursting
through this moist cavern,
tongue, lapping in slow pulses,
swallows, wet open flames.
Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES:
sexy little stories and poems for publishing
this poem.
In these past years, hurts, disappointments, confusion, resistance, loss, e.e. cummings‘ poem says it best:
let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go
let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go
they were born
to go
let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear
so comes love
OBRIGADA
What if the first word we learned
in another language
was not toilet, how much,
or even where, but instead
thank you;
would we see past lines of experience,
the stumbling of innocence,
broken teeth, exquisite eyes,
to each person’s essence,
the miracle of existence,
and be grateful for a form
that could say gracias, dhanyavaad,
tak, xìe xìe, spasibo, danke, shokran?
Thank you to the editors of Marin Poetry Center Anthology VI for first publishing “Obrigada.”
This isn't the end of fascism.
No. This
evil
will visit and incubate
in another
nation.
Carl Jung
(at the end of WWII)
Post title from the final line of
"First They Came" by
Pastor Martin Niemöller.
CHURCH VISITS
We brought you this poinsettia—
would you like it in your room?
Your drawl rich as poppies
introduces you and your children to my mom
who smiles, tries to remember if she knows you,
dementia shredding whole stands of friends each night.
Where would you like me to put it?
No directive in your mist of questions,
knowing Alzheimer’s has already clear-cut her choices.
You sit beside Mom’s bed and talk
with a comfort never shared in our family—
your husband in the reserve, children,
teens really, open as sky beside you.
But when you say your surname, Church, I cringe,
expecting Mom’s grooved tirade against religion
yet it builds a temple pointing to the majesty of blue
through which our planet spins within its womb of stars.
You are the woman I refused to be—
soft-bodied, eyes averted, submissive to spouse and god—
while I’m independent, direct, decisive,
yet am weary of my strength, worn
from years of keeping myself and others alive.
In fact I’m drowning in competence, longing to shed my life and slip into your rose-glow skin reflecting your life’s devotion to faith, service, listening presence, as you teach your children this steadfast path to kindness. Within your sphere of serenity, I pray: Throw me a rope, please, over and o–
Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem.
SIMULTANEITY When you touch me—I am breath rather than a woman breathing. One thousand wings, a single beat, split sky with summer rain. Breath rather than breathing fills the empty glass. Split sky with summer rain reveals horses carved in stone. Fill the empty glass with wine of roses, lilac, heather; reveal horses carved in stone but not hands that formed their symmetry. With wine of roses, lilac, heather, toast grass that fractures concrete blocks but not hands that formed the symmetry of streets concealing streams. Toast grass that fractures concrete blocks beside the woman reaching toward you; on streets concealing streams she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp. There is a woman reaching toward you; her face is old, possessions few, as she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp, and I see you, I see myself within her mask. Her face is old, possessions few; she came to laugh—she came to love, and I see you, I see myself within her mask reflecting how the earth breathes. We came to laugh—we came to love; one thousand wings, a single beat reflecting how the earth breathes when you touch me.
Thank you to the editors at Scribendi for first publishing this poem.
LIVING ON THE STREETS I never chose to be here Amid concrete and cheap booze— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. I hear the wailing ricochet of children Held within this hell of rolling veins. No, they never, never chose to be here. Limbs stiffened from cold sidewalks trap me As pustules grow and lice feed on my skin— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. Violence is not televised on streets; instead, it jeers at battered Skulls and broken bones—we’re easy prey for kids. No, I never chose to be here. Whiskey holds back cold and memories that leer of oboe played Amidst the smoke, thighs wrapping mine through dawn. Now, I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. With deafened ears and eyes averted, you comment on My stench as you dart into the restaurant; I never chose to be here— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years.
Thank you to the editors of Mediphors: A Literary Journal of the Health Professions for first publishing this poem.
IF NOT FOR SILENCE
In their mad Sufi dance words whirl off tongues
loose as hot snakes as we struggle to speak with rudiments—
mostly we quarrel, walk away, but sometimes manage
to weave them like a lovers’ embrace beneath that open-voweled moon,
which vacillates between the startled suck of air through pursed lips
and a night so long that, shy, she slips beyond the sun’s unerring watch.
Words electrify nerves till air feels like a panther lapping our luminous skin,
but it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,
silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness
of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.
Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES 2 for first publishing this poem.
SOAKED
I want you in my home to know you’re not alone
in those long-shadowed halls paced by perpetually
lost—dementia scouring their last stains of memory
more than safe,
I want you to feel safe
yet I’m drowning in this
deep dank bog of lung
rain sluices from leaves beneath a starless sky
as distant shouts urge me to find my way back
yet I am beyond lost having unwrapped and dropped
their safety rope from my waist so I could reach you
all my cells replicated yours when you were
my sole cord to life—for that I worshipped you
till the God, Hormones, ascended
as I stumble over elephantine roots,
machete through plants so large dinosaurs
must still exist on this swampy earth,
my lungs match each step's suck of mud,
every breath a drowning, yet I won’t
release this taut line between us mottled
with white ash and blood dark wine nor
understand how your Emmental brain
won't let you walk or know where you are
in time, yet provides lucid wit and end-
less memory for the inconsequential
years now since I severed and flung
our rope in your flames yet you remain
tangled as worry and seared to my palm
when I reach for you in wake or in dream
unable to rest or breathe for want of you
Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem in an earlier version.
IF BIRD You would be my loon calling long past light, my mourning dove, my sweetest finch flashing sun from black as night. If my bird you were I’d feed you nectar from my palm and plant thick trees for you to rest and nest until I could transform my arms and hands to feathered limbs— our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 