tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31272686944247081792024-03-07T21:46:07.906-08:00blue grasschristina hileUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-80496315500361762072010-03-05T21:37:00.000-08:002010-03-05T21:38:24.436-08:00Top Five PoemThis poem was selected as one of the top five for last April's Writer's Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for Day 18. <br /><br /><br /><br />Conversation<br /><br />I remember my mouth moving,<br />words spilling out upon the hospital blanket.<br />I remember him answering<br />in between labored breaths.<br />I wanted to lean in closer<br />so I could hear what he said<br />but I was still afraid<br />to get too close to him.<br />I remember that everything in the room<br />seemed larger than he did<br />and that I kept clenching and<br />unclinching my fists<br />like they were jellyfish,<br />like if I opened and closed them enough<br />I could propel myself right out the window.<br />I remember looking at<br />the potted orchid<br />beside the soap dispenser<br />and how the labellum<br />looked like a polka-dot pocket<br />full of words left unsaid.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-60281588824749912382010-02-04T01:33:00.000-08:002010-02-04T01:34:24.874-08:00Wednesday's "Promptly" Writing Prompt<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Blue Guitar</span><br /><br />I've seen the angel of Death. He wears a killer pair of thigh-high boots. Imagine Bowie with a broadsword. <br /><br />It was one of those nights where every time I'm about to fall asleep I have a hypnic jerk. Except this time I jerk myself right off the bed. <br /><br />On my bedroom floor, in the dark, everything looks different. The green light of the power strip gives the notebooks and paperbacks an absinthian glow. Dust bunnies merge together in the no man's land beneath my bed preparing their ambush. The acoustic guitar propped up in the corner, the one I never did learn how to play, looks like a tired old man, one solemn chord away from serenading the undertaker. And then I see my face reflected in black latex that goes on forever. Almost. This guy looks like he knows what he's doing and, frankly, I'm curious. So I say, “You aren't going to get no fight from me, Death. To tell the truth, I've been ready for a while. Life is boring.”<br /><br />“We agree in principle. That's clear.”<br /><br />“Yes, well, I'm glad someone finally understands where I'm coming from.” I still lay there on the bedroom floor looking stupid. And Death's still standing there looking amazing, his left hand on the glittering pommel of his sword. And I'm wondering when it's going to happen. You know, when he's going to close my eyes with a slow wave, hand me that one-way ticket, do the reaping. He doesn't seem in any hurry. “You want a sandwich? I think I've got some roast beef in the kitchen.”<br /><br />Death looks over at the corner of my bedroom. “Things as they are are changed upon the blue guitar.”<br /><br />“Ah, yeah, well, I never learned to play.”<br /><br />“I play. But this is what I think. We shall forget by day, except the moments when we choose to play.” Death bent his head down and I could see now his hair was white as his sword.<br /><br />I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it's too late for me to learn now. I've already got one foot in the grave. I'm, like, half the man I was this morning.”<br /><br />Death shook his head. “Am I not, myself, only half a figure of a sort, a figure half seen, or seen for a moment, a man of the mind, an apparition appareled in apparels of such lightest look that a turn of my shoulder and quickly, too quickly, I am gone?”<br /><br />And he was. Gone, that is. And I wish I could say I learned to play that guitar, but I forgot about until this morning when it fell over with a dissonant thud.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-70279970847699916152009-12-01T00:40:00.000-08:002009-12-01T00:41:12.605-08:00Final Day of the Poem-a-Day ChallengeHysterectomy<br /><br />When I fell asleep the nurse was still <br />laughing. I don't remember the <br />joke. And while I was sleeping they <br />drew the knife and cut it out. Out! And <br />in the dark of anesthesia I couldn't <br />yell, Stop! I've changed my mind. <br /><br />They said to me, Don't be afraid. Then they<br />tore me open and harvested a pink plump pear of<br />an organ. And while they offered a sacrifice to<br />the god of bloody things I was crawling through<br />a sea of sage. Crawling. But my wrists were<br />tied. And my mouth was tied. The other<br />women walked past me with their baskets of<br />fruit. They pretended not to see me twitching at<br />their heels.<br /><br />There were no telephones where <br />I went and kisses were hard to <br />come by. And no one explained that <br />feeling of being taken from one world and <br />placed in another. That feeling. It was the <br />opposite of waking up on a hospital bed with<br />an ache where you're missing something.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-32201749853590365472009-11-30T01:02:00.000-08:002009-11-30T01:03:21.572-08:00Day Twenty-Nine of the Poem-a-Day Challenge89<br /><br />If there was a way to give him all without<br />giving him anything, I guess I've done it.<br />I guess. The bedspread was scratchy. The <br />blue Jesus on the wall quietly prayed. I watched the <br />second hand on the clock move around and <br />around, stopping to kiss each tick once quickly on <br />the way to tock. In retrospect, I could have been more<br />original. It's not like I thought I was the<br />one. Not really. That's probably what we all<br />say. In retrospect. But beneath the <br />sidewalk and the water pipes and the dirt was <br />someone a little uncertain who happened to<br />hold a lever in her hand.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-17830031091904122982009-11-29T01:06:00.001-08:002009-11-29T01:06:37.066-08:00day 28 p.a.d.Through this Moment<br /><br />A cardboard boat, its mainsail a<br />torn-up t-shirt blowing in the <br />wind so a pattern of reddish <br />light twinkles on the water, crawls bit by <br />bit over the inky flat rocks of the <br />riverbed. It must have been built while <br />I was sitting here trying to mend another <br />hole in the sofa's upholstery. He is so far away <br />from me right at this moment. But there are<br />others, moments so close, moments of <br />fusion. Ice melting into water. This<br />tempestuous soul who only months ago<br />was blood and bones and water.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-19145296861928829512009-11-28T02:16:00.001-08:002009-11-28T02:16:53.584-08:00p.a.d. --day twenty-sevenRectangles<br /><br />Arranging and rearranging the hem of<br />her red satin dress, she pauses to<br />look at the camera. I do not expect<br /><br />a smile or an offering, perhaps a <br />scream, a silent scream for <br />melodrama's sake. All angles are <br /><br />her angles. At any rate, the<br />ghosts hide in the dark until<br />she's away. I knew her before<br /><br />she had to put gold in her hair, when<br />her curves were round and soft. If<br />you believe miracles occur then<br /><br />you've never been strapped to<br />the bed when she administers the<br />dose. Degree by degree.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-65619477211962702722009-11-27T01:08:00.001-08:002009-11-27T01:08:40.852-08:00p.a.d. -- day twenty-sixOf the Waves <br /> for Kenneth<br /><br /><br />A little boy<br />stands on a box<br />in too-big blue jeans,<br /><br />munching on<br />carrot sticks and<br />singing Dylan.<br /><br />We rush through<br />dinners, school days,<br />birthdays,<br /><br />barely stopping to<br />bend and breathe in<br />the sweet and salty.<br /><br />He stands on a<br />cardboard box bare-<br />foot and plucks a <br /><br />guitar, his ten fingers and<br />toes are gulls that <br />say good luck <br /><br />slowing us down. The <br />boy who swells and <br />breaks like every <br /><br />breath is every-<br />thing. The boy who <br />knows a clock different<br /> <br />from the one hanging <br />on the kitchen wall. The <br /><br />boy whose laughter draws <br />honey from the <br />roaring sea.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-33244995986087802562009-11-26T01:08:00.000-08:002009-11-26T01:09:14.211-08:00day 25 p.a.d.Fever<br /><br />Little snowflakes, little chalky <br />wafers, you flutter outside my <br /><br />window. I stick out my tongue but <br />still cannot taste your <br /><br />chill. There is a cold I cannot <br />catch! If you could nip, or bite--<br /><br />close your arctic fingers around <br />my throat. Not this, not <br /><br />this falling down without<br />frostbite, without numb. <br /><br />I'm weary of watching <br />you wobble, stark as<br /><br />bone, lifeless as the <br />shavings of a fingernail.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-45963382191324318222009-11-25T01:16:00.000-08:002009-11-25T01:17:10.898-08:00day 23 p.a.d.Supper<br /><br />Supper is full of noise. The <br />sharp staccato of celery being <br />chopped. Forks and knives <br />rattle against each other like <br />bells with broken clappers. <br />Grandpa grunts as he tries to <br />get out of his chair.<br /><br />In the middle of <br />everything slouches<br />a whistling boy. Sneaker <br />toes tap linoleum. Sigh. A <br />pencil clucks and whispers across <br />the paper. Sigh. Pencil <br />becomes drum stick until <br />the song ends. Sigh.<br /><br />Platters stomp and <br />tromp on the table. Glasses<br />fill with water. Chairs <br />pull out. A rushed<br />prayer. The rip of<br />crusty bread. Everyone<br />speaks at once.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-79368066485239789072009-11-23T03:11:00.001-08:002009-11-23T03:11:47.311-08:00poem-a-day challenge -- day twenty-twoFlash Flood<br /><br />The first time it rained, I was <br />a wreck. I remembered <br />stories my new husband had <br />mentioned, stories of<br />basements slowly filling with <br />water, animals floating by <br />vacant family room <br />windows, taking a <br />rowboat to work. <br /><br />I imagined my baby being <br />whisked away in his <br />bassinet down Bay Avenue.<br />I lifted him carefully into<br />my arms, with great<br />ceremony, like I might <br />never do it again. <br /><br />I ran upstairs and tried to <br />pack a bag, a plastic grocery <br />bag, with necessities. What <br />was necessary? I'd never lived in <br />a city that flooded. Suddenly, <br />I was homesick.<br /><br />The rain in this new place, this <br />strange city, the rain here is<br />moody and scornful. It assaults <br />frisbee throwers in the park, crushes <br />flowers and has been know to <br />steal umbrellas right out of tightly <br />clutched hands. The rain here takes a <br />joy ride and never looks back.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-54845946475525170182009-11-23T01:50:00.000-08:002009-11-23T01:51:05.332-08:00p.a.d. --day twenty-oneBudd Bay<br /><br />She leans over the landing and drops <br />pebbles into Budd Bay, the smooth <br />rocks work their way down her fingers and <br />out of her hands into the murky water.<br /><br />The afternoon sun tints everything<br />an unnatural buff color, like <br />polaroids from the 1970s.<br /><br />Her hair slips between the slats of <br />the boardwalk. Tucked behind a <br />pierced ear. Strands brush her <br />forearm. Protein filaments.<br /><br />She drops another pebble. Plop. The <br />surface of the water explodes. <br /><br />On a bench further down the <br />wharf an old man clips shades onto <br />his eye glasses. A woman with <br />curly hair sits down next to him and puts a <br />blanket across his knees. She shouts at <br />him to straighten his collar.<br /><br />Surface tension. Ripples. Water lit by <br />late summer sunlight. Quickly it goes. <br />It cannot hold its shape.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-56947915624792850932009-11-21T02:07:00.001-08:002009-11-21T02:07:40.349-08:00Day Twenty (p.a.d.)And Then It Unfolds<br /><br />There is a rush of <br />wind, sheet music scatters like <br />dandelion snow, you lose your <br />balance. Off kilter. <br /><br />You watch yourself<br />disentangle. They say <br />you grew the beard to appear <br />more distinguished. Older. <br />Wiser.<br /><br />Just seconds ago your<br />fingers were skillful and<br />sure. Already you are<br />trying to recall how<br /><br />smooth the keys felt under<br />your fingertips. The slight<br />resistance. The delicate<br />sound of pianissimo. The<br />exact moment<br /><br />when you floated away from <br />the sanctuary of the concert hall and<br />unraveled knee-deep in <br />sea grass.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-53835966072415141982009-11-20T01:09:00.001-08:002009-11-20T01:09:57.157-08:00p.a.d. -- day nineteenAttachment<br /><br />For years I've been looking for somewhere to go.<br />New York. New Mexico. Old El Paso. I have even<br />planned things out once or twice. Called the <br />numbers and received the brochures. Checked on<br />apartments and duplexes. Looked up crime rates.<br />And then, in my dreams, there I am searching for<br />a pine tree to sit under, a warm cup of coffee, the<br />bellow of the sea.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-51883592043691414102009-11-19T02:35:00.000-08:002009-11-19T02:36:01.785-08:00p.a.d. day eighteenForgetting<br /><br />The act of forgetting is a slow one. <br />So much sneaks back in. <br /><br />The fallen feather of a <br />belted kingfisher. The smell of <br />pepperoni pizza. The manner in which <br />a girl in the street quickly says hello and <br />then tucks her chin into her <br />chest. <br /><br />Remnants of debris.<br /><br />I stumble on their tangled bits.<br /><br />Forgetting to remember to <br />forget is a fascinating, <br />formidable thing. Each <br />memory opening always <br />into another.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-9098297572516384652009-11-18T01:17:00.001-08:002009-11-18T01:17:39.331-08:00day seventeen of the poem-a-day challengeAfter<br /><br />The black smoke rises like a <br />cat stretching after a nap. I used<br />to be able to smell it. I used to<br />like the smell. I used to do it on<br />purpose just so I could inhale the<br />withery scorch . In the middle of<br />the day I drive back to my place just<br />to watch a slice of bread go from <br />golden brown to charcoal.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-2969592351608973192009-11-16T23:56:00.001-08:002009-11-16T23:56:37.062-08:00p.a.d. -- day sixteenClouds are Water<br /><br />Grams is on her knees bent <br />over the washing basin, rubbing a <br />linen blouse upon the galvanized <br />steel ribs of the washboard. I try to <br />open the window, to holler, to ask <br />her why she doesn't just throw the <br />clothes in the washing machine, but<br />the window won't budge. I watch <br />her scrub--plunge, lift, plunge. She <br />is laughing. Her cheeks are <br />clouds and clouds are water.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-85693435236628823192009-11-16T01:24:00.000-08:002009-11-16T01:25:02.640-08:00day fifteen p.a.d.Pickup Truck<br /><br />I stare at the fuzzy blue dice hanging from the <br />rearview mirror and try to breathe through my <br />mouth to avoid the sour smell of his sweat. The <br />sun is hot on my thighs and I wish I hadn't worn <br />such short shorts. <br /><br />I pat his arm quickly and sit on my hands to keep <br />my legs from sticking to the blue vinyl seat. The <br />radio has gone staticky but I don't dare touch it, <br />don't dare chance tuning into some honky tonker <br />moanin' the blues.<br /><br />I don't know what to say so I keep pretending to<br />yawn, keep pretending he never said it. Each<br />time we pass a traffic sign, a whoosh like the<br />wind being forced out of an air mattress, quick<br />and all at once.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-10343184927375820492009-11-15T03:01:00.000-08:002009-11-16T01:25:48.523-08:00p.a.d. day fourteenLines<br /><br />Simian crease, sugar-stirring <br />spoon, Bob's suspenders, electric <br /><br />circuit loop. Cocaine, a cat's <br />tail, steel rails running on<br /><br />wooden ties. The point<br />spread, kohl powder <br /><br />penciled around bloodshot<br />eyes, getting from point A to<br /><br />point B. Kenneth's untied<br />shoelaces, the 50-yard <br /><br />line on a football field,<br />grocery lists, the end of<br /><br />a marathon, walls, a picture <br />frame painted gold. Song and<br /><br />dance, the pink satin ribbons in <br />Kate's hair. Postcards from a <br /><br />childhood pen pal, a filmstrip, the <br />string attached to a tea bag, the tone arm of <br /><br />a phonograph, The stem of a late summer <br />sunflower, veins returning impure blood back to <br /><br />the heart, a fading face drawn in the after-<br />shower fog on a bathroom mirror.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-19867726817022846092009-11-14T03:08:00.000-08:002009-11-16T01:25:31.313-08:00p.a.d. -- day thirteenPaper<br /><br />Fashion magazines, broken-<br />down cereal boxes and <br />seven drafts of a poem in <br />a bundle on the curb.<br /><br />The gray cat reclines on<br />last week's spelling <br />test, she bats a jigsaw puzzle <br />piece between her paws.<br /><br />Last night's carry-out<br />still on the coffee table, <br />Kung Pao sauce weeping on<br />a brood of cut-out paper dolls.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-68345864532677703912009-11-13T18:53:00.000-08:002009-11-13T18:54:06.653-08:00day twelve p.a.d.If Only<br /><br />If Only Mama'd let me go to the county fair,<br />ice cream candy apple coca-cola stains on<br />white t-shirt, flea market tye dye sunglasses<br />hats with detachable hair, $10 entry fee vocal<br />dance instrumental bathing suit beauty pageant & <br />talent contest, down and dirty grass <br />roots lawn mower racing, beekeepers apiary<br />honey comb in wide mouth jar with rust-free lid,<br />to market to market to buy a fat hog, fortune<br />telling star tarot card palm in Gypsy Lee's hand.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-56480220014369791892009-11-13T01:29:00.001-08:002009-11-13T01:29:41.660-08:00day eleven of the p.a.d.Home<br /><br />If I ever build a house I'll paint it blue,<br />or green. Sea green. I'll build it beside a <br />river so it feels like I'm always moving.<br />I'll let ivy grow up the sides.<br />Two pink flamingos planted in the<br />front lawn to remind me to smile.<br />On second thought, no <br />flamingos. Yard statuary gives<br />the impression that I'm here to<br />stay.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-43391165809223955812009-11-13T00:57:00.001-08:002009-11-13T00:57:38.963-08:00p.a.d. day tenSwell<br /><br />On a log dark-hued as this ocean night we are cloaked.<br /><br />The murk and mist mask<br />a too-big nose and<br />knobby knees. <br />Everything is the ocean.<br /><br />When I close my eyes, you sing <span style="font-style:italic;">I Want You to Want Me</span>.<br /><br />I will darn socks someday, some<br />day, and you will forge pots and pans out of <br />iron, but that life is thousands of <br />nautical years away.<br /><br />What would it be like to wave, to ripple across the<br />surface headed nowhere in particular, to vibrate from<br />moment to moment? Veiled in water, waves,<br />name and number withheld.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-68001718838200226352009-11-11T01:01:00.000-08:002009-11-11T01:02:05.376-08:00p.a.d. ... day nineThe Lady Looked at Herself<br /><br /><br />The lady looked at herself <br />(with curls and cheeks round as<br />apples)in a pool of dark still water<br />more slippery than a raven's back<br />its feathers wet with rain.<br /><br />The women plaiting her hair<br />(none of them knowing kinship is<br />more fairer than guile and<br />envy) tell stories about the <br />lady's vanity and love of<br /><br />looking at her own body (a<br />most excellent body, both up and <br />down) and their stories buzz <br />and hum until all the men and<br />women (especially the women) believe<br /><br />the lady is a bad lady <br />(and a sinful lady and<br />shameful too) and they cannot<br />begin to explain (these women) <br />how they have come to feel<br /><br />contemptible of their own bodies<br />so they begin to make excuses<br />(about a hair out of place, about<br />needing to check their lipstick)<br />for looking in the mirror.<br /><br />Somewhere (with ribbons of<br />gold that flow and swim) is a <br />lady who leans over a vessel<br />(a bowl of painted glass) and<br />looks at herself (long and slow).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-27408288570847668842009-11-10T16:27:00.001-08:002009-11-10T16:27:48.790-08:00p.a.d. -- day eightso, yeah...these are getting pretty awful...but at least i'm writing, right?...right?<br /><br />Should Anyone Ask<br /><br />It is evening. I have wandered off. Okay,<br />I've been abandoned. I am lost. My feet are<br />dirty. I carry a branch of laurel but still <br />my prayers are fruitless. <br /><br />The sky is the color of wild greens. The moon looks <br />counterfeit and sad. The dragonflies make music by <br />opening and shutting their wings and the <br />toadflax nearly reaches my knees.<br /><br />I will not chase love like a stray dog. I am<br />not a fool. I will leave these accursed woods. <br />But first I must wash my feet. And close my <br />heavy eyelids and sleep. Don't worry; it's just<br />a little nap.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3127268694424708179.post-55634751259396934422009-11-07T21:45:00.000-08:002009-11-07T21:46:34.951-08:00P.A.D. Challenge--Day SevenPoppies<br /><br />She plants poppies by the roadside <br />to cheer up the drivers on their way <br />home from work, because they were his favorite <br />flower, because he was a veteran, because his <br />blood, when it dribbled out of his ear, made a <br />red whorl on the white pillowcase.<br /><br />She plants poppies by the roadside<br />because it keeps her hands busy, because<br />she loves flowers, because she wants to <br />bury something that will rise again, <br />because if she isn't doing something <br />with her hands they wrench and wring.<br /><br />She plants poppies by the roadside<br />because her love for him is eternal, <br />because she needs something to take care of, because <br />it requires no intercessor, because the petals that <br />bloom out of the wrinkled bud are thin as <br />the wall between here and him.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0