P. A7 NYT 5.17.08

her body
ghostly
before death

one visible eye
distantly gazes out
from under a white
muslin shroud

Safia Ali
lays dying
in her home
a hut in Somalia

surrounded by
villagers who
peer in waiting

her 5 children
cannot be seen
we are told
one curls up
tight into
his mothers
body

Safia Ali
last ate
1 week ago

war
famine
drought
brought her
to this place

I cannot
turn the
page
afraid
I’ll forget the face
of
Safia Ali

I want to
be haunted
by her image
forever

I plead with
her one eye
with the reporter
with the photographer
please
keep
her
breathing

tonight
my children will
at some point
climb up
into bed

I will lay awake
surrounded by
their sweet breath
and warm bodies
thinking of the
children
of Safia Ali.

Thanks everyone for your comments. I appreciate them greatly. Again I have stumbled upon not really writers block, but that other thing that Virginia Woolf wrote about-A Room of One’s Own. I am having a hard time finding-time and or space or a quite place to write. I try to write in my journal, or even a quick poem on the computer but that has been more difficult of late.

My goal this summer is to keep writing as much as possible. So hopefully there will be some new poetry posted soon.   Also, I hope to keep visiting you all as I enjoy reading your poetry as well.

Many thanks!

-Roberta

Mother, pt.1

details of my life
are connected
by strands of hair
in my sons fingertips

lastly, I will say nothing
time travels across
the ever expanding universe
a stopwatch never put in place
mind splitting numbness
wrist wringing tears
blood
slips downwards
thick
cherry droplets

I am my mothers daughter, but what will
it mean in the
end?
her voice in my head
her laughter dries up and blows away
into her body
ashen,
dusty
even before death

I am my mothers daughter
will that mean plaque ridden arteial damage
as my grey matter
clings to life
by threads
so I can search for meaning and know absolutely nothing
from one
second until
the next?

I am my mothers daughter,
but what good is that to me
if she is
already dead?

the promise of crocuses

waiting frozen
against parking lot brush
juniper, box berry
covered with
silt, salt ,dust

sunlight filters
across grey rain at dawn
springs aroma
washed free
in early morn

winter wraps up
spring unravels
the promise of crocuses
sightings marked
near commuter gravel

What I have to say
my mouth is clamped shut
I cannot write
because I cannot
hear what I have to say

frown lines appear
maddeningly quick
grey hairs streak tears
this cold voice
thwarted -endangered

the dusty crevice
of my mouth
is full of
dead bats
dying bees

afterwards
will I choke
on the powder of crushed moth wings?

Scott over at Poetic Leanings
sent me this award from the shameless lions writing circle whereby I must list three things that make writing good and powerful before passing the award along. ( And pick other sites to give the award to!)

Thanks so much Scott for giving me this award. I will have to say it has taken me a long time to post a thank you as my computer has been ill along with everyone in my family-including me…

Here are three things I think make writing good and powerful:

truth

beauty

& humor

Three blogs I send this award out to are:

On Any Other Day

Qazse

Tiny Bubbles

frozen in a
room that reeks
of cat piss-I write

stunned nasal tissues sweep
me unprepared
into sub mucosal vertigo

confession:
the cat box will not
be cleaned by me

however malodorous
vomit will only
worsen the cause

——————-

RPG words:

vertigo
tissue
confession

—–

go to: read write poem for more poetry

Persimmon

You are a funny looking fruit, hard sleek orange shell with a tomato like top round and dented.
I have yet to eat a ripe one, always the taste is the same.

I open you up-forgetting what the inside is like
because after the first bite
all I recall is my mouth sucked dry by your vacuum like powers
depleted of all liquid from my throat
what gifted taste remains, is a dry cotton acid
I gag, and damn myself again, for being tempted by your name.

The Taste of Love

warmed by the sun on our caribbean honeymoon-I will never forget the taste of papaya at breakfast under a palm tree canopy overlooking the sea- milky black caviar seeds filled the curved center of hot sweet orange flesh

————————————————–

pluots and nectarines
my shirts stained
with your summer plump juiciness

a single sentence of 17 syllables, thank you A. Ginsberg

a cup of tea
this chilly fall night
I simply sip the cold away

————–

spooning lemon soup together on a chair sit two children plus dad

————–

we awoke to a white prickly blanket covering the lawn, first snow!

—————–

driving my car poetry is created,erased and forgotten.

——————

momma,
where is my blue kazoo?
can we buy a kayak with it now?
———————

fat white flakes drop from the sky
children, tongues out
run laughing, to taste snow

Autumn Arrives

scrambled
mind blown
caffeinated junkie

mommy mommy mommy

I reach for

eggs chocolate books
NYTimes
a nap

hurry hurry hurry

the spider is moving
jack o’ lantern glowing
leaves are falling
woodpeckers at the feeder

sleep  sleep sleep

bundled crumpled in
a saggy king
snoring out of synch

no no no

cries of pulling hair
skin caresses
abc’s to sleep