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Posts tagged ‘Poetry’

Baby Island and book spine poems

Last week, averageinsuburbia posted about book spine poems.  I thought they were super neat.  But what got me really excited was a book in one of her poems, Baby Island.  Baby Island is my favorite book from when I was a kid.  I think I read it every year up until I was in my twenties or something.  Which may seem ridiculous, but it was like a book security blanket: a quick and easy read, a sweet and simple story.  Pleasant.  It made me happy. continue reading…

I want to tell you

Anger, anger,
anger, anger, anger!

In this moment
it all comes
crashing down
on me and it
crushes my lungs
and robs the
breath right
from my lips.

And then again
am I really sad for you,
or for me?

Sometimes it burns,
this sadness,
and I can’t fill up
the emptiness or dismiss
these ever-present thoughts
of you, of loving you
and holding you in
my arms and kissing the
top of your head,
and you smell so sweet
like all little babies do.

I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you…

Most of the time I just love you
and crave you near 
me,
like you used to be
so very long ago…
I want to hug you,
and 
know you again.
I want to 
keep my precious memories
as 
dear to me as they are now
and 
still get to have you growing older
like other children do.

I want to tell you how much I love you.
I want to tell you that.

Disturbed

While you slept,
I came in by the window.
While you slept,
I used that ladder there.
Dangerous thing, a ladder.
Nowadays you can’t
be too careful.

When I was a child,
we slept with unlocked doors.
When I was a child,
we left the windows open
and let the cool evening breezes
brush over us and smooth
our days into dreams in slumber.

Nannie’s House

Funny how my thoughts somehow
drew themselves to her bathroom.

It seems a place I once read about,
its memory is so far distant,
and not the place whose particulars
I contemplated often at that time.

I can actually see the coldness
I felt there in winter,
through the floor,
in the lukewarm bath water,
resting on that cold porcelain sink;
It was all so old, even then.

And there was always the crocheted frog,
on his lily pad in yarn water
that covered the lid of the toilet.

But I never think of it these days…

A wonder,
since in this one moment of remembrance,
it bursts forth and embodies that whole place,
the entire memory of my existence there.

Then suddenly I realize the
presence of all those rooms,
and the attic where we sometimes played,
and I know their individual potential
for recalling my childhood are great.

I see the vagueness of a porch
with jars and cans and plants.

I know the kitchen,
and the wood stove we
dressed in front of

in the cold morning,
the table we made cookies on,
her freezer against the back wall,
and the counter where I played my
new radio the day after Christmas.

Then the living room,
where two chairs sit and wait,
and granddaddy longlegs crawl the wall;
in the floor is a box fan to lay in front of
on a long summer day;
and there’s a soft and saggy couch
just right for staying up all night to watch tv.

Here’s the room I would stay in
where I lie awake,
and thought and dreamed,
and saw the sun rise the next morning.

There’s Grandpop’s doorway and
I can see his spirit facing it,
sitting on the side of the bed,
smoking cigarettes and just as drunk
as his body was when it lived there.

At the end of the hall I find her room
where she and Becca slept when we stayed;
inside is the dresser with her girdles in
the top drawer, those earrings, Wind Song,
and I borrow her cross necklace to
wear to church in the morning.