Scarlett's Pantry

My stash of dark chocolate
is in the pantry
between the applesauce I bought for the child
(wrong flavor, but kept anyway)
and a little jar of instant coffee
(in case of emergency, break glass).
There -
behind the candy canes
(ghosts of a Christmas past)
and the marshmallows
(big ones like I used to roast before everything burned).

I learned from my Mama to make something
out of a half pound of nothing and a can of mushroom soup.
Lord, that woman could Shake and Bake!
I was years gone into on my own before I could face
another tuna casserole.
Now, my tuna is stacked neatly can on can
next to a sample of something or other a nice man
at the grocery store gave me for free.

Let's see; bottled water, marinade, enough hot
sauce to give a full city block the trots . . .
baking powder, flour . . .
got chocolate chips,
but I don't bake anymore.

I just settle for one of those rice cakes
(every flavor known to man)
that I tell myself are just as good
as bread (they taste like a dead man's hand).
I've got the celiac, you know,
and it's an unbuttered bitch biscuit,
but I can still suck/lick
black olives from my fingertips
or slip into my chocolate stash for a bite or ten,
and as God is my witness,
I will never be hungry again.

Blinded Proper

Poor thing.
So unstructured.
What could he have been
if he'd been
blinded proper
like me?

Poor thing.
So cluttered.
She can't go where I've been.
She's chained
to her map,
but can't see

the equator snake off the side of the page
as the latitudes loop
and the longitudes stage
a laughing rebellion
that plays out
beneath the notice

of those who won't know us
and our wild, wondrous strange.

Where We're Kept

Bottled like wine.
Labelled like specimens.
Tossed in the attic
like a knock-off Van Gogh.

Shelved like a book
that's too rare for reading.
Urned in fine dust
too dry to take seeding.
A semi-stitched wound
that dare not risk bleeding.

Bleeding
is a loss of control.

Poem For Papa

It was a ratty ass rent house,
but I wanted you to see
past the hip high weeds,
the crime scene carpet,
and the lack of working a/c
and be proud of me,
all grown-up and independent.

But, it was such a scorcher that summer . . .

that when you showed up
(all gravelly and gruff)
with a pizza and a window unit,
I got willing to settle
for cold air
and knowing that you loved me.

Bareback

A real woman rides

bareback.

Cinnamon thighs

astride

and hair 

undone.

Sun chasing.

Breakneck.

Split skin.

Bared bones.

Red dirt teeth

and tongue.

Heart racing.

And, comes back

balancing

day and night

on her hip

and tasting

of solstice.

a mini history lesson

The

British burnt

Down

Washington’s White House

Two hundred years ago

Although few people here seem

To know that it had happened –

Lost between the War of Independence

And the American Civil War

While we were busy with Napolean

And gearing up for Waterloo -

Another part of British History

To feel embarrassed by

And ashamed of

But with things to teach us

                                                                    Nevertheless.

Penny Said

Penny said to Pocket Cross,
"I've an offering for your plate.
Lincoln always loved the Lord,
but I kept a separate state.
Still, in this khaki cavalry,
I've come to love your ways.
So, I'll be yours for all I'm worth,
if you don't make me change."

untitled

It's that time of year when seeds call out
'Plant me, I'll grow', you hear them shout.
So in good faith you toil away,
Happy in your work all day.
But come September, what's to show,
Holes in leaves; slim trails in every row.
Oh well, the wildlife will live for another year at least!

(A disheartened gardener. - Thank you for sharing that, I think many of us with fumbling/failing green-fingers can understand. Also, thank you, whoever you are, for the poem via my pigeon hole... I remember my old English teacher (who was a bit like Major from Fawlty Towers) would say "I keep pigeons in my pigeon hole"... I can say I get poems in mine! Thank you!

Questions?

Is this a poem

If I say it is?

Must it rhyme

And use clever words?

Does writing one poem

Make me a poet

Or must I intend

To write more?

Locked Room Poem

Our messes mesh well, don't you think?
Dirty plates in the sink and slates on the brink
of never being clean.
Your scrips for day and mine for night -
no unaltered time
to think

or be driven to despair
by a longing to repair
our tears and tatters.

These things don't matter

in a locked room
without a key.

The Buck

The buck, throat cut,
bleeds dry about six.
Half-hidden in nightfall,
I redden a stick

and dampen the doorway -
a Sunday school lesson

pass over
pass over
pass over.