Unit 3 Project

So these are the final drafts of all 5 of the poems I was assigned for this Unit.

The Water Runs


The water runs
Through you,
Through me.
Appearing solid
‘though mostly liquid,
We sway and dip,
Leap and lie.
The water runs.

The water takes,
The water gives.
Filling lungs,
Vision darkens;
Filling belly,
Fever fades.
Rising and surging,
A house crippled, broken.
Rising and surging,
A well made ready.

The water unites,
The water divides—
Splashing on in,
The air rings with laughter.
Unable to share,
The air rings with gunfire.

The water is tainted,
Swirling red clouds.
Darkness and depth,
Will hide sins and tears.
The water runs through us,
Forgives as we shed
Our secrets of so many shades.



               Lucia Beach Road  1975-1983


I remember running through the marshy field, next to the creek, scared to death of stepping in our version of quick sand, “honey pots.”

I remember the smooth, sand-like dirt road leading to my house and the lake-sized pot holes which were such fun to maneuver on a bicycle.

I remember my cousin giving me a ride on her mini motorbike. We skidded to a tumbling stop, pinning her there, while I stood filling with guilt that I had somehow caused her broken leg.

I remember lying on the bottom bunk and thinking I should cry upon the news of my much older cousin’s death; instead I pictured him washing ashore, and the boat he had slipped from in the dark of night.

I remember building our tree house, and the way I held my breath each time I reached for the next wobbly foothold as I followed the older girls up the first time.

I remember cutting a hole in my favorite green corduroys and as I heard my mother walking down the hall, hastily asking my cousin whether I should say, “I did it on purpose,” or, “I did it by accident.”  Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she answered me.

I remember the endless procession of beautiful summer days on which we, her 4 youngest granddaughters, would burst through her screen door and recite our favorite line, “Grammie, whadda you have to eat?”

I remember that it was always Kool Aid and something from Hostess.

I remember the pattern on her countertop, the cool clean feeling of her orderly house, bursting with knick knacks.

I remember the two attic bedrooms in that house, and the hours and hours of playing “college” up there.

I remember learning to spell “Afghanistan” in one of those deeply eaved rooms, and marveling over the number of afghans in my grandmother’s closet.

I remember the way the word “cousin” felt more like “sister”, and the slow dawning of realization that it didn’t mean the same to other people, that we were lucky.

I remember learning to ice skate, and the way the cold air sliced through my heavy layers and came out the other side, leaving me wondering why all the fuss.

I remember the Crab Girls, who picked out meat in the bleach-drenched fluorescent lit room in our basement.  

I remember their loud and misplaced laughter, and the wall of cooking crab that met my nose when I walked from that room to the one with the enormous black cooker.

I remember sorting crabs, and getting pinched; the big claws on a dark brown disc with tiny eyes; my mother’s kind reminder that you must pick them up by the smallest leg.

I remember my fearless and gentle mother turning into a terrified and angry monster when that boy cousin ran toward her with snakes draping off him like streamers on a float.

I remember that harmless big grey house at the end of its long, straight driveway, perched in the middle of a field; and how fearfully we avoided it on Halloween and Girl Scout Cookie sales calls, somehow driven by a need for mystery in our quiet neighborhood.

I remember lying on our bellies, behind the short row of hedges and peering through binoculars, into the window of the neighbors across the street. I remember my confusion over the older kids’ excitement at what we saw, and looked again for the pot while wondering why they didn’t just call it a pan

I remember the quietness of that narrow, winding street, and how it was shattered by a plane crash once, a car crash twice.  

I remember riding our bikes to the tiny airport because it had vending machines, and was much closer than any store with our plan for evading kidnappers firmly in place.

I remember wishing I could live in a place with sidewalks and neighbors, like the kids on TV.

I remember sitting on the school bus, and singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” into the fogged up window, as we rounded the corner to cross the river, and thinking I might know something about Love at 6 years old.

I remember falling asleep on the top bunk, wearing a silver ring with a puppy on it, securely on my finger and how I ached for it for days afterward when I woke to find it missing.

I remember the woods behind my school; a little alcove-like clearing, the delicate pink lady slipper growing in the shade of a mossy rock, and the tingly reverence I felt for that forbidden flower.

I remember the day they finished building our house, and the many days that followed, packing all our things for the move.  Two miles—and a world—away.

                   Fate
I think of that night a lot;
Mostly in flashes.
Scene of us at that table
Bursts into my mind,
Lit by the eyes
I cast toward my past.

I was too sick for work,
But went anyway.
Got home, exhausted,
A message was waiting
An old friend,
Old flame, old fling
(whatever he was)
Back in town,
Wanted to see me.

So I bundled up tight,
And drove to the bar.
Moving slowly,
And thinking fast
Of the past and tomorrow.
Making my way
Through the sharp winter night,
I was insecure, hopeful—
And so unaware.

We sat in the shadows,
We two and his friend.
Spent time catching up,
Laughing and blinking.
His charm slid right off me
Like oversized clothes.

My eyes and ears drifted,
Absorbing his friend.
That’s when time stopped.
He was real:
Smart, and solid.
Tall, blonde and blue-eyed—
My husband, I’d found.


Ten Ways to Look at My Hands


I
On the horizon a fat sun,
Melting into the earth.
My eyes turn away from it;
My hands steer me into it.

II
Deep in my pockets,
They hide.
Warm and crushed,
crushing.
My hands will not betray me.


III
Sliding over a stubbled face
My hands are small and soft.
They seek and find and seek again.

IV
A hand flies to my mouth—
Covering quickly the barking laugh
Of surprised amusement.

V
My hands obey on a keyboard;
Fast and sure,
They spill my scattered thoughts
Into black and white order.

VI
Drumming fingers, clicking nails—
My hands broadcast impatience
To one with no answers.

VII
My hands clasp tightly,
Knuckles paling,
As my eyes widen;
In shock, disbelief.

VIII
My hands shake you
If you’re sleeping.
And will want to
If your mind is closed.

IX
My hands push away.
Scrambling behind them,
I escape.

X
Stretched high into the sky—
My hands reach for the rain,
A bolt of lightening, a cloud.


                               Lullaby of a Broken Heart

Washing away
Each image of you,
I wander from where we were us.
The dreams we once had
Turn to dust under foot,
Each breath leads us further apart.

Mem’ries slowly grow smaller—
As hazy ships on a horizon.
When you were here
The world spun smooth,
The stars shone long and loud.

I fill the emptiness you made
With prayers and songs and tears.
Desperately shoving each round one
Into the square-like holes.

We were a puzzle:
You the answer to me,
I the question of you.
Apart, each a jagged-edged riddle.

With each sunset
I come more fully back to me,
Though never to the start again.
My pulse is now off-beat,
My eyes a different shade.
Outside mirrors inside—
I tumble through the days.

To set you free,
I set me free…
Adieu, mon grand amour!