Skip to main content

Homemade of Words (ghazal)

By day we ran barefoot. By night we bathed in her cascade of words
Pinocchio, Little Boy Blue, and all that wild parade of words

The room with the wandering beds where we were little girls on boats
At bedtime floated away into a fairy place made of words

Oh they felt guilty they’d taken us from the land of milk and Kellogg’s
So they tied us to home with their endless golden braid of words

Daddy read Bibles, biographies, Newsweek, and sometimes Le Monde
But Mommy read mysteries, novels, poetry, in every last shade of words

Of sewing and cookery, cleaning and wifery my mother taught me nothing
We traveled a sparkling world behind our enchanted blockade of words

Our homeschool had number cards, sundials, paper-bag horseheads
But the fabric of delight was sung, recited, and prayed with words

She opened her golden throat and crooned us a universe of witchery
Her free-range children built of song and stoutly homemade of words
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...
1 comment
Read more

Last day (san san)

If this turns out to be the last day we can speak will we feel foolish for the unsaid words? the baby bucks head-butting in the yard will go on play- ing, trampling our unsaid words. The world might creak to an end on this last day. Frightened away, maybe the baby words will find each other in the yard, nest under the hooves of the wannabe bucks, on this last day we could have spoken. The silent bucks will come to rest. (This poetic form is called san san, which apparently means “three three” in Chinese. It rhymes as you see (a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d), and also repeats, three times, each of three terms or images; in this case, last day, (unsaid/baby) words, (baby/wannabe/silent) bucks)
Post a Comment
Read more

Alakazam

All of a sudden the bakery All of a mouth the creature All over hot the driveway All out of pocket the pickers All over town the regret All of a piece the rumble Alakazam, the belly All over now, the shouting All of us masked, this peacetime All over shy, this spring All of the worst, over now? Always already the bakery
Post a Comment
Read more