A Bit of Poetry II

Here's another collection of poetry for you, most of which was inspired by the experience of my freshman year of college, which obviously had a bit of a rocky end. I find, though, that putting thoughts, frustrations, hopes, and observations into writing and drawing symbolic meaning from them can be a helpful coping mechanism in difficult times like these. Without further ado, enjoy.

The Mailroom

yellowed posters taped to the chain-link wall

corners curled by air conditioning

black and white depictions of unknown faces

directed toward the future, hair smooth in the back

a circular clock hung in between them

ticking, ticking

class of 2015,

2014,

2013,

2012,

2011—

First Lesson

How do I teach someone something that is beyond my own comprehension?
That is the question I asked myself when I sat down that day
That was the thought pulsing through my head as she placed her small hands down
I shake my head and smile, like it’s a nice joke
I turn away, pulling my double knot taut
I look to the price tags, sometimes tempted for change
Blue hair versus gray buzz cut against the headrests

Not at my usual seat at the keys

But instead in a chair beside them.

How do I explain while it flows like a language, the words are beyond definition?

On the keys she hadn’t yet learned to name

And stared at the book on the shelf.

How do I correct her when she makes a mistake, act infallible despite how I make them?

That was the worry making my fingers twitch as she pressed down each note with her own

From C, then to D, she started to play

A simple melody, yet a comforting one.

The song in front of us is only two lines long, only takes a minute, one note at a time

But it’s a sequence I learned years ago, when I turned the first page the first time.

How do I tell her this is only the beginning, the first sentence in a book we will write?

That is the wonder quieting my nerves as I sit there in silence and listen

Each note rings clear and crisp through the air

True and loud, without hesitation.

How do I talk about something so beautiful it is better left uninterrupted?

That is the issue today still arising when I sit down to teach someone to play

But right then, I simply waited for her to finish

So she could feel that unique satisfaction.

I can’t help the smile that grows on my face as I observe her stern concentration

She pushes down on each key with precision, decision—and hits every one right.

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 15)

Marks on the Sole

I slide my right foot in, it catches

A hole in the lining, my toe’s stuck inside

“Why don’t you just put them in the trash?”

Thirteen years old, I picked them out

Thought they looked cool—black leather, gold eyelets

Sturdy, stiff, snug around both calves

Gave me half an inch, maybe, but it made all the difference

Laced up on the first crisp morning of fall

Carrying my steps ‘til the first flower blooms

Weathered, worn, they don’t stand up straight

On their own anymore, need my ankles’ support

But the rubber soles, nearly flat, unseen

In return, still manage to hold up my feet

“Want to borrow some shoe polish?”

Polish might cover the stains and the scuffs

But only how bandages cover a cut

Laces’ ends frayed like the roots of a tree

Clear plastic coating a distant memory

Socks always get wet, skin wrinkled and cold

Then they sit, stuffed with newspaper, by the front door

“Why don’t you want to buy a new pair?”

But each road, each floor, each path I’ve walked

They’ve held me up, half an inch, double knot, snug

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 4)

Dad’s Playlist

Tell me there is more than the color of our eyes

Because the windows to our souls have closed curtains

“We need dish soap and a bottle brush.”

Of your truck, in the left lane down Route 24

“We’ll check BJ’s and the dollar store.”

The hum of the road tries to fill our silence

In vain—all too familiar for us

Us—a word not used too often, we

Can’t find something in common, something to say

You reach for your phone, I grip the edge of my seat

But the play button on the console is what saves me

Electric guitar—your smile lines crinkle—

“This one—this one’s a classic.”

This is our language—I’d almost forgotten

I tap my fingers and nod to the beat of the drums

During the chorus, you’ll launch into a story

Of your first Journey concert, or your vinyl collection

I’ll make a dumb joke about MP3s or CDs

Mom would say we take the quipping too far

Or maybe the music will spare us the details

And the song by itself is enough

But that’s who we are—we don’t have heart-to-hearts

Brief laughter, lessons learned, as we find a place to park

You turn off the ignition—“What do we need?”

Nothing. “Dish soap and a bottle brush.”

(The first line of this poem was taken from a poem by one of my professors, Prof. Dzvinia Orlowsky, who asked us to write a poem based on any line from her collection entitled Bad Harvest.)

Signed (The Johnson Administration, 1967)

Wouldn’t it be great

To someday be

So famous

You’re signing passport books

And grocery receipts

Gathering a crowd

Outside of the White House?

Most famous place on earth

They’ve travelled so far

To see it

And they happen to catch you

Hold out a pen

Ask for your name

Because they don’t know it yet

Barely twenty

Standing there

Sore feet from stiff new heels

Carrying the mailbag

For the President

(Printed in The Cowl vol. 83 no. 5)

Plymouth, Four Hundred Years Later

Tourists converge from Earth’s every corner to see

The piece of the past stored on this pebbled beach

All paths extending westward from the east

Meet here, the first of our nation’s vertices

It’s so special to so many, apparently

To view—The Rock—which began our history

They’ve never switched it out, supposedly

The first stone tread upon by pilgrim feet

It’s always tempting, every time you meet

Someone of whom it’s always been their dream

To stare down at this thing—a comical scene—

To make up some absurd conspiracy

“Now, I’m not saying it’s a government scheme,

But I think it was replaced in ‘63.”

But then I decided instead to let them be

To let them stare—reverential and naive

We all have Rocks—things we cling to and esteem

And no local lark could break our make-believe.

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 7)

Carolina Pine

The red soil gives them their color

And in return, they give their needles

Painting the ground a ruddy orange.

A nesting place for wrens and chickadees

And dragonflies they provide, and the air

Breathed by coyotes, dingoes, and deer.

Beware the yellow jasmine that twists its way

Up unsuspecting trunks

To cinch them like a snake

Its prey.