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
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.
