Tag Archives: my poems

Poem a Day #3 – Asthma

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again, thanks to Janet Aalfs for her amazing workshop, with this writing prompt:the source of my breath is a pathway through fear, is the courage I share

Asthma

source of breath is source of breath
is source is breath is breath is breath
is source, breath, source, breath breath breath
is the source but breath is source and breathing
is sore sore once sore always sore sore once
more sore again breath again sore breath
poor breath poor breath sore breath
breath at the source is sore poor breath
poor breathing poor sore poor source
poor breath at the source is sore

poor breath breath wanting breath wanting
breath wanting to breathe breathe breath
poor breath sore breath breath wanting
wanting breath not to be sore at the source
wanting breath wanting breath wanting
breathing breath wanting breathing
wanting not to be sore
breath wanting wanting waiting wanting
breath wanting waiting not to be sore
breath wanting waiting wanting
to soar

Oh breath! Oh breath! Oh breath!
Oh wanting breath oh wanting wanting
wanting to soar time to soar wanting
time to soar past time past time
past time to soar always wanting
always past time time passes breath
sore breath poor breath breath wanting
to soar breath waiting to soar breath
wanting, waiting, wanting, waiting
waiting past time waiting for time
breath waiting for time
to soar

wanting, wanting, wanting at the source
wanting at the source, breath wanting wanting
wanting at the source to soar
breath wanting at the source the source
is wanting breath the source of breath
is wanting to soar wanting to soar
is the source of breath so much wanting
wanting at the source to soar wanting
breath breath wanting wanting breath
breath wanting wanting breath wanting
breath breath wanting wanting
at the source
wanting
at the source
wanting
at the source
breath wanting, wanting,
wanting
wanting at the source
to soar.

Poem a Day #2 – The Third Thing

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with deep thanks to Janet Aalfs for an amazing writing/movement workshop.

The Third Thing
1.2

There is fear and there is freedom
there’s the fear
and there’s the freedom
There’s the fear
and here’s the freedom
Here’s the fear
and there’s the freedom
And somewhere stands
the third thing

There is power and there is shame
There, power and here, shame
Here shame, there shame,
everywhere shame shame
And power is always there
there’s power over there
And shame is always here, hiding
from the third thing


Freedom cannot live where fear rules
WRONG
As you learn to embrace your power your shame
will fade and disappear
WRONG

The third thing is both things,
neither thing, anything
outside of easy answers
The third thing stands
at the junction of all other things
The third thing
isn’t compromise, may be
in the middle, but only
of another place altogether

There’s the fear and there’s the freedom
but here there is the freedom to fear
and still find freedom and fear here

There is power and there is shame
and then there is the third thing—
learning not to be ashamed
of power, not to be ashamed
of shame

There is this and there is that
Here I am—third thing
Pick or choose, win or lose
Deep breath in—third thing
On the one hand, on the other
Palms together—third thing
One step forward, one step back
Waiting, still—the third thing

Bill

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Bill
for Cindy

It was his nature to run
so he ran.
Ran in hours, not miles,
with no map other than
genetic memory.
He ran deep.

His hip had never healed.
He ran with a leg-dragging gait
mistaken as disability.
He ran with no gesture
that could be taken
as bitterness.
He ran true.

He ran for days with
the even clip of
a wind-blown boat.
He didn’t need to tack.
He ran direct.

When he tired, he still ran
until the need to run ran out
and then he’d find a porch
by a door, usually a woman’s door—
he preferred women—
and sit and wait to be found.

Having learned to suppress
her panic, Cindy was waiting
for the call. Your dog
is on my porch. I don’t know how
he got here, it’s so far. Sometimes
she had to look up the town
on a map, although she’d lived
in Rochester for decades

Bill was waiting when she’d
drive up and open the door.
Settling into the passenger seat,
he’d smile, nuzzle her hand.

To love any being with its own
purpose, its own work,
you learn the compromise
between how you think
the world should be and how
your love needs to live.
And if you are lucky
these distance between these
is only as far
as a husky can run.

Philadelphia Cunt (revised)

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Philadelphia Cunt
(1.3)

Andorra Cunt
Bridesburg Cunt
Bush Hill Cunt
Brewerytown Cunt
Fishtown Cunt
Nicetown Cunt
Callowhill Cunt
Crefeld Cunt
Cobbs Creek Cunt
Cresheim Cunt

Center City Cunt
Logan Circle Cunt
Old City Cunt
Tourist Cunt:
Liberty Bell Cunt
Franklin Court Cunt
Ducks Tour Cunt
Rocky Statue Cunt
Love Statue Cunt
Independence Mall Cunt
Nation’s Oldest Zoo Cunt
Big Rusty Clothespin Cunt

Chestnut Cunt
Walnut Cunt
Spruce Cunt
Pine Cunt
Market Cunt
Cherry Cunt
Arch Cunt
Vine Cunt

Broad Street Cunt
South Philly Cunt
North Philly Cunt
West Philly Cunt
Northwest Cunt
Northeast Cunt

Mainline Cunt:
Bala Cynwyd Cunt
Bryn Mawr Cunt
Gladwyn Cunt
Ardmore Cunt
Haverford Cunt
Baldwin Prep Cunt
Rosemont Cunt
St. Joseph’s Cunt

Conshohocken Cunt
Connawingo Cunt
King of Prussia Cunt
Manayunk Cunt
Moyamensing Cunt
Passyunk Cunt
Pennypack Cunt
Poetguessing Cunt
Schuykill Cunt
(Sure-kill Cunt)
Tulpehoken Cunt
Wissahickon Cunt
Wissinoming Cunt

Kensington Cunt
Mechanicsville Cunt
Ninth & Lehigh Cunt
Ogontz Cunt
Oxford Circle Cunt
Powelton Village Cunt
Queen Village Cunt
Rittenhouse Cunt
Saint Martin’s Cunt
Spring Garden Cunt
Spruce Hill Cunt
Squirrel Hill Cunt
Strawberry Mansion Cunt
Tacony Palmyra Cunt
University City Cunt

Cornerstore Cunt
Diner Cunt
Traffic Circle Cunt
Dogleg Cunt
Mummer Cunt
Philadelphia Lawyer Cunt
Christ Church Cunt
AFSC Cunt
Painted Bride Cunt
Italian Market Cunt
Reading Terminal Cunt
Flower Show Cunt
Kimmel Center Cunt
National Constitution Center Cunt
Please Touch Museum Cunt
City of Brotherly Love Cunt

Amish Cunt
Catholic Cunt
Jewish Cunt
Quaker Cunt
Main Line Presbyterian Cunt

Cheese Steak Cunt:
Chubby’s Cunt
D’Alessandro’s Cunt
Pat’s Cunt
Geno’s Cunt
Jim’s Cunt
Cheez Whiz Cunt
Scrapple Cunt
Hoagie Cunt
Water Ice Cunt
Soft Pretzel Cunt
Naked Chocolate Cunt
Black Cherry Wishniak Cunt
Tastykake Cunt
Butterscotch Krimpet Cunt
Pignoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt

My Horse Body (version2)

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My Horse Body
version 1 draft 2

My ears, soft, tall, all movement
and knowledge,
grew in first. I felt them
swiveling on my head,
attuned to sounds in all directions,
shuddering if a fly landed.

Then my tail—long, black, hairs of thin
steel cable. Then my mane, and with my mane
my muscled horse neck.

A few months after, eating
my Cheerios oats, my muzzle
appeared, causing me to lower my head
into my cereal box feed bag.
My mom could not fathom
an equine daughter,
could know me only
as an untamed thing.

Soon my horse eyes opened,
my new peripheral vision
giving me access to boundaries
my world wished to be blindered.

My horse body flailed, all awkward foal,
then gangly filly slowly
filling out to glistening chestnut mare.
I would have been a three-year-old,
primed for the Derby, when I was 12,
but it was 1975.
Ruffian was dead.
I gave up racing,
more crippled by my grief
than she had been by her courage.

My horse legs came back, muscle
and tendon, at 16, when I bought
my Trek. The bike was a horse,
I was a horse, two horses racing,
a pair of horses, harnessed
by toe clips.

I gave up the bike
for a boyfriend who needed
my constant attention,
and my horse body
grew wane, grew specter—
even the memory
of its mass, of my power
faded as shadowed as the Polaroid
of me at seven on a pony
for the first time.

What does strength do
if we forget we had it?
Where does desire live
when the body is boarded up?

How is the snow queen vanquished,
so water, the blood of the land,
runs again and sun warms muscles
back to movement?

A single gesture
can be enough. My lover’s hand,
held flat, finger first across my lips
then shoved hard into my mouth,
pulling my lips tightly back,
my tongue down—a bit,
of warm flesh, but still I tasted
cold iron and was again horse,
shaken by the speed
of the metamorphosis
by the ease of settling in
again to my four-legged body.

And now I’ve dyed
my gray hair bright chestnut.
When I feel skittish
I head-bump her, nip
her neck affectionately
with strong horse teeth.
When I feel hungry
to run, she mounts me
bare-back and we ride,
two women together,
a horse and a human, harnessed
by desire.

We ride until I am lathered
and winded, until she
leads me home
and rubs me down
and covers me with a blanket
woven with her initials
and I doze, standing,
until I am ready to consent
to again be human.

My Horse Body

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another early draft of a poem that’s growing out of the “Fatty Girls, Imaginary Cocks, and Vaginas Like Bookstores” workshop at Split This Rock. If you weren’t one of those horse-loving kids in the mid-70’s, you can learn more about Ruffian here.

My Horse Body
1.1

My ears, soft, tall, all movement
and knowledge
grew in first. I felt them
swiveling on my head,
attuned to sounds in all directions,
shuddering if a fly landed.

Then my tail—long, black, hairs like thin
steel cables. Then mane, and with my mane
my muscled horse neck.

A few months after, eating oats
in the form of Cheerios,
my muzzle appeared, causing me
to lower my mouth into the cereal box
feed bag. My mom could not imagine
a horse body so knew me only
as an untamed thing.

Soon my horse eyes opened
and my peripheral vision
was from that morning vast.

My body then was all awkward foal
then gangly filly slowly filling out
to glistening chestnut mare.
I would have been a three-year-old,
primed for the Derby, when I was 12,
but it was 1975.
Ruffian was dead.
I gave up racing,
more crippled by my grief
than she had been by her courage.

My horse legs came back, muscle
and tendon, at 16, when I bought
my Trek. The bike was a horse,
I was a horse, two horses racing,
a pair of horses, harnessed
by toe clips.

My horse body has always held
my strength. My horse body held
my secrets. My horse body kicked
and fought when cougars threatened,
when safe, my horse body munched apples
and rolled in the grass in the sun.

This winter I dyed my gray hair chestnut.
I’ve resumed head-butting and affectionate
neck-nipping with my big horse teeth.
If you dare, offer me a carrot, sweet hay,
oats, a bare-backed ride, hard and fast
and long and sweaty. Offer—if you think
you can handle a horse.

Pick a Peck of Peaches

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Picking Peaches By the Peck
version 1 draft 3

I love peaches by the peck
I’ve picked pecks of peaches

Summers past in summer’s pastures
pecks of peaches I have picked

But now, my dear, I pull not pick
hand-selected pecks of peaches

pull my peaches out of you
pecks of perfect peaches

each peach crowning, fuzzy-head
pecks of peach perfection

from between your legs wide-spread
that have carried pecks of peaches

You labor, labor, pant and moan
we’ve been expecting peaches

birthing peach, then birthing more
pecks of peachly procreation

I pluck each peach and dry its down
another among our perfect peaches

the last one birthed I offer to
my Queen of Peach Proliferation

to bite and suck and eat all up
rolling in our pecks of peaches

peach juice splashed on thigh and chin
we’ve devoured pecks of peaches

I’ve picked peaches and I’ve picked you
and we’ll pick pecks of peaches

abuzz with love we’ll propagate
pecks of plumping perfect peaches

Philadelphia Cunt

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I was at a writing workshop yesterday called “Fatty Girls, Imaginary Cocks, and Vaginas Like Bookstores” at the Split This Rock poetry festival. I think I’ll have several new poems coming out of their writing prompts. Here’s the first, as I wrote it in the workshop, all associate, sound-based flow of ideas. Look for rewrites soon. And—Yo, Philly friends—if I’m missing something significant, let me know!

Philadelphia Cunt

Conshohocken Cunt
Connawingo Cunt
Schuykill Cunt
Sure-kill Cunt
Cynwyd Cunt
Bryn Mawr Cunt
Tulpehoken Cunt
McCallum Cunt
Mount Airy Cunt
Chestnut Hill Cunt
Chestnut Cunt
Walnut Cunt
Spruce Cunt
Pine Cunt
Market Cunt
Cherry Cunt
Arch Cunt
Vine Cunt
Broad Cunt
Catherine Cunt
Delaware Cunt
Columbus Cunt
Cornerstore Cunt
Chubby’s Cunt
Cheese Steak Cunt
Scrapple Cunt
Hoagie Cunt
Water Ice Cunt
Pignoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt
Cannoli Cunt

Flashback, version one draft 3

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Still rough, more fragmented narrative than poem, all explanation and no music. The struggle continues. Long live the struggle!

Flashback
for Sue and for so long
version 1 draft 3

1.

She straddled my chest, heavy, dripping water—
earliest memory, this dream still vivid, her
long hair hanging down to my face—
I do not remember so much—so much is lost,
nearly all lost, but I feel my toddler legs kicking the bunk
above me in which my big brother slept, smell the

dank of her, hear his mattress rustle, how even
in his sleep my panic stirred him, how he chased her
away again and again, how he held my hand, how he
never went to get our parents.

Somehow that the seven year old boy, kicked awake
every night by his three year old sister, had already
learned that protecting her was his job alone.
I remember how rarely he said
no when I wanted his jacket, his hat, my chunky
arms lost in the echo of his, and how he

did all he could, little one guarding littler one, and how in 1968,
in the hospital, he climbed two chairs and a shelf,
agile as our pet squirrel, to reclaim Brownie Bear, kidnapped by
nurses who said I was too allergic.

2.

Straddling my chest nights after nights,
earning her way into indelible memory. She looked
like my cousin Rhonda—
incomplete recall of cousins tangling to the floor?
Not at three or four—more likely a blurring of Mortica
Adams and Maleficent.

During a body work session, a meditation
intended to draw out the root of my
asthma, I cast her once as metaphor,
nothing more than a child’s mind putting

shape to what it could not comprehend. An
explanation for the memory of her adult body
lodged across my own, the heft of her, how
I felt my lungs compressed like balloons squeezed
nearly to popping, sternum and collar bones splintering—
asthma is a euphemism for

drowning in air, gasping
in and wheezing out—
asthma is the world entire made
narrow as my bronchial tubes.

4.

Sense what that story silences? Water,
everywhere, her clothes and hair saturated,
leaving wet thigh prints on my ribs, damp puddled
in palms restrained by her knees, water in where I had no words, a
nauseating instinct that water could reclaim me, that I was
about to lose the crust that kept me human.

Denial is too easy an answer.
I’ve tried to cast the dream
as suppression—Freudian bed-wetting shame—but that
neglects the choking and my

surety that I knew her, at an age when
everybody I knew or might have known
lived in one of three houses on two streets
in one small town. As sure as I knew my own
name, I was sure she was not
a person who dwelt in my

daytime world. And I knew that
I knew her. She was not
alien, she was terrifying, she was
not new. She was not

separate from me. What sense could I make of that?
Even though I’ve remembered the dream, though it
lingered hours after, though it lingers yet,
it is always only
neurological puzzle, a knowing that I do not know.
A bit of gristle, as Scrooge said, a piece of meat that didn’t

digest. A gallery with a name but empty walls,
installation still in progress. Like lightening seen from far away,
a comprise of silence and thunder. An expectant
null. A crime scene photo, all blood, no face.

5.

She says she knew, from our first date, August
eleventh, that she had loved me all her
lives. She says that this is crazy; there
is no way that she should have felt her
nervous system convulsing when she,
awkwardly, first touched my face.

working drafts – Flashback

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Sections marked in [ ] are waiting for the right words or phrases to fall into place. That happens – either you stop writing to look for the right word and lose the next four ideas, or you leave it bare and come back later. Still writing, of course, which is why it breaks off on the second line of the fourth section.

Flashback
for Sue and for so long

1.

She straddled my chest, heavy, pressing, dripping water—
earliest memory, this dream still vivid, her
long hair hanging over my face
I was so scared, each time she arrived. I do
not remember so much, so much lost, nearly
all lost, but I can feel the mattress under me, be clutched again by the

dread, feel my toddler legs kicking the bunk bed above me
in which slept my big brother, hear his sudden shift as he
awoke, climbed down to me, chased her away again and again. He
never went to get our parents.

2.

Surprised that the seven year old boy, kicked awake
every night by his three year old sister, had already
learned that protecting her was his job alone?
I remember, clear as smog, how rarely he said
no when I wanted his jacket, his hat, my chunky
arms lost in the shape of his, and how he

did all he could, little one guarding littler one, and how once
in the hospital, he climbed two chairs and a shelf,
agile as our pet squirrel, to reclaim my bear Brownie the
nurses had taken from me as I was allergic.

3.

She straddled my chest so many nights,
enough to be indelible memory. She
looked like my cousin Rhonda, so
I tried to remember her as a child’s
inaccurate memory, or maybe a
[ ] of Morticia Adams or [ ], those long
afternoons in the heyday of Dark Shadows.

During a body work session once, in my guided
intention to focus on the root of my
asthma, I understood her as a metaphor,
nothing more than how a child’s mind gave

4.

shape to what it could not comprehend. An
elegant explanation.