poetry by daph (not kid friendly)

[daphodil]

Cumberland Swamp (and or PostMarital Depression)

Found my worth in a Cumberland swamp
between the cowering cat-tails and the
female mosquitos
detached from the moment
I looked for your gun, raking my eyes over your
tight Levis and concluded you'd have to use your own
hands
and even then in a Cumberland swamp
on a two-hour pass
you must have been more desperate than I feared
for I anticipated a fine abandonment,
a machiavellian scheme
as my soles delicately
maneuvered over wet mounds
(a well practiced mud memory from a 300 acre
playground)
and, oh, so ever briefly,
we paused, body facing body,
your hands all over me--
yet I noticed
you did not kiss your wife--
an awkward moment in a Cumberland swamp.
Then you looked down at my barefeet
with disbelief or was it disgust?
"WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?"
stunning silence, sweet silence,
powerful silence,
you led me back to the forgotten Tempo?
with the well-placed
two dollar Wal-Mart slips
and must have settled for thirty or so minutes
of my mouth on your torso and lower extremities. . .

[daphodil]

Her Favorite Broom

she sweeps
her blackened broom
across the pale linoleum;
its dimpled diamonds like
so many well-ordered mazes
with no possible way in or out
she sweeps
her meticulous wand now bent
like a crescent moon from
always being left
propped against the
nearest wall--
its own weight
crushing its dusty bristles
(a simple occasional turn
may have prevented such
malformation or even a steady
hook from which to neatly hang)
she sweeps
her meticulous crook
not sure where it came from
but she knew it had been
here before her;
she imagined it came with
the house, belonged to another woman,
another pair of exacting hands
a woman like herself with darkened curls,
certain convictions and frilly
laced curtains;
still, she sweeps
her functional witch stick
ever so careful, so precise,
reaching into ceiling corners,
catching webs, created
delicately, yet
resilient, so firmly entwined
that she never gets every wisp
instead the remains dangle
like holocaust shivers--
sometimes she watches them
swaying in a draft and
she wants to swing from them

[daphodil]

The USS Arizona, remembered?

Shoulders squared, Our Boys began to answer
The surprise even as they battled the fear
Sizzling inside their ears. When the deathblow
Struck, they were trapped within the sinking womb,
And began their days of unanswered banging.

In shallow blue she harbors that crew,
Whose skeletal fingers still clench vain fists
Against stilted walls in stagnant water;
"And some of the portholes still have air,"
Onlookers say while tossing coins through the oily
Veil that a hatch patiently leaks to the surface.

[daphodil]

In My Prettiest Sun Dress

as I pass the mirror, I see red Kool-aid horns
staining the white above my lip
still, I have a strong sugar thirst
are you thirsty?
let me pour you a tall glass, too, cousin
and we'll sip cool cherry in the shade

you are balancing your thin, ruffled paper
but cannot stop brown bean juice
from running down your dingy shirt
here, a napkin for you, cousin?
now you can tell me about that girl you love
the one who always rides her bike past here
and I will listen quietly this time

[daphodil]

My Flat Stomach

You glowed warm like the sun's soft butter,
And touched me, thinking you could feel him;
"Ours," I whispered through a weak smile.
I placed my hand on yours with closure;
And the humid morning allowed us
To melt before the vague horizon.

[daphodil]

Shakespearean sonnet

Winter Frog

A frozen frog burrowed beneath stiff mud,
Slumbering deep in a natural state,
Feigning a quiet death as if from flood;
Forlorn and forgotten, lying prostrate.
Shall its solid miracle stand unsung
As winter chill pommels heavy fist?
So imagined an unconscious far flung
That a woman understands this trust,
Waiting within a dark womb for rebirth;
Perchance outlasting a January thaw?
Flatly ignoring the white landscape's worth,
An insignificant frog knows the law:
Again comes Spring and amid a warm April day,
Sweet witness to a frog chirping away.

[alma]

Wow, daf, i just began reading the poetry section.
You sure are a feeling person who can say it so gracefully and make me feel, too, and that, in itself, is a miracle. love, alma

[daphodil]

Hi alma, thanks, you brightened my day :)

[clawhammerdan]

very eloquent!!! I especially appreciated the visual memories you created for me in thinking about the "Arizona". Well done.

[daphodil]

Hi Claw! Thanks so much. That poem was one I worked on for years. Back in a poetry class in college--I had a version that was not what I wanted it to be. I wanted it in a more exact form. Anyway, I couldn't get it into a sonnet, couldn't get each stanza to have the same number of lines. . . this is the best I could 'shape' it.
The intent is what carries the poem, I think. . . it is a tribute to those men who died for us and I hope it makes anyone who reads it think of them in a deeper way, in a more personal way. . . than perhaps some do.

[daphodil]

Winter's Call

Here comes new mitten weather!
Buttons together: hat, scarf, complete.
Grey wool socks warm my cold feet;
Even my coat is lined with cotton feather.
Outside the first snow awaits
Like a bride at the alter's gate.
My boots tread through deep
As I fill feeders for my loyal fleet.
With much weighing on my mind,
I shall have no worries to keep;
For now I hear my chickadees' cheep.

[daphodil]

Paint Job

I paint on femininity for him
With dust on brush and cream on sponge or stick
So paleness lies clandestine under thick
beige like cool milk under a yellow film.
I dab extra polish on the caked rim
And draw mauve down each nail with three wet licks;
Not wanting a cursed smudge, it's some trick
To pull fish net over each shaven limb.
He imagines that I exude soft heat
Unique to womanhood, that I blush like
A precious plum upon his entrance and
That my exotic darkness comes from sweet
Nature's raw kiss; but for the courtship's sake
I wear fresh paint, embellishing the bland.

[daphodil]

Italian sonnet (like above, slightly changed)

Paint Job

I paint on femininity for him
With dust on brush and cream on sponge or stick
So paleness lies clandestine under thick
beige like cool milk under a yellow film.
I dab extra polish on the caked rim
And draw mauve down each nail with three wet licks;
Not wanting a cursed smudge, it's some trick
To pull fish net over each shaven limb.
He thinks that I exude a soft, bright heat
Unique to womanhood, that I blush like
A precious plum upon his entrance and
That my exotic darkness comes from sweet
Nature's raw kiss; now like a frosted cake
I wear fresh paint so he'll offer his hand.