My Childhood Is Still

Another found poem - this from "Celebrating Childhood" by Adonis (translated, from the Arabic, by Khaled Mattawa)

My Childhood is Still

My childhood is still
someone else's story

I see her in a photograph
the pigeon-toed girl
with worn-down heels,
brown skin and pedal pushers

her strong body
made for swimming
and climbing trees

standing between the two;
her half-crooked smile
looks familiar

but only because
I've heard the stories
so many times

I can't find me in her
between the two
I don't even recognize

01/2007

Lover

This is a "found" poem, meaning I've created a poem from the work of another. In this case, the poet is Rumi - his work is italicized.

Lover

Lover, you
are ever-true
to a reckless appetite

like a cockroach
insatiable and
desperate
as night wanes
and hints at
day's gray arrival

desperate for
any skin
beneath
your jagged
need's teeth

you ran in
all directions,
and escaped
down the gutters

0227

Incubus

incubus

finger to lips
you unnecessarily
silenced me

my lips numb, tangled
as lifeless limbs
strewn like tentacles
on the shore of consciousness

your final black act
hidden in the folds
of my dark memory’s cloak

every day my mind
is witness to the
permanence of
a flashback nightmare

white socks
little boy briefs
creeping across
the room towards me

you the centaur
of my own private myth
my beast of shame

I remain branded;
silenced, seared

022707

Woman's Cookin'

she's simmering on the stove;
most don't notice

on the back burner baby's
a slow cooker bubbling - flipping her lid,
her percolating self pops rich and saucy,
spicy-nice, content to stew

shaking her roasting round ass
over a red hot beat
her heart snaps wild,
sweetly deep
tasty woman - luscious treat

Ms. Misery

misery finds me
buried beneath paper
where I've made myself
another small scrap
not unlike the others

she lifts corners with
fingers like thin-bladed
swiss army knives
she's pretty on the outside
sharply wicked on the inside

her indiscriminate slices
do random damage
like paper cuts
I don't detect until later

I eat my words;
I am learning
to use invisible ink

Verse Ain't Free

the poet competes -
words are sport
of an individual kind

accolades and
applause shave
our insecurities
like seconds off
the clock

a ribbon of response
proof that our words
are not unremarkable

we grow flabby -
cigarette in hand,
drink on the desk
with melting ice -
making rings mother
wouldn't approve of

we exercise the one
gray matter muscle,
hunched over the broken
"f" key on the keyboard,
the sticky, clicking, echoing
typewriter that doesn't always work

our ink-stained fingers,
clutch crumpled napkins,
stuff torn notebooks
into backpacks, purses -
piles on the floor

all that paper a
steady diet for the
silverfish who live
like us; stuck between
two sheets of paper,
disintegrating when pressed

Source

art spills from us
like water running
beneath thresholds

underground flooding
eating stone

they search for source
unsuccessful dowsers;
the fountain they will
will never find

we go on, turning
the dark corners
only moles see;
source untapped

hydrogen and oxygen,
atoms and molecules -
we seep into everything
an eternal elixir for souls

32307

Allium

she peels
shameless

a gift beneath
wrinkled paper skin
translucent layersdeceive;

she stings -
sharp, pungent
cleansing

Revival

don't go to the preacher,
rabbi, priest;
unless you need a fable

messy and fractured
they have all thrown
random lassos to the skies
to capture meaning

as if word and thought,
numbered and varied as stars that
emerge and die each moment,
can be pulled down
and sorted like stones

the infinite expands within;
borne of light and particles
you will never see
but can never explain away -
an internal law of physics

you have draped your
self in a circus tent -

take the heavy-bladed knife
in either hand and plunge;

you are your own revival

Hallelujah

I am a glorious round and green sweet pea
on your tongue you roll me

savor me, taste -
take skin from the meat

honor the pulpy
earth in me

accept me for
the pea I be

Feature Length

I'm late
because
I stopped to
write a poem

because
last night
sleep
was tiring

dreams
fidgety, a
day's worth
of stories

personal
film noir;
edgy and
precise

grainy and ugly
in the mirror
this morning

I've had too
much of me

I'm late
because
I stopped
to write a poem

because
sometimes
its the only
thing to do

Heather Reed 1/31/07

Control Freak

you come out
of nowhere

a place outside of
the moments I choose
to live in

like the full moon I feel
but forget until it's
right before my eyes

you sneak up
on my blind side;
sitting cross-legged
in the corner,
playing with your
pins and strings

devoid of good
intentions

Heather Reed 2/1/07

Detta - 1968

black enameled
stairs, worn
with sorrow
climbed solemn
to a second floor

her small room
sat back, tucked
within an alcove
a bright tiny space

pink chenille
remembered
her weight -
dancing legs,
laughter like
sudden joy

when I arrived
the sacred heart
was still smiling -
but even
the floorboards
missed her

the only light
in a dark house