Even Puppies Smile

I guess you have to be beaten

to learn to smile through

the pain because it too will end

and you will remain

To withhold your hand from scratching

while the scab it is still healing I guess

you have to have a scab or two

ripped off before you’ve healed

to learn the sting is not worth the satisfaction

And to marvel at your ability to heal

I guess you have to know broken

parts and open wounds and near death

experiences before you realize

how wonderful it is to be healed by you

but to be happy, why even a puppy

knows how to be happy on a warm

sunny afternoon with a full belly

and a friend to bum around with

Don’t you?

How long

It is easy to say it in a poem or in front

of a crowd but when you are alone and you accept

your ignorance or beauty or frailty

it is very hard not to  lie.

How long can you play dumb or cheat

smart or fake love or pretend poise

staring in the mirror?

I suppose, you’re not the only one

to have a wasted an afternoon or more

reflecting what delusion told you to

I have too

The Stage

The stage is black.  The curtain is closed.

.

Sit and wait as he might no clap of his

will cause you to step onto the stage

and sing  -“Luck be a lady tonight”

.

In his joy, he miss judged  you for a gentle son who’d

be open for coffee or talk and never leave  for good

How could you after all you’ve accomplished?

.

Does the thick fabric of the curtain hang onto some

of your DNA where you rubbed as you rushed by

to change your costume for the romantic scene?

.

Are there skin cells of yours on the make-up brush

that helped your eyes pop so the person in the back

could gage the twinge of your expression?

.

Is there a hair of yours on the jacket

that you wore when you went outside

to rehearse your lines and get fresh air?

.

Did you leave your voice in the creeks

and falls of the building, rhyming in

rhythm with carpet hairs and the very foundation?

.

Is there some magic left that a father may find

or did it leave when you killed yourself?

update on annieepoetry

 

mypicture2

Its been a year in this new town – this new world of cars and prairie.

 A year since I started to blog -post my poems and my thoughts about this mad world.  

I still long for Lake Superior.  I still long for friends who care for me and poetry and art and music.  But I am learning the true sacrifice of writing, of growing old, of loving.  Some years you are a lone.  Some years you spend inside your cardboard box and the only comfort from the isolation is going to grocery store and looking the clerk in the eyes.  Hi in there…. Its hard for me to reach out and say -play with me.  

I get so obsessed with writing that I forget to go and mingle with people.  I forget that poetry is a performing art and one of the many reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place.   As I get older (still too young to be president) I have the urge to sit alone.  

The days rush by so fast with daily activities of cleaning, shopping, and caring for my family, of reading, painting and writing -now a year has passed.  

Husband is doing good at the job, got raises, and working hard.  Daughter is adjusting, and learning so much.  Reading well and learning to ask great questions…. that I don’t always have a meaningful answer for.  She is learning to connect with the world and see the patterns, some skewed and false, others true.  My little teacher, showing me love and justice.  And she paints, this girl with the focus and heart of an old woman.  

Spring is coming to southern Wisconsin. The birds are twittering. I heard geese flying above.  People can be seen on the sidewalk.    Living in this condo, this city of normal. 

 

I have been feeling out of the loop, out of the world. I have been walking around with double vision -inside my body and outside of it -watching.  Its strange.   I keep listening and watching -looking for the first time and the millionth time.  Being an artist -a writer is not what I would have chosen If I had any smarts.  But being dumb and full of passion, a dumb kid, an animal playing this is where I am and  know – I love it.

 There is so much about my life that I love  -husband and daughter, writing – having a place to rest my head at night, food, ale… Scotch.books…  music.. that I can’t say that dreams don’t come true. In truth, my dreams are coming true, rolling on top of me, the universe bends for me and says get on my back.  My luck dragon, the universe.   But I want more. I want to write better. I want good friends as neighbors.  I want family closer…  want and want, despite having everything I need.  

That is one of the things about me that has stayed constant.  I strive and dream, and want utopia for you, for me – for the world. and that to me would be artists,music -dancing and singing, working and creating, loving and growing and learning. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, that longing.  If I do, smack me and tell me to get real.

Someone plays with someone

a lover snores besides a someone.

the daughter of someone is in a bedroom

pulling air through a harmonica.

 

 the sun is out and someone sits with goose bumps.

 someone has turned grey as a rain weathered tin.

someone’s heart is twisty sensitivity and has not yet learned to swallow.  Darfur. Iraq. Afghanistan

war torture. Cuba…WWII, the love of family.

 

 

someone’s grandmother comes to visit and leaves.

someone’s friend calls. someone gives advice, says, “find a lover

you can sit and talk with,

 

 

 laughter holds hands into sticky glances. 

 

 someone’s daughter goes outside to a ride a scooter

someone’s lover snore stops and becomes a whisper.

someone is sad and blessed

someone is lonely and surround by carpet.  someone doesn’t know

what a someone is, only what a bomb is not.

 

all the creative ideas

that someone hasn’t learned

to control are the pieces that someone tastes and savors.

 

 someone can’t shake the snakes, or explain

the need of death by whips and earthquakes. 

 

someone needs a bath with potato soap and someone brushes

the lives that someone tangles and never notices. someone

moans for the someone who someone is mis-teaching.

and someone is searching for a home for someone who is homeless. and someone

is playing dice down -out into a hall to make someone some money.  Someone is dodging

work to go to a war and haircut. someone is looking in a fridge

and someone is watching tv. someone

pretends that someone’s feet are planted on the ground. someone is nobody cause they are dead

cause someone has just blown off someone’s head.  someone is singing

words of evolution. and someone is wondering

when someone will peek into someone’s eyes, and hand

someone a rye and Swiss sandwich.  a someone is scared to go outside alone or

talk with someone over the phone. someone doesn’t want someone

to know someone writes death letters to someone’s self. someone is sick

and poor. someone is rich and disconnected by a fence around their yard. someone is birthed

and someone eats noodles without sauce. someone is

a friend for life and someone has cancer  of the mouth.

someone is an artist and someone is

nurse. and someone utters a little curse. 

 

someone listens and someone blesses  the life-giving tree.

and someone won’t ever be free. someone

lives their life internally.  and someone is trying

to figure out who someone is, and someone won’t

find the answer, while someone will know it doesn’t matter.

someone marches for peace and someone doesn’t want to come home from war

someone needs a hug, and someone’s been over touched. someone is on

drugs, and someone wishes drugs could fix someone’s problems