We sit in this white bucket, usually once a year to
rest on the counter near lottery tickets and cash
register. In warm water, spayed, our thorns are gone,
left somewhere in Ecuador, swept off the floor,
before they packed us tight to fly far away, then taken
in trucks all over paved roads into rectangular buildings
where fluorescent lights are always on. We watch them
buy beer, cigarettes, some stare at us in wonder that we
have petals, red color, were once alive. They touch,
fondle, rustle our leaves, remembering a moment
with us, that wasn’t us. Others grab us, a dozen at a time,
the number of true love, when money doesn’t matter at all.
Days go by and we start to droop, no one smiles anymore,
wilted, jilted, until one day, they just throw us away.
Category: Poetry
When The Glass Water Bottle Spoke
I see all the plastic bottles filled and shiny,
pasted labels over clear water within. I’ve
never been jealous of that crinkle sound,
sad little ache after the last drop is gone.
Always wondered what disposable meant,
dented, crushed, twisted, one on top of the
next, in bins, trashcans, on streets. Others
tossed off boats, or tide taken away from sand
into sea. Gulped by curious pelicans hungry
for more than digestive death.
Me, I like lips that touch my rim again and
again, tender sips when I’m brimming with cool
life-giving liquid. But I’m a romantic, I believe
in everlasting love, that you will want me forever.
21st Century Moon
It only keeps track of everything.
Goes by many names: ai, alexa,
amazon, fitbit, iphone, social media,
gps. Records electronic visits,
transactions, steps, sleep, calories
burned.
Dazzled, we are, to attach
ourselves to these portable pieces
of cyborg technology.
We ache deep down for robotic
efficiency, perfection like push ups
and botox injections, owned by the
machine, until we are never lost,
never found, only controlled by
predestined patterns moving our
minds this way and that, a 21st century
mechanical moon making our waves.
Girl Reads Civil War Poem
This poem is called Maggots,
Samantha stands in front of the
classroom with a sly smile. Her
piece inspired by historic conflict,
skips Gettysburg, Antietam, and
all the words of war. No rebel yell,
or regiments, she leaves nurse
descriptions and widow tears for
other poems to divulge. Starts
at the end, she speaks her black
beginning, maggots chewing,
spewing flesh of men without faces,
corpses all in their places for the feast.
She maintains throughout, that nature
intended such death, that it was all
meant to be. Not for North or South,
but for the legless larva to probe
darkness, with their bloody glee.
4 Words In A Line
hard not to smile
when thinking that this
is one of my
favorite things in life
to put four words
on line after line
free to do this
when dishes are done
and the kids are
in bed, and no
one is speaking, not
even the incessant TV
can reach me now
for here it is
just one word, then
the next, neatly placed
like scrabble or a
crossword puzzle, or some
other kind of activity
where concentration is everything
anyway, this is mine
this little moment here
inside my brain’s imagination
where anything is possible
Lost Husband
she wanted to dig up the body
not his body, but the wooden box
with ashes, he is too far from me
she said, need him closer, away from
rain seeping under dirt, talk never
turned to shovels, chardonnay, chardonnay
and words, words, left him in ground
but he wasn’t there either, missing
husband, reward upon return
she put up signs, but
no one ever called
Do We Really Die?
death, the root fear
where it all ends
this we may believe
with sobbing and with tears
but they all went before us
and they will all go after, and
on and on, like
sunshine, rain, and sunshine
who really knows
what is lost
what is found
beyond the now and here
At The Gym
They look in the large mirror,
at biceps or red faces huffing,
breathing during squats or lunges,
shouldered weights pressing
gravity, reps into struggling flesh,
trick a body into staying young,
aging less, iron lifting medicine
like swallowing Omega-3 pills
to keep it all going. They worry
about who might be watching
contours, smooth, hard, flabby,
sagging skin or calves that pop.
They stay indoors listening to loud
music staring at reflections wanting
to halt time, be bigger, be stronger.
As if it were so simple, forgetting
that real strength is invisible, it dwells
immeasurable, unphotographable.
But for them it is easier to put it on
Instagram, pretend, pretend, pretend.
North Pond Hermit
they say he broke
into dozens of homes
to steal calories, for
each winter he had
to survive Maine woods
under sleeping bag after
sleeping bag, wake himself
at 2am some freezing
nights just to move
around and live, not
die of frozen heart
stoppage of blood like
how time stood still
his twenty seven years
alone in trees listening
to the chickadees, chickadees
he listened more than
the rest of us
who were warm watching
M*A*S*H reruns, wondering when
the next war would
begin, but he never
even looked at his
own reflection, didn’t witness
the changing of human
events, his were the
seasons, and the thieving
moments late at night
so he could stay
alone forever, however long
that might be, but
one evening he was
caught and it all
ended, his silent solitude
had to speak again
sad, no longer free
Kentucky Fireflies
All is stillness in Kentucky woods
where fireflies flicker, earthen stars,
one, then another and another.
With my son, we get to sit and stare
together into glowing darkness,
watch floating journeys. He clicks our
flashlight to say hello, then asks me
to stay close before summer slumber.
Breathing softens, he falls asleep.
I lie next to him for many minutes,
let life be at ease. With dawn there
will be another day, but for now this
is all, this is everything.
Daniel W. Polk 