Studio

I spit out the bulb of my voice
And it grew to a flower
A daffodil streaked with Blues
With leaves like piano keys.

I spit out my voice
And it grew to a huge thing
A birth like Athena
But from my throat.

My warrior's cry
Is a wave of sound,
Pealing like a bell
Through wires today.

I thought the bulb was withered
Being flung at death
And galloping over coffins
But it's arching toward the Spring.

Clear like crystal
Prisiming with sunlight.

I'm Nobody

I'm nobody. Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
                         -Emily Dickinson

Fame is for what we are programmed.
Fame is what counts.
What are you doing for that Name: Fame?
Is that all you can make of a human?

You haven't seen me for years.
You ask what I've done to gain
Fame and importance
Fame is for what we are programmed.

I've been wiping noses and tears
My gifts fill my kitchen,
Fill lines with alphabetic characters, but
Fame is what counts

I have sought small ways to put myself
Up in the sky,
That twisted thorn path is a long one
What are you doing for that Name: Fame?

I have swept those cobwebs from my mind
I follow my own way,
Never with a map.
Isn't that all you can make of a human?

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We're all about Frozen at our house, too, and my girl is counting down the days 'til the 18th.

I chose to write about the seduction of fame and how, though it was a path that I could have pursued, I ended up getting everything I wished for because I "let it go." I have to let it go with nearly every new avenue I come upon, not because seeking fame is not interesting, but because it is not the best that life has to offer for me.

I used a cascade form where the lines from the first stanza are repeated in the stanzas following.

Symmetry

I twirl the plastic ring from the milk
Around the surface of the table.
The day is dark with fog through the picture window
My reflection is your ghost.

I used to be a mirror
The strands of our pale hair entwined
The fibers of our sweater sleeves
Felted themselves into tiny balls as we walked.

I spoke too much.
You, not enough.
Unless I count the dissenting voice in your head.
I heard it in the downturn of your mouth.

I dug a hole, built a burrow around us.
And like the mole in Thumbelina trapped the swallow,
I wanted to hide you in the dark.
You wanted the sky. You wanted escape.

So I wait for the small ring to move.
Just a small sign from you, my reflection.
My swallow. My sister.
Dear mouse.

----
Fiction today. I've been a bit obsessed with the novel Her Fearful Symmertry by Audrey Niffenegger. Here, I let one sister [character] mourn a change in circumstances.

Pressure

I remember your breath.
I remember breathing.
I remember yes.
I remember good-bye
And good-bye
And good, so much good.

Poetry coats with rose-colored paint.
The breathing?
I was so scared.
Striping trust down to the depths of vulnerability.
I remember saying "never call again."
I remember that you obeyed.

My mind opens, cavernous.
My dreams relive this,
Send me trekking,
Across the Great Wall of You,
Of comfort.
Such solid ground.