Discovering Poetry
I began writing poetry to cope with two changing worlds—one outside my house and the other inside myself.
All the Photos I Didn’t Take*
It was late afternoon when I left my father’s house
in central Texas and headed south, my camera and
a copy of Larry McMurtry’s Roads on the passenger seat.
I wanted to make San Antonio before dark
to avoid entanglements with deer
that prefer shoulder grasses at dusk.
In some small towns I missed turns, quickly
correcting my mistakes to get back on track.
It should have been fun, adventure—like I used to have.
But with age comes the fear of traveling solo—
a woman on her own afraid of getting lost,
having car trouble or flat tires,
passing semi-trucks and RVs, hitting deer
or other wildlife trying to cross
the narrow road stretched out before her,
too afraid to stop and take pictures
of a cobalt blue storm positioned perfectly
over the San Saba River,
the illuminated whitewashed boards
of a Bible Baptist church, several courthouses—
each the architectural pride of a county seat,
the curving patterns of prickly pear cactus layered against
old telephone poles holding up dipping power lines,
and a white-tail buck grazing in shoulder grass,
his velvety antlers glowing in evening’s golden hour.
Now, if I close my eyes, I can still count his eight points,
the image of him forever latent in my mind.
Like a Pack of Cigarettes*
Some poem lengths are described as the size
of a pack of cigarettes, and I visualize these dimensions
while feeding $5 bills into a cigarette machine
hidden down a quiet corridor of a Las Vegas hotel.
I’m not standing in front of shiny, reflective glass
because of a nicotine addiction,
but rather an art addiction—
the vintage dispenser repurposed
to spit out objet d’art and I can’t get enough
buying four rectangular packages, the odds
already better for me than for the poor suckers
downstairs feeding coins into slot machines,
because for every Abe Lincoln I lose, I gain something:
a little block of resin-coated abstract expressionism;
a wooden cross whittled from New England barn lumber;
a tiny 2D animal made 3D by interlocking its shapes together;
and a poem about the pursuit of happiness, handwritten
on handmade, tie-dyed paper.
I stuff the winning packs into my purse and walk away,
satisfied and smirking a little as I glide across the casino floor,
past gamblers with oxygen tanks in tow, and out
the sliding front doors into fresh, smokeless air.
Blacktip Shark*
There’s a commotion not far from our tiny island
of umbrella shadow and rented beach chairs.
Moving toward a gathered group hovering over
an obscured focal point, I weave through the crowd,
being careful to not block the view of curious children
who are closer to the center of attention—a patient fisherman
kneeling over his catch of the day—a shark, sleek and gray,
motionless at first, small by Jaws’ standards but toothy enough,
causing mothers to consider banning their curious kids
from swimming the rest of the day. Then, it moves,
wriggling beneath its captor’s knee. Mothers and children squeal
and our fascinated group reels collectively backward before returning
cautiously to watch the shark being maneuvered back into its watery home,
the surf’s foamy taste of freedom flooding across rows of razor-sharp teeth.
He serpentines to life, disappearing the moment his captor releases
the black-tipped tail. The fisherman basks in a fleeting,
old-man-and-the-sea moment as onlookers applaud,
while the mothers begin packing family beach bags,
discreetly folding one wet towel at a time.
Ultramarine*
From my last gynecologist appointment, I kept
the disposable gown I wore during the exam.
Quickly I had folded and stashed it in my purse
before walking out, only a little worried
what the nurse charged with tidying the room
would think upon finding the article’s absence.
Once home, I removed the soft, synthetic fabric,
unfolded and laid it out on the floor. Such a peaceful
shade of classic French ultramarine—which is why
I took it—too beautiful to leave behind,
the blue rectangle floating my aging body into
menopause—a violent storm within a woman.
We find our calm in the strangest things.
Sky Above Clouds*
I imagine being a mid-century airline passenger sitting beside
the black-clad, aging artist ensconced in her window seat.
Her dry personality shows at first. Not much of a conversationalist,
she seems nervous on taxi and take-off. But once in the air,
she becomes animated, glued to the convex side of pressurized glass.
Rising above the cloud cover, she exclaims, “Oh, look!” pointing
to fluffy forms far below us. “Humph,” I catch her mutter,
“Alfred never saw them this way,” she quietly says with a smirk,
as if to give a cosmic one-up to her controlling, late husband.
The back of her head is all I see for most of the flight,
her salt and peppered mane drawn into a tight, sculpted bun
at the base of her skull. After coffee is served, she begins
sketching on her paper napkin, looking intermittently from
the small square canvas on her tray table, then out
of the square portal of possibility. She asks if she can have
my napkin, too, and I oblige, eagerly handing it over,
hoping to see more of the artist’s process in its genesis.
Toward the end of the flight she seems satisfied with
one tiny drawing in particular, a horizontal design featuring
neat rows of the many fluffy forms receding into a great beyond.
As we prepare to exit the plane, she beams with a confidence
not there at the beginning of the trip. I thank her.
“For what?” she asks with slight smile and twinkling eyes.
“For showing me a new way to see.” Her confidence visibly grows.
“Just you wait till I finish it,” she says with a knowing grin spreading
across her seasoned, sun-wrinkled face.
*Acknowledgments: All the Photos I Didn’t Take and Like a Pack of Cigarettes were published in Concho River Review; Blacktip Shark was longlisted for the Fish Anthology Poetry Prize; Ultramarine was shortlisted for the Fish Anthology Poetry Prize and published in Poetica Review; Sky Above Clouds was inspired by Georgia O’Keeffe’s monumental painting, Sky Above Clouds IV, and appeared in Ekphrastic Review.