In one more minute, it will be your birthday

And so the story goes:
“I’m pregnant,” she says flatly.
“Kill it, ” her mother urges.
“I won’t,” she speaks most defiantly.
“Your life’s over,” her mother declares.
“It’s just begun,” she insists.
And here I am.
May 30. It’s almost midnight.
Long nights with the husband.
“In one more minute, it will be your birthday,”
he reminds me.
He’s smiling, holding my hands.
No, it’s not a narcissistic practice
where we stay up late, the eve of my birthday
watching the clock
searching for a way to slow down the time
as both hands rendezvous at the 12 slot
not thinking about where I’ve been
and where I’m going
but suppressing the I-should-leave-my-mark feeling
realizing that each year passes
more quickly than the last
thanking my mother
she didn’t abort
holding no grudges against my grandmother
for suggesting it
secretly loving the fuss that’s made over me.

Moving On

Like a balloon
I want to float away,
fly freely. Escape.
But, you, the weight
at the end of my ribbon,
prevent me from drifting away,
keeping me grounded.
Your hand,
gently touches my face.
It’s ice cold,
probably from standing in the rain
waiting with me,
urging me to take a step,
because it’s time to move on.
Out of nervousness,
I bite my lip, so hard it bleeds.
“It’s okay.”
And the tears fall
fast.
Your soothing voice makes
those hard-to-hold-back tears trickle.
We walk, together,
through the rain.

Anybody Can Write A Poem

By Bradley Paul

I am arguing with an idiot online.
He says anybody can write a poem.
I say some people are afraid to speak.
I say some people are ashamed to speak.
If they said the pronoun "I"
they would find themselves floating
in the black Atlantic
and a woman would swim by, completely
dry, in a rose chiffon shirt,
until the ashamed person says her name
and the woman becomes wet and drowns
and her face turns to flayed ragged pulp,
white in the black water.
He says that he'd still write
even if someone cut off both his hands.
As if it were the hands that make a poem,
I say. I say what if someone cut out
whatever brain or gut or loin or heart
that lets you say hey, over here, listen,
I have something to tell you all,
I'm different.
As an example I mention my mother
who loved that I write poems
and am such a wonderful genius.
And then I delete the comment
because my mother wanted no part of this or any
argument, because "Who am I
to say whatever?"
Once on a grade school form
I entered her job as hairwasher.
She saw the form and was embarrassed and mad.
"You should have put receptionist."
But she didn't change it.
The last word she ever said was No.
And now here she is in my poem,
so proud of her idiot son,
who presumes to speak for a woman
who wants to tell him to shut up, but can't.

It Never Stops

my laughter
you catch
it lingers
resonates

my legs
I cross
uncross
re-cross

my hair
I flip
graceful fingers
twirl

my movements
fluid
my breaths
exaggerated

innocent
yet calculated
deliberate
impulsive

mutual
expected
anticipated
perfected

years later
I love it
you want it
consciously subliminal...

flirting.

Beautiful

I .
Every day we drive to school
sitting on top of floor buffers
in the back of a big, blue van;
the painting is chipped.
I don't want to go school.
I'm the tallest in my class,
even taller than the boys.
I wish I had Nikes
instead of these no name shoes.
My clothes are so different.
I wish they weren't handmade.
My best friend got angry.
She called me pizza face.
A blonde-haired girl,
with a paisley shirt and matching shorts,
asked me, “Are you from Africa?
Your nose is really big.”
I think I'm ugly.

II.
“Wake up!
It's time to get ready for school!
No time for horse play.
We need to drive you to school
so you don't have to walk
in this blazing heat.
Get dressed. You know I love cats.
I sewed one on your shirt.
Don't you just love it?
Try the shoes with the wedges.
They'll accentuate your height.
You could be a model; you're so beautiful.
You know that?
Now, remember to drink
eight glasses of water.
Water keeps your skin clear.
Hmmmm...I have to smile every time I look at you.
You have your grandfather's nose.”

III.
98 degrees today.
I'm glad I don't have to walk to school.
This van is so dirty.
But at least it has air conditioning.
I'm wearing my shirt with the cat patch again.
And it doesn't even matter that I really hate cats.
Matched with the shoes with the wedges,
I'm probably as tall as my teacher now.
Watch my stride. I'm ready for the catwalk.
I feel bloated . My fifth glass of water. Three more to go.
Nicole laughed and pointed.
She said I have a Bantu nose,
to which I replied:
“Just like my grandfather.
My mother thinks it's beautiful.
I'm beautiful.”

Volcanic Thoughts

The earth’s crust opens
the Roman God of fire
erupt and release.

The Hand

By Mary Ruefle

The teacher asks a question.
You know the answer, you suspect
you are the only one in the classroom
who knows the answer, because the person
in question is yourself, and on that
you are the greatest living authority,
but you don’t raise your hand.
You raise the top of your desk
and take out an apple.
You look out the window.
You don’t raise your hand and there is
some essential beauty in your fingers,
which aren’t even drumming, but lie
flat and peaceful.
The teacher repeats the question.
Outside the window, on an overhanging branch,
a robin is ruffling its feathers
and spring is in the air.

I thought this would be a suitable poem to post for National Teacher Day. I celebrate and salute my husband and other teachers today and every day of the year.

Sage Creative Corner: Favorite Blog Nomination

BlogInterviewer.com is a website devoted to discovering the most interesting bloggers on the Internet and their reasons for sharing their thoughts with the world. Every month they give away prizes to the top rated blogs.

I am pleased to learn that my blog was recommended to Blog Interviewer as an interviewee's favorite blog! I did an interview with Blog Interviewer, shedding some insight on the "person behind the blog." If you’d like to check it out, click here.

And if you think my blog is “favorite worthy,” please click the “vote now” image next to my interview and feel free to post comments.

As always, thanks for visiting Sage Creative Corner...