poetry

Poetry

 

The day the world shook

The world shook 

with the creepy wind
that incites        the weak parts 
of the house to              creak, 
and you wonder in sleep if walls 
and windows cave. 
The world shook 
with rain and wind,
shifting sides and moving parts, 
and in the morning now the shaking 
came down 
to a clear sky 
with sunny resin. 

El día que el mundo sacudió 

El mundo sacudió

con el viento raro
que incita     las partes débiles
de la casa      crujen,
y te hace pensar si en sueños
las paredes
y ventanas ceden.
El mundo sacudió
con lluvia y viento--
lados cambiantes y partes movedizas.
en la mañana ahora
El temblor
bajo
hacia un cielo claro
con rastros de un sol en pedazos.

workplace ecstasy

The secret lives

of office folk:
ballet slippers prancing in black tights, tip toes on the cold floor.
A dance of swans, since we are pretty demure in our pencil skirts
of seriousness and lady-like aspirations.
Whispering sweet nothings and laughing through a zipper, we communicate.
A dance of papers and insulting air freshener:
"I can't work like this."
"You have a call on line four."
Record your voice in your head.
Shove the papers in the fax machine—
dangle them in the air; save them, file them,
convulse on the floor, and drag yourself
like a fish, a bird out of wings.
The ding of the elevator waits for no one.
Monday:
12 floors and eight hours later,
the spreadsheets have been wiped.
“What now?”
Oh, my knees—
I can't dance.

The day is filled with premonitions

It flies up to a fence 
and its friends are still on the grass, pecking
I keep walking
It digs me with its call to something known
as I turn the corner
the scene carries its meaning in the black birds
like the morning when they lined up on the wire
and I witnessed at first hour their calculated
dive-bombs into a mockingbird
Their calls fill the day with premonitions
near a faded church
or when passing by the cemetery
they let acorns fall
in echoes of loneliness and futility,
they fly down from the fence
to the grass again
I walk home—thinking, how long have I been out here?
I approach to take a photo and
they flap their wings, precisely so,
to sit on a curved branch of an oak tree
and stare directly at my foolishness
when the sun is too heavy to bear
The silence of trees quiver, whispering, no one understands
Unmoved they stand with beaks raised,
adding weight to the purple sky