Twenty-Minute Poem

April 3, 2018

“She Was Laughing into Her Mashed Potatoes” by Paul V. MurrayPosted by

Paul V. Murray

SHE WAS LAUGHING INTO HER MASHED POTATOES

She had just told us about one of her friends,
who stumbled into a corporate board meeting,
looking desperately for the bathroom.

She danced off, book in hand
disappearing into the cluttered bedroom
finishing her move out of childhood.

We sat on the porch at 3:00 am, my wife and I,
becoming frenzied.
Something had happened to her,
horrible visions, a gruesome accident, a rape.
Opening the veranda swing door, she stepped
into our pain, unaware.

For a moment, shared ache, consolation,
cleansing anger joined us three together briefly,
then vanished through our tears,
dispersed explosion, into morning light.

That was a long time ago, when we lived in another city,
before she was clenched into theater directing.
I see her now, tall, smooth, clear, on her way to New York
walking along.

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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__________

Paul V. Murray: “I was standing by the side of the road that day. I saw a truck with Mexicans in it going up the hill where I live. Earlier that day, Americans were clipping down to work. I wondered if there was a poem about that, and if there wasn’t, I could write it. So, I did. And I haven’t stopped.”

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October 10, 2017

“Nothing Is Real in October” by Carol B. DeCanioPosted by

Carol B. DeCanio

NOTHING IS REAL IN OCTOBER

The weather itself
undecided
warm, full
but on the way out

By now all school
resolutions
in tarnish
why study for the test
when I can open the book
tomorrow

even new clothes
in the closet
beginning to slouch
en masse

Everyone in the halls
becoming a pair
now who’s left
for the dance

nothing goes on in October
even candy comes in
at the end

I’m
hanging out
in October
waiting for November
to begin

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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__________

Carol B. DeCanio: “When a bleakness reigns at 2 a.m. and comfort seems all past, or when standing in a landscape of extensive beauty, or when fury rakes at thought inside, it’s the writing of poems that helps me find my way home again.”

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September 26, 2017

“A Widow Discovers Her Tires Are Bald …” by Perie LongoPosted by

Perie Longo

A WIDOW DISCOVERS HER TIRES ARE BALD WHEN THE “CHECK ENGINE” LIGHT COMES ON

Just days before he slipped off, he asked
if she had the loose piece of side chrome attached,
the oil changed, he didn’t want his car falling apart,
never mind her, the unmechanical one, who rode this life
alongside him, each with their separate tasks
and now they’re all hers. She thinks the car might need oil
again, like she could use some zip, but can’t figure out
where the hood latch is. On her knees, she squeezes her head
under the driving wheel panel, such a mystery of gadgets,
so many mysteries to solve to keep things running in his loss.
No latch to be found she sits back on her heels,
then notices the tires are almost bald, something like her hair
coming out in clumps these months, and wonders
how that happened overnight. She barely goes anywhere
while he just up and vanishes—with no directions.
Maybe he travels while she sleeps, letting the good times roll.

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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__________

Perie Longo: “A friend recently sent me a card of a woman jumping in the air at the sight of a mountain range, with the saying, ‘Life is too short to take seriously.’ I’m trying to laugh at myself a little more often, especially in unguarded moments, and trying, too, to capture those times in poetry.” (website)

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August 10, 2017

“A Stem Word or Sentence” by Regina KingPosted by

Regina King

A STEM WORD OR SENTENCE

while offering freedom to continue,
is a flexibility taunt in that it can
suggest some kind of connection
as a high-flying kite released
or held back from the owner’s
spindle. Sometimes getting
caught on a branch of tree or
even worse a telephone wire.

My friend’s younger brother,
James, a heavy drug user,
cleaned up his act, and fell
in love with those airplanes,
the ones with remote control.
Sober and clean on a beautiful
Sunday, with his newfound sense
of love and prayer,

went to the park with
his like-minded friends.
Took his plane to the grassy knoll,
spun it out like a fisherman
into the power lines.

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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__________

Regina King: “What’s in my bag is discovery.”

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May 2, 2017

“I Speed Toward the Moon” by Constance HanstedtPosted by

Constance Hanstedt

I SPEED TOWARD THE MOON

On a deserted Oakland freeway
after a leisurely June evening
of free writes and rough drafts
I speed toward the moon.

Kmart’s red neon flashes off Fruitvale,
an exit I avoid like a freshly tarred road
blistering in the grasp of noonlight.

I watch the moon slide smoothly into
a pearl pocket of clouds as if a love letter
slipping into a fine linen envelope.

KFOG calls me back, as does a jet
black Harley darting from center to left,
its single lamp now a piercing spotlight.
Too close, I gasp, too close.

We part as the freeway splits, where
three white crosses tower over curving
concrete and rise to the brilliant round
burst of the moon.

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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Constance Hanstedt: “After six or eight hours of payroll and personnel, I drive what others refer to as ‘the long way’ home. Unlike the roaring freeway, the snappy boulevards trimmed with small pines and pink myrtles soothe me. Later, alone in my bedroom, I shape the earth’s hues and tones into phrases and lines. The form suits me. Writing poetry ensures a wonderful day.”

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April 20, 2017

“His Refrigerator Was Disappointing” by Anne-Marie CastlebergPosted by

Anne-Marie Castleberg

HIS REFRIGERATOR WAS DISAPPOINTING

Not neat
Not even clean
Shelves caked thick
Clots of hardened food, yellowed yolks
A green tinged Brie
One lone can of tuna

In the ice cave called freezer
Our future
Absolut and Double Delight

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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__________

Anne-Marie Castleberg: “A phrase from W.B. Yeats’ ‘When You Are Old’ led me to acknowledge a side of myself that I had long denied: ‘But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you. And loved the sorrows of your changing face.’ I am that soul, a pilgrim on a journey. Not just the computer consultant, the mother, wife, grandmother. Poetry and writing keep me sane; they are navigation aids; they ground me in the moment and confirm where I’ve been.”

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September 8, 2016

“Age Comes While I’m Trying to Figure Out What to Say” by Mary Rose BettenPosted by

Mary Rose Betten

AGE COMES WHILE I’M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT TO SAY

Age comes while I’m trying to figure out what to say.
I’ve put on ten years just this weekend.

My sister turns into my grandmother
while I’m asking her a question.

I become my Great Aunt Marie
turning down beds for those long dead.

Parts of my body play musical chairs.
My hair is a color God never meant it to be.

I wear shoes only an elephant could love,
forget where I put them and go out to buy more.

My answering machine makes more sense than I do,
I must draw pictures and point to them.

This rearrangement of knee caps and eye balls
makes objects appear close because I want them to be.

“Well, come on in,” I probably should say,
but by the time I got that far,
I’d forget who I was talking to.

—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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