Pot Luck Manuscript

8/14/2019 Pot Luck Manuscript

1/53

Pot Luck:

A Collection ofPoetry

By Collins


2/53

Pot LuckTable of Contents

Poem Title Page

1. Father, in a Word 1

2. Cry, Wolf 2

3. Atmosphere 3

4. Dying Deer 4

5. Balloon Floating Away 5

6. What Man Could Prevent 6

7. Wrangler Cowboy 7

8. Silver Platter 8

9. Butterfly Knife 9

10. Providence 1011. Baptism 11

12. Barren 12

13. Sign Here 13

14. Decimation 14

15. Every Empire Fell 15

16. In My Mind 16

17. Night in the Rice Field 17

18. Talk Over Sake 18

19. Currents of Desire 19

20. Searching the Faces 20

21. Loving a Warrior 21

22. Blood-red Apple 22

23. Laundry 2324. Dark Rivers 24

25. Potato 25

26. Falling 26

27. Across the Battlefield 27

28. Feeding the Fire 28

29. Heart-Pinned (2 pages) 29-30

30. Guerilla Kiss 31

31. Are You Going to the Moon? 32


3/53

32. Awaiting the Call 33

32. Darkness Calls 34

33. If Only I Had Been Cleopatra 35

34. Someone Suddenly Dies 36

35. The Moon is Full 37

36. What Becomes of Saints? 38

37. Experiment 3938. Diving Dove: A Transformation Fable (2 pages) 40-41

39. Pot Luck 42

40.LOpera de Guerre 43

41. Love 44

42. Pharmacist 45

43. Fishing for Words 46

44. Please 47

45. Lost Hope 48

46. Homecoming 49

47. The Snail 50


4/53

Father, In A Word Collins 1

Father, In A Word

Father: it sounds likeFeathers and heather,Futile, feuding and fertile,

Flying, fleeing and falling.

The word is a white chestFull of curly hair sprawlingAcross a thick abdomen.And all fathers are men:Mortal men, men of error;Magic and power too, terror And power tools, and beingPowerless, and to digress:Metal, mistakes, meals.

The sound fatherIs flaking paintAnd beer bottles Translucent green againstGalvanized silver cans.Fathers are funny, fierceThey make money, loveTo mommy, missingKissing, crashing, dashingFather. Facing.Fading. Afraid.

The word is radiators, rain, the painOf soaking shoes, no armsTo lift up, pick up, prickThe skin, fix the bloodLift the hood, baby be good,Drain the oil, tighten the nut.

The sound is flexing, bulging,Speeding, cruising, cursing,Closets of worn wood, belts,Bang, hangers, hanging ties,Hangers.Hanging.Hanged.


5/53

Cry, Wolf Collins 2

Cry, Wolf

Throat of wind carries a cry:Its rising curve blends withThe rushing draft.

It flutters across soft tracks Path of impressed paw prints and charges from the sketchy woods edge.It dips and bows to touch the snow crests:Pale peaks and stretching planes.

A glint flickers:Phosphorescent green-goldFrom the deep carbon shadowsLike a sputtering flame-tongue.This eye is sorcery: fades to silver,

Then blinks to blue topazAnd conjures a packOf precious gem jewel-eyesGlittering against nights black velvet.

Snarling, gruff growls vibrate the branchesAbove the raking, clawing clatter.The prey bones are picked clean,White as barren snow-fields,And the jagged noise saws itself to silence.

Each hunter licks the slicing airAnd leaps from muscled haunches:A streak of wooly fur, shape of stiff shoulder archShadows the sensual hills blanketed with snow.In the valleys, a haunting wail is whisked awayBy the sighing sobs of a winter wind.


6/53

Atmosphere Collins 3

Atmosphere

Eclipse of the sun:How long can I hold darkness?Thunder of moon cloud calls

Raging fireballs of a starry nightRise upon the wave of evening,Lost wanderer beneath cloud cover.

Pretend to soar through emptiness:Shiver of a silvery cloud,Snowflakes spinning from onyx sky.Is there no end to suffering?Crying in storm chaos,I am a dying star blazing away.

Existing among thousands,I still want to be the only oneStanding out bright and clearAgainst the others,I want to burn and glisten in gold lightMy streaks blossoming against the sky,Fading comet falling away.


7/53

Dying Deer Collins 4

Dying Deer

Leaf-rustle and twig-snap,Then, a flash of antlersAnd muted sound

Of tender leaves New, green shootsBeing softly crunched.A peek of smooth fur,Like spun silken threads.The glistening eye:Dewey, deep and large,Constantly aware Senses sharpenedTo coming danger.The deer knows destiny

Before the stalker even plans.

Brave buck standing strongAnd tall among trees,Shooting vinesAnd wildly springing blossoms,He knows the end approaches,Silently stalking coward creepsAlong the forest floorWhere everything dead falls.The stalker paints himselfThe color of leaves,Disguises his deedsTo cope with killing.


8/53

Balloon Floating Away Collins 5

Balloon Floating Away

Ribbon knotted in jacarandas:I settle on a thought and bough,Wound around a white limb.

Flapping and rustling the purple petals,I wait for the wind to set me free.

And then I sail up, dragging my tether,A silver tail swishing behind,Waving farewell to the miniature worldDisappearing more the higher I climb.

There is nothing but flight,No meaning but drifting,Touching all my round latex sides can bear

Without collapsing in on myself.

Bloated with warm air, I rise,Lifted up over children grabbing me,Vendors passing me off to others,Bright colors expecting cheer.

Up here, nothing is expected.A clear horizon, a bright periwinkle sky,This breathtaking short life.


9/53

What Man Could Prevent Collins 6

What Man Could Prevent

Sheer veils smeared with crimson,Bloody bodies strewn across the battlefield,Tatter of machine-gun fire.

Tanks rumble and lumber up the dirt roadStirring up whirling clouds of angry brown.Shadowy figures enrobed in blackLinger in the cobblestone cornersOf a city of vacant lots:Bombed-out shells of buildingsStand in silence against the shattered sky.

Helicopters rattle the starsAnd the few survivors quake with fear

Some heroic soldiers and martyrs were sacrificedFor what he says was the security of modern societyOil fields glowing with fire reflect the flamesAnd the smoky night sky.

Darkness is no longer a time of prayer, serenity.Thanks to Allah for the sweet smell of frankincense,The majesty of turquoise domed towersGlinting high on the horizon,The pleasant sight of spring wildflowersGrowing in the blessed fields of the Holy Land.

The night is a time for covert attacks,Men with faces streaked with paintAnd monsters eyes stalking through the reedsBelts of heavy ammunition weigh them downThey try not to think of their own familiesWhen they look into the eyesOf the children who will fall.

Within seconds, they witnessSheer veils smeared with crimson,Bloody bodies strewn across the battlefield,Tatter of machine-gun fire.


10/53

Wrangler Cowboy Collins 7

Wrangler Cowboy

My brother travels the open road because he likes to see the sights.Hes got a cowboy hat, initialed belt and collects lonely Western nights.

Hes a Wrangler cowboy with a poets soul, a modern ramblin man.He philosophizes, drives his 85 Ford, and drinks from a Budweiser can.

He smokes. Hes got freckles, tattoos, and sometimes wears a sparse goatee.Hes a long, lean cowboy whose taken wild rides across this great country.

My brothers a Wrangler cowboy, but he can be other things too.Hes a good worker, sure as Hank Williams is singing something blue.

Hes got a cowboys longing which makes his feelings sometimes hurt,But those tender feelings make him lift a dead bird from the dirt.

So you see his eye for beauty is boundless as the night sky is wide.And his deep intelligence stretches farther than the oceans tide

Hes a legend in Texas & Florida; but cant visit some of their parts And everywhere hes got friends the girls just give him their hearts!

Hes always a big hit with the ladies and trouble usually comes with that They want him to change but cowboys cant, so off he goes with just his hat.

He wanders the land in true cowboy style in his pickup with a shotgun rack;I know he loves me and dont mind where he goes, as long he comes back.


11/53

Silver Platter Collins 8

Silver Platter

Sweet king,I am your honorable servant.I stand by your sideAnd do all you order of me.

But my lord,You are a tyrant:Intolerable, insufferable.Your fits upset me,Your angry wordsLike daggers pierce my soul.Your despair is overwhelmingAnd covers an expanseWider than all the seas in your kingdom.

How I would like to soothe your worries

Great master, o despot, o cruel rulerBut I am a mere slave,I do not dare speak,As I am not permitted to advise you.

I do not dare touch you,For your royal fineryWould be too muchFor my poor fingers to bear.I am simply below you,A helpless terrierWho lies at your feet.

When I handed you my heart Because I understood that to beWhat you were asking of me You took the silver platter I served it onAnd sent it crashing across the room.

Sir, do you expect such a heartTo stay in a single piece,And not shatter across the floorLike little red pieces of confettiAt your royal coronation?

My king, I still serve you proudly today Head bowed, eyes cast down at your precious feet.But your cold words are the last I hearAnd you dont even notice me take my final breath.


12/53

Butterfly Knife Collins 9

Butterfly Knife

I am pinned to the floor in misery,A writhing butterfly specimen displayedMy wings are outspread, body twitching

As the needles pierce my heart.

You always do this to me.When I show my colors, you want to possess them.You laminate me in clear acrylic and show me off,Hang me on your wall and study my patterns.

Have you ever looked at my face,The clear emotion in my eyes begging youTo touch the suede softness of my petal wings,To listen to the soft hum of my heart,

To come close without hurting me?

When I feel the steel, I rememberYou are never satisfied with the amount you have.You desire more blood from my beating heart,But I think youve wrung it all out.Your hands are stained, spotted like my wingsI dream of flower fields to escape.


13/53

Departing Providence to Los Angeles Collins 10

Departing Providence to Los Angeles

Depart the city of Providence,And it sounds like something sacred,Divine with golden raysFlashing on mirrored buildings

And upscale brownstonesFashionably tucked between.Providence sounds private, like the noiseOf old money, good old boys,Back room deals with cigar smokeAnd stacks of dollar bills, billiards,Cigarette girls in fishnets and ruby lips.

Providence is something proud:Pristine, peaceful snow sometimes fallingLike pure white feathers from heavenNo colors, everything blanketed

Shades of gray, white, silver, smoke,The shadows of bare trees and farmhousesThe smell of firewood burning into the night.Providence sounds like protection:By history, boats, waterways, guardian angels.

Arrive in Los Angeles, it sounds garbled:A mouthful, not smooth or silky;It staggers on the tongue, a drunkWandering through cement alleysConcrete sidewalks smelling of pissAnd rotting food, littered with papers,

Transients, cardboard shelters, syringes,Broken bottles, ripped clothes, ragsMetal shopping carts, sleeping bagsAnd scraps of blankets piled up.Los Angeles sounds like lost,Like the desert without air or water,Sounds like less, loss, losing, listlessLike the damned, the desolateDoomed to drag their weary bodiesAcross the dusty sands of eternity.

Los Angeles, like a cry of revolution

A plea for freedom delivered to the sky Hot oppressive sun and high arched mountainsKeeping the blessed separatedAnd comfortable in their ignorance.The wind is still, standing in the heatIt waits for its chance to strike,To set its people free, liberate themInto fields of flowers and grass.


14/53

Baptism Collins 11

Baptism

You want an uncovered foreheadTo smudge with a thumb of ash and spit;Something like the smear of a mothers finger

Wiping an infants face clean.

But what about those headsSwathed in gossamer veils,Pink patterns swirled with baby-boy blueAnd only kohl eyes peeking out?

What about shadowy visages emergingFrom verdant bamboo trees,Silky shrouds surrounding ivory powder?

Or earth-brown masksWith vermilion pin-points,A bulls-eye centerFramed in gold jacquard,Fringes swishingBlood velvet trailing behind.

There are even dolls faces Bisque porcelain with painted eyes,Lips scarlet as an evasive ibisWrapped in smoky furHidden away in Glasnost palaces.

This one here once wore waterPoured upon it as if from plunging fallsThen someone wiped it religiouslyWith clean, white linen and a shaking touchBefore it was anointed with perfumed oil.


15/53

Barren Collins 12

Barren

Thirsty desert plains waitIn your lonely eyes,Sapphire longing of the sky

Swims in your forced smile.

The coyotes death callRings in your voice,And the crisp flap of eagles wingsSound when you manage to laugh.

When I think of you alone,I think of a bitter fruit,One hidden within thorns of cacti,And tasting of dry, salty sand grit.

I think of your presence asThe petals of desert flowers Their silence reminds me of you.

You are the smell of gasoline,Mesquite burning in campfires,Beer, leather and wood.

All of this burns away in the fireCarefully built in the barren desert.


16/53

Sign Here Collins 13

Sign Here

I want to sign you like a checkMark myself upon youLike a burning insignia

A brand on your hide.

I want to write my name across your chestIn slanted letters, a tribute to meA looping, curly-cue of a name.Please let me place my placard on your body,Firmly imprint my presence on your skin.

Let me tell the world I was here,Build myself a monumentLike the King Minos temple,

The Taj Majal, the Gaza pyramids,Built from the sands to the sky,A towering spectacle that will proclaim my name.

Let me have a place on your heart,Craft a fine sculpture from your soul,Pierce you with the tattoo of my coat-of-arms,Etch the letters of my name into you.

The kings of Aztlan built brazen buildingsAligned with the sun, the moon, the stars In all this universe, I just want a placeCarved out for me, so the world would know me,So that I know you remember me.


17/53

Decimation Collins 14

Decimation

Ill stars cross, no longer still in the spilling light of night:Fast frenetic fuchsia and flying fragments fizz -They sparkle and shimmer in the shiny glittery glimmering sky.

Spinning and dizzy, I am dazed and gaze at constellationsI feel frail, fear that the fire will fizzle and the flame will fall flat.For why will I die, why have I had this heart-heavy hurtThat has heaped up since I had hardly a breath?

It totters and teeters, sometimes I lean toward no longer tryingTo touch the tender temple of he who hovers above.Instead I sit and wait, watching the stars swirl in a serene skyAnd feel a feathery fan of whispering wind wisp across my face.


18/53

Every Empire Fell Collins 15

Every Empire Fell

Every empire fellSince the dawn of timeWhen a ruler was selfish

And sent soldiers to wars.

Mothers grieved their losses,Wives were left without help.Babies grew up bitter, abandoned,And wanted to fight.

The wronged always want revengeIn the currency of blood,But the earth will never forgetWhat men constantly fail to remember.

After wars victory,The celebration of spoils.No prayers are said for the deadWhen peoples mouths are full.

Later the legends begin,The dramatic tales of heroes.Epic poems and novelsChronicle the lives of the leaders.

But what about the horrorsThe raped earth has witnessed?Remembering the violence of man killing man,Even the sun turns his head away.

The screams still linger in the tops of trees,The earth holds her children in her bosom,Blood feeds the crops planted in the landAnd children eat the tainted bounty.

These children grow to embrace death.Didnt they study history and learnEvery empire fell?


19/53

In My Mind Collins 16

In My Mind

I dont need to travel -Nothing is more beautifulThan the lovely destructionWithin my mind.

No ancient ruins standing in daylightSlanted maize in the September sunCould be more invitingThan the dizzying colors spinningWithin my mind.

No pyramids glinting gold,Rising from the sandy seas of historyCould be brighterThan the amazing confusionWithin my mind.

No archaic cathedralIn the vineyards of France

Nestled between rolling hillsAnd pristine watersCould attract me moreThan the spiraling uneasinessOf my mind.

No white royal palacesWith capped columnsGuarded by majestic elephantsAnd soldiers in velvet-trimmed uniforms

Could contain more splendorThan the fierce impulsivityOf my mind.

No polar tundraWith its clean linesAnd unsullied banks of snowLanguishing along the landscapeOf broken ice contrastedWith black waterCould tempt me moreThan the unexplainable contradictionsOf my mind.

No lush tropical villageWith basic mud hutsSurrounded by the calls of wild birdsAnd the exotic lure of spicy flowersCould take me awayFrom the wild explosionOf ideas taking shapeIn my mind.


20/53

Night in the Rice Field Collins 17

Night in the Rice Field

The cold water in the rice fields risesunder a moon eggshell-white.

I listen for the click of your shoesOn the stones leading to my door.

The curved shadows of bonsai branchesbrush across the paper screenand I hear the frogs song echo in the night.

The darkness swallows the song it swallows my dreams,

and even the sound of gentle bamboo leaves swaying

cannot bring light to my heart.


21/53

Talk Over Sake Collins 18

Talk Over Sake

When they talked over sake,he reached across the tableand slipped the pin from her hair.

Her hair fell around her in a wild stormand her blushing cheeks looked like ripe cherries.

She smiled and looked down,a crease by her mouthappearing in the powder on her face.

The sake made him promisetoo many things: silk purses filled with coins,ivory elephants, jade bookends and golden fans.

She had a feeling he was a white cranein the middle of a long winter.


22/53

Currents of Desire Collins 19

Currents of Desire

Your feet are white as pearlsand soft as the skin on a persimmon.

Your voice is like small wrens,their songs smooth as silk threads.

Your eyes glow like jade,warmed from within.

Your touch is gentle as the breezeblowing little ripples in the koi pond.

Your hair is black as calligraphy inktracing words of love on parchment.

Your smell is the fragrance of jasminerising from the fields in the heat of July.

And I long for you as if I was the last dragonin a country without dragons,

As if I was the soy plantand you were the sun that never shone,

As if I was the lacquer boxand you were a stolen necklace,

As if I was the ceramic cup of steaming teathat spilled on the floor,

As if I was a book of haikuand you never learned to read my language.


23/53

Searching the Faces Collins 20

Searching the Faces

Peasants bend in sweeping fields of grassas the mules pull my carriage on the road.

Dirt rises in swirls and I hear onlythe creaking wooden wheelsand the steady thunder of mules hooves.

I wear my silk robes and powder on my face,but only because I look for you out here.

I wish to see your face among the working men,but you have left this country like a rabbit leaves its open hutch.


24/53

Loving a Warrior Collins 21

Loving a Warrior

His hand is steady as a bathing crane,His eye is sharp as the scorpions tail.

His mind is speedy as tsunamis crash onto shore,His body is strong like the temple on the hill.

I love a warrior, a man who must fight:He will not wear the wedding costume.

I will not lie with him on buckwheat pillows,He will not write to me in calligraphy.

I love a warrior, a man whose life is work.I look at the moon and think she is cruel.


25/53

Blood-red Apple Collins 22

Blood-red Apple

Eve of the earth Flowing hair fashioned from ashBeating heart formed from stone.

She held out the fruit to Adam.He could not help but take itHold it to his heart, near the gapFrom where his rib was removed.

How could Adam declineAll the beauty he knew?He awoke to the streaming banner of dawnBlazing in the light of her eyes every morning.He held the innocence of newborn foals in his arms:She was warm with silky skin and a gentle, trusting touch.

Who would have imagined a world of such delightsCould hold a serpent?

Our blood filled that apple,The burden of bearing children,The heavy weight of a past we will never compensateRed like sangria, the color of blushing orchards and vineyardsFruits of the abundant earth, the generous bountyRooted in the dark depths of the earth and yetConstantly drinking of the elements:Leaves absorbing golden sunshine,Thick stems drinking of flowing water andRespiring the very air we breathe.We live our lives half-asleep,Our minds creating Gardens of EdenTo keep us interested.


26/53

Laundry Collins 23

Laundry

Your laundry looks like patches of multicolored paperPasted by a kindergartener onto a white string.The clothes: lacy pink slips of nylon, large white bras,Childrens cartoon underwear, tiny t-shirts and little socks

All flap with the urgency of a national flag proudly flying,Proclaiming independence, unity under one country.

I can see onto your patio from my window:

Abuela crying, No tierra! day after dayAs the children dig their grimy hands deeper into earth,Giggling with pleasure as it squeezes under fingernailsAnd into freshly-bleached, warm-from-the-clothesline socks.Every day the mother asks the oldest boy if heBroke the cookie jar, hit his brother on the head with a toy truck,Said no to abuela, snatched the parakeet out of the cage again.And every day the kid cries indignantly and denies it all.

No wonder he lies every day: the boy is like her:Hes watched her denying it all, denying the pain of her husband leaving,Denying that she is a burden to her elderly mother:Swollen feet and veins like vines wrapping up the columns of her legs.I see her mother, too, denying the sadness of her own husbandMoving back to Mexico without her.Of course he still visits, when he needs money.And he will yell again at the manager, shout obscenities in SpanishAt the manager who feels so bad for them he doesnt call the police.

Her kids are screaming for her in increasing decibels,

I know she can hear them and is just ignoring them for her neighbors sake.Shes never helped her mother bring in the groceries:She fills the baby carriage that the kids are too big for with milk,Eggs, butter, tortillas, coffee, bags of beans, jugs of laundry soap.Ive seen her make three trips to the car, hobbling on her wobbly hip,Dragging her weaker leg behind her and not letting it slow her down.

Shes never smiled at me, but I can see everything in her life.I hear her talking to the comadres she calls on the phone But she never admits defeat, never releases the guilt, the sorrow.If she would, it would pour down upon our apartment complex,Saturate the clothes drying in the sun, wash away the dirt soiling the cement,

And renew everything in her mothers apartment: broken toys,Empty jars, still-needing-to-be-washed laundry, overflowing garbage cans.Wouldnt it be nice to begin again, admit the end, try once more?


27/53

Dark Rivers Collins 24

Dark Rivers

As dark rivers run deepWithin the crust of earthCoursing in veins throughout

The damp dirt, it awakens

Restless, the ribbon curvingCurling, cutting across landsShifting with the shapesPulling and tugging the soil

It wanders, alive inside meSeeking outlet, a sea to spill into.I feel its life squirming, wrigglingStruggling for freedom, the aching

Pulsing urge to find release.


28/53

Potato Collins 25

Potato

The tuber grows in darkness,Independent of the sunThat feeds pumpkins, lettuce,

Grapes and watermelons.Sure, their colors are fascinatingBut the potato is of this earth.

The potatos skin is brown like the soil,Inside it is pale and vulnerable.It is a sort of saint,An invisible martyr:It thrives when unnoticed,It grows when neglectedAnd is nourished by the dank,

Lightless clay surrounding it.

Its smell is warm and musky,Clumps of dirt still cling to itWhen it is birthed from the ground.Nobody knows the secret sorrowsThat saturate its unseen soul.It is not much to look at,For it is lumpy and warty,And its texture is rough and bumpy.

But it is versatile, strong and singular.It complements everything it is served withAnd it can grow just about anywhere.The French call the potatopomme de terre,Or earth apple, but the apple is not like a potato.She is all showy conceit and blushing beauty,Fame has changed its sister, all the storiesAnd wives tales have made her otherworldly After all, one rotten apple spoils the bunch.


29/53

Falling Collins 26

Falling

Tuck knees into chest and jumpLeap into the void, feelThe spinning, whirling rushSurround you, baby in a womb

Free from the stinging burrs of pain,The heartbreaking anguish of sadness,All the circles spiraling through your life.

I feel thorns prick my side when I cry,Breathing the icy air of dark gloomThe gray color of sorrow that rolls in,Like fog shrouding a clear black road.Why do I not shed tears of blood,No wounds mar my marble skin.I am cold, the heat of the warmest summer dayDoes not penetrate my slick surface

Smooth and unbreakable, I do not reflect heatOr light, life is merely a breath infused in ash.I focus on the shadows, the hidden dance of darkness.The partial shade hides a world of mystery;This thread I walk with skill weaves into a noose.

To die, to die, to dreamdaring to imagine tomorrowDeserving a way paved with coals to burn my feetTorment me, as nothing I have done has blossomed,No deeds of kindness have grown fruit, no blessed actsHave sprung like fountains from my hands.I wear selfish calluses, blisters of pity, nothing honorable.

For I never even brought fresh flowers to a grave.No one shall do it for me, I am a wanderer.There shall not be a grave marking my death;When the sunshine and airy sky, after breathing the dew of summer daysBow gracefully to the shivering night, I will be a vague memory.

My life is the chill pregnant in the late summer air,The spice of cinnamon and warm smell of burning leavesThat infringes on the last days of summer. I am autumn,I wear it on my skin, in my hair streaming behind meLike banners, ribbons festooned upon my curls, billowing upAnd catching on the trees. These ribbons will hang me.

I will not escape this trap, net set to ensnare meThe hunter has captured the prey. I resign myself to my fate.Pretty ribbons tie me down, cut into my flesh, bind me hereThey loop and circle and weave into each other until soonIt becomes thick rope. Rope to hang, rope to tie, rope to bind.Lasso, collar, leash, belt, noose, laces, corset, blindfold I cannot see the light of day, I do not wish to dieFor pain is no escape from the sadness of living,It only makes it all worse.


30/53

Across the Battlefield Collins 27

Across the Battlefield

The girl thinks she recognizes him from afar.She sees his soul sighing and remembers a long time beforeAnother form, another time far gone with whispering winds

Swaying palm trees and the distant lilt of muffled waves Such a deep understanding of the complex, intriguing web.

The girl thinks she sees a flash in his eyesThe same flash as one that flickered in someone she once knewNobody she can remember, the dj vu is a mirror shattered -The image drops to pieces, fragments litter the floor.Her heart was broken once, in the violet night, the time of nightingales.

The girl thinks she could love him againAway from brutal arms; cruel angry snarls. She sees a shadow move.

She cannot throw herself at this mountain before her, a sacrificeMade to gods of paper flowers and brightly colored candlesFear stretches through her bones, a growing white specter.

The girl thinks the man before her is different,Seasoned by the battle cries of years, the harsh weathers of hours lost,Temptation is but a fleck of dust tossed at the wind.No women sway his firm roots, no other lips could call him home.Is he real? She cannot ever be completely sure.

Even as the girl thinks, the man is thinking too.He thinks of how he will win her, what he can receiveThe glass trophy case will be rearranged for the new additionA display, a show constructed just as his mask was made.

The girls heart ignores what she thinks.Falling is easier than standing, being swept up is easier than being still,And as she remembers the feather-topped arrows that once wounded her,He prepares his weapons for another round of battle;Warrior of the heart, a soldier destined to part with many who thought he loved them.


31/53

Feeding the Fire Collins 28

Feeding the Fire

By concentrating on those fleeting thoughts,Reining them in with poetic nets, like sheer nylonCaptures the beating wings of delicate butterflies.

The heat is fanned into raging flames.Their spreading light rages larger than imaginable,Sweeping through the dry timber of the soul, wholly consuming it.

These distant daydreams should be buried in black soil,Mounds of rich earth heaped upon their resting place.No, the grave of these thoughts would become a garden that blooms furiously.

The messages of the subliminal mind, the dark corners of subconsciousSeep out, percolating through what once seemed like solid walls

And spilling out, a concealed waterfall now pouring forth everywhere.

The secret dark fragrance that rises under the cloak of dreamsPermeates life with its sleepy allure. The dreams that stalk circleThrough the mind, holding it in their center like a pack of wolves.

Eyes seeking to unveil the hidden mysteries of this lifeHands burning to touch the shooting arrows of fire,Lips thirsting for relief, parched with empty dryness,Seeking to be quenched.


32/53

Heart-Pinned Collins 29

Heart-Pinned

My mom safety-pinned a red felt heart onto my white sweatshirt.She made it especially for the fourth grade Valentines dance.I didnt get the joke that I wore my heart on my sleeve.

That year, I would lose the spelling bee by spelling fourth f-o-r-t-hI went forth to the dance, came in fourth in a dance contest,Came forth on the stage as a townsperson in Robin Hood,To the cheers of my family, meeting me after the play with bouquets of red roses.I went forth to middle school, left fourth grade, left childhood.

Now I know what it means to wear my heart on my sleeve.Anytime Im embarrassed or overcome with the warmth of anger or passion,My cheeks flush to the red of that felt heart, a red so bold and unmistakableThat heads turn to glare as my face heats up, searing burn of a blacksmiths brandRises in my blood-vessels, colors of scarlet-petal rose florets

Bloom upon my forehead and nose.There is no hiding from feelings now, they gush forth.

In fourth grade I also used to hide behind other girls in ballet,Watching them glide through the steps,Or in cheerleading when I would forgot the moves, I would hide by mimicking othersBecause I was unsure of myself in my clumsy interchanges, stepping over my own feet,Going forth tangled in my own shoelaces. I won fourth place in cheerleading,But what was fourth place to secret crushes, those twelve-year-old Pop Warner starsWhose place was in a sky far above my reach, far away from the heart I wore so proudly.Fourth grade brought the girl who beat me in the spelling bee,Whose coolness inspired me to hide the sweatshirt my mom made meAnd let me bring forth a new phase of my pre-teen identity: lace fingerless gloves.I wore them with my new pink bunny shirt I got at K-Mart, but coolnessWould not allow me to share the name of the store, the same placeMy mom bought the sweatshirt she painted and decorated for me, for $4.99 plus tax.The fourth grade aide worked at K-mart, though, and blew my cover.The girl taught me the perils of participating in gossip, taught me to defend myselfBy crawling into a hole of my own making, hiding away until people forget me.

Even after I stored the Valentines sweatshirt away, my mom still loved meShe still wanted to protect me as I ran from her to avoid going to school,As I hid behind trees in the yard while mom tried to catch me, tired of hide-and-seek,Wishing I would share what was bothering me instead of stowing it awayInside my bursting heart.She tried to get my cousin to come to school with me, a bulky tenth grader to guard meFrom the mean lips of pre-teens, of which I was probably the worst.


33/53

Heart-Pinned (contd) Collins 30

I thought I could hide from myself forever. I learned punishment cannot be averted.And when its time for payback, its reckoning is fires and floods.

Those lessons I still sometimes forget when I cant reign in my anger,When people guess reasons for the blush which tints my cheeks then spread their ideas.

Im still at the mercy of talk, still engrossed in its voodoo magic, its dangerous charms.If a blush is wildfire, words are a flood: equally difficult to control and contain.Truth comes forth at the most untimely of moments, the burn of a blush,The stutter of mistakenly spoken words, the Freudian slip of the tongue.

The girl was the rival in my myth, the venomous serpent in my garden of knowledge.And still those bitter lessons lay like the rotten apple at the foot of the tree.My heart is the rotten apple, red rotting to black; my words rot away too.All I am is my emotions. My secret self surges forth, an embarrassing revelationOf rosy-apple cheeks, my heart pinned to my sleeve.


34/53

Guerilla Kiss Collins 31

Guerilla Kiss

Revolutions thriveBy feedingOn loves blood.

Guerillas kissTheir lovers goodbyeAnd with the same tonguesLick the knife-blade.

The rebels leave to fightUntil they finally return with penniesCovering the stars in their eyes.


35/53

Are You Going to the Moon? Collins 32

Are You Going to the Moon?

Are you going to the moon?Will you be back sometime soon?Can you say hi to a star?

Why are you going away so far?

What kind of things will you see?Will you still remember me?Who will share in all my fun?Will you be allowed to touch the sun?

Where is it that you will be?Can you come back to visit me?Will you visit in the night?Is it okay to leave on the light?

Do you think that you will fly?Do I have to say goodbye?


36/53

Awaiting the Call Collins 33

Awaiting the Call

I wear golden sandals upon my feet,Desire to be your Nike,Winged goddess of swift victory

So I adorn my hair with hibiscusAnd pace the firmament, waiting.

For as Persephone waitsHalf the year in HadesFor the awakening call of springI too shall pace this hellUntil I hear.


37/53

Darkness Calls Collins 34

Darkness Calls

Repetition of soundAnd I shake off sleep.Red numbers blur and shift

Until clear. 3:37 a.m.Silence between ringsGives me time to think.I reach for the phone,Eyes pressing closed again.He answers meWith a deep intake of breath,Exhaling my nameSlow and soft.My eyes open nowTo the whisper of his voice

And Im metWith pulsing darkness My eyes cant adjust.How deep is the night?It seems drawn around me,A downy comforter,But it also shrinks away,Retreating in shallow waves.He breathes into the phoneAnd I almost feel itTrace the tender skin on my neckAnd rest near my ear.He asks if Ive been thinking about himIn a tone I dont know.I no longer ask himWhat he means when he calls.I just listen, eyes closing againAnd sometimes all I hearIs our breathing:Two sounds merging into one,Riding the crests of darknessDeepening between us.


38/53

If Only I Had Been Cleopatra Collins 35

If Only I Had Been Cleopatra

If only I had a shipTo direct across the Nile,Steer past reeds and swerve

Around snapping alligators,The tombs would have declaredEvery decision of mineTo be history.

If only I wore kohl eyeliner,Sandalwood oil on my wristsAnd berry-stains on my lips,The finest robes touching my skin:I would have worn my shoulders bare.

My people would have builtMonuments to me, erected limestone slabsWith my name etched in hieroglyphics.Warriors would have donned armorTo battle over the honorOf my very name.

The scribes would have carved my nameOn stone walls and drawn my deedsOn scrolls of papyrus paperIf only I had been Cleopatra,My name immortal.


39/53

Someone Suddenly Dies Collins 36

Someone Suddenly Dies

Someone suddenly diesAnd time stops to listen to the sorrowHeads drop in reverence of the absence,

Lips move in desperate, silent prayer.

Someone suddenly diesAnd we struggle to stain them on our mindsRemember them in glory and fortune,Forget the fragile mistakes of their humanity.

Someone suddenly diesAnd souls are vacant battlegroundsScarred, timeless and sacred as love springs forth.Regrets reveal themselves as life escapes.

Someone suddenly diesAnd we crawl within our minds, withdrawTo private sanctuary, seek solace and reasons,Question eternity, question the temporary, and all of time.

Someone suddenly diesAnd winter arrives on the fighting fieldsClouds darken the heavens with shadowsAnd suddenly we love harder and cling closer.


40/53

The Moon is Full Collins 37

The Moon is Full

The moon is full of expectation,Hanging overripe and heavyIn the lonely black night.

I lean toward you, like branchesLean, yearning, toward the sun.You are my light, my love.

What happened to those daysWhen your mouth would cover mine,Your body would fall to mine,

And you loved me with the passionOf the moon calling the tides to shore?

You loved me so furiously, like there was no end.

Now, the moon is full of expectationAnd I lean toward you Please listen to my quiet call.


41/53

What Becomes of Saints? Collins 38

What Becomes of Saints

What becomes of saintsBut bone shards encased in glassAnd pious wooden statues:

Eyes uplifted, hands outstretched,Paint chipping from their cheeks?

What becomes of saintsWho sit among us:Their thin, chalky legsCrossed like crucifixesAnd their lips sewn tightIn silent prayer?

What becomes of saints

Our hopes burned like nail-holesInto their clasped palms,Our desires crowningTheir hanging heads with thorns?

We touched their statues so many timesThat places on their stone sidesAre worn bare from our rubbing.

What becomes of saints,Who walk away from us,Who cry when we insult them,Who cant sleep becauseNobody believes them?


42/53

Experiment Collins 39

Experiment

My furious rages can produce pages:The words look like piranhas in a frenzy,Scribbles under a bloody voodoo moon.

The sound of the slamming door snaps something,And my mind spins in a dizzy Jack Daniels dance.I would spray paint the room black if I could only stop writing.

Ive been called worse than crazy, but from youIts serpents falling from storm clouds and fish walking awayWhen you walk out the door I fall to the sky upside-down.

The years of this treatment have worn me down,A slave ready to take the whip to his masters back.

You would cower if could conceive of my power within.

Your screaming flashes daddys hands and a goldfish bowl breaking:I remember how I begged for my life, how I shamelessly cried in dishonorAll the warrior gods would disown me.Certainly Odysseus would turn away.

My own father didnt want me, so why should I cry?These eyes have seen the fields of the dead,And dandelions grow even there.


43/53

Diving Dove Collins 40

Diving Dove: A Transformation Fable

She wore her garlands with despairFor her mind was clouded like a hurricane sky.The bridal gown was stained with the mark of doubt,

Surely the guests would see the crimson with their own eyes.She knew not for sure that he was the man she loved,Her veil was like mist from a waterfall, shrouding her face.Behind the transparent crinoline, tears wet her lashes.She should not walk any further, as her feet were betraying her.Her heart was a stone, sitting hard and cold in her stomach.She could not bear to say those words of deception.The hymn began and flower-girls grabbed the ails of her train.The guests of the wedding banquet all rose to their feet.They smiled warmly, some dabbed their tears with handkerchiefs.Did they know what her wretched heart hid?

What a sin it would have been to promise to lover eternally before God.If she said those words, she would have to live her life as a lie to the end.The candles burned, dripping beeswax onto the altar, an omen.As one sputtered and blew out, she looked at her groom and fainted.She awakened and could not smile. The words had not yet been said.Her heart surged up from her belly, through her chest, into her throat,And did not subside, even as she swallowed.She decided to admit the deception and her heart emerged from her mouth.It sat on her lips until she finally gathered the courage to tell.As she confessed the cruel truth, her groom fell dead at her feet.He was immediately reclaimed by the earth they were to be married onAnd a thin tuft of grass sprouted up.A stem shot forward and a crowning blue bud blossomed from its top.Bluebells still hang their heads in saddened misery,The remnant of a broken grooms dashed hopes.His truthful bride-to-be was so overcome by guiltShe beat her breast until bruises blossomed across the white skin.These are the last words she uttered as she tore her hair like a savage:How can I give my own heart to a man now that I have stolen anothers?All my actions are false, I am a living deception. Godspeed, then, no more shall I live.And with those gasping words, she threw herself from the cliffFrom where the two were supposed to honeymoon.As she fell from the towering height, the dress billowed around her body.It floated up around her head and drew itself around her.In her descent, the skin of her legs changed.It grew over both legs, so that they were joined as one.The white leg flared out into a fan at the tip and the smooth, creamy skinThat was meant to be stroked by her husband in their wedding-chamber started to prickle.Small downy feathers emerged, until a soft cover spread over her body.


44/53

A Transformation Fable (contd) Collins 41

The wedding dress sleeved that were drawn back by the pressure of the windSeparated and became strong, supported by an internal frame.These separate tails also grew a coat of feathers, but of larger proportions.Their white fingers overlapped each other like scalloped shell-edges.The great wings began to flap, suspending the brides weight above the water.

Her face was completely covered by the dress, the material pressed against her features.The thin white material softened and turned to a seamless flesh.The roundness of her head was pulled slightly so that it lost its original shape;It became smaller and pointier, more like the tip of an arrow newly drawn from its quiver.Two red eyes grew from the tears she had shed, so that they looked like two scarlet rubiesFastened onto the white sphere.A beak protruded from where her mouth was hidden beneath the wedding-gown,But it was small so she could only sing and never again tell a lie that would ruin her life,And the life of one who loved her so dearly.Even today, doves cry a sorrowful wail in memory of their first motherWho desired death as a punishment for the lie she began to partake in,

An in remembrance of the tragic fate that befell the one who had loved her so faithfully.


45/53

Pot Luck Collins 42

Pot Luck

I pause to breathe before the hiss of the tape brings us music,And inhale the freshness of the season, the aromatic steamOf the warm orange-pumpkin bread and handmade tamalesWrapped lovingly in corn husks and neatly arranged in silver pans

Like children tucked into bed dreaming of sugar plum fantasies.The music begins with a start, its sudden sound jarring and loud,I lose my meditation and focus on the children standing before us,Lined up like toy soldiers, fearless in front of the intimidating faculty.Their faces beam with simple joy as they begin to shout the lyricsTo familiar Christmas carols.Their energy is rivaled only by the angel GabrielAnnouncing the news to the Virgin Mary,For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.The children shove each other to signal anothers turn,Or they hold onto the hem of their shirts and wring them as they sing.They are always moving, someone says, like newborn puppiesFalling all over each other in a box,One spreads his arms out as he belts out Five golden rings,Looking like an angel unfurling its wings, hugging the cold clean air of heaven in its flight.I think of snow angels in Rhode Island, remember my mother and her singing.Their voices, too, are like angels, singing their songs like the psalm of loveIn Corinthians, Love is patient, love is kind...I want to wish you a merry ChristmasFrom the bottom of my heart.

As they sing, the smells of the moment stay with me.The outdoor scent of pine forests mingles with the familiarity of vanilla,Along with the spicy, earthy smell of sweet cinnamon that somehowAlways escapes from somewhere at Christmastime.

The children belt out their last song to grand applause:The cafeteria may as well be Carnegie Hall, they are so pleasedWith their performance, the pride beams from their innocent faces, their honest smiles.Jingle Bells sounded just as solemn as Ave Maria would have,it was sung with such spirit.The love in their hearts that seeped into their songReminds us what weve forgotten.As the applause fades and the lights rise,I see women wiping away tears as they sit in silence,

pensive and nearly saddenedby the fleeting joy we just witnessed.The warmth of happiness is always tempered by the chill of knowing it ends,But we live by focusing instead on each moment, cherishing them and

knowing they can end at any time.The men smile at their friends and make jokes, laughing heartily,And patting each other on the back.I notice we are all briefly one family sharing Christmas together.The children file out, toy soldiers retreating,And we exchange smiles, stories and laughter.Conversations linger as we all inhaleThe last fragrant smells of the pot luckBefore our final bell rings.


46/53

LOpera de Guerre Collins 43

LOpera de Guerre

Begin interlude: a soldier streaks across the villageWith a wicked smile and a torch in his hand.He lights the thatched roofs all around

Slow rising melody as they glow orange beneath the night sky.Smell the smoke and hear the screamsOf the family dying inside.

A drumbeat as a little girl about thirteen can hardly standAfter being raped by a group of soldiers.She stumbles there, her face swollen and bruisedFrom the strikes of their fists meeting her face.An aria as she holds the hem of her skirt it is covered in blood.No time to cry, they just killed her father for trying to stop them.She watched as they held her down and mounted her

And shot him in the forehead.

Enter single flute: a boy of seven stands at the edge of the forest.He wears the uniform of the enemy, and holds a gun.The soldiers stop talking and look at him, unsure.Tambourine shake rattles like his heartbeat.He waits, the American-made automatic weapon on his chestStrapped there like a medallion that makes him a man.He thinks for a moment, then lifts the gunAnd the soldiers say they had no choice but to kill him.

The music continues, crescendos rising and fallingAs people in the town claim their dead.They stack up the bodies like garbage, carting them to a holeWhere they just throw them all in then burn them.The stench of the pit makes eyes burnAnd every part of the insides wretch.Watching the families cry at the edge, looking down at their sons.Their husbands, uncles, brothers and wishing they too could die,Is enough to change the mind about being a hero.

The final refrain is the elegy,The death march for those killed.We watched them fall as we shot into the nightSpraying our guns recklessly across the landscape.What are we really fighting for?


47/53

Love Collins 44

Love

Love isA ragged weedWhich grows despite

Any adverse conditions;Choking out all living stalksAnd strangling strong branches.It encircles, clasps and tangles tight,Overtaking all that is healthy and natural.Once it has prodded, pushed and poked its way inIt will block out all the strengthening sunlight,Start to suck up all the soils nutrients,Even capture every bit of rainwaterSo that not even a single dropWill pass its selfish stem.

Why would you needWhen you have itThere with you,Caring for you,Beside you,TakingYou?


48/53

Pharmacist Collins 45

Pharmacist

You keep me addicted:Dispense the pills of passionIn carefully measured doses,

Just enough to hook meOnto your medication.

I take two tabletsFrom the paper cupYou hand me:Strong, steady armsPassing to pleading, uneasy limbs.

My shaking armsAre tattooed with bruises

And sewed with scrapes.My wide eyes are dull diamondsSet in deep circles of dark despair.I am pale and frail,And need your loveTo sustain me.

Put me in a hospital bed of metal,Feed me sugar through plastic tubes.Litter my skin with needlesNursing me dripping liquids;But dont revoke my prescription.

I could not withdraw, withstandThe banging, insistent cravingsCrawling against my nerves,Blending with the bloodRushing through blue veinsSeeking your solace,Searching for you,The essence of my soul.


49/53

Fishing for Words Collins 46

Fishing for Words

Youve been fishingThrough white waters of wordsBut nothing bites at your bait.

I know because I tooHave waited upon the squallsFelt the heaving breath of waterBeneath my little boat

Patience, patience.For in the seas swim answers Tiny translucent poemsWith neon stripesAnd colored fins

It just takes them awhileTo gather the courageTo come to the surface.


50/53

Please Collins 47

Please

Please dont allowThe shadowsOf hopelessnessTo pass over here.

Please, dont letThe umber of despairGather in circles to watch us.We have armed ourselvesAgainst this coup,We stand proudIn the knowledgeWe are right,Our idealsPure and just.

Please,Allow our childrenTo continue to persevere,To remain in the fightRegardless of the casualties.

Please,We have broken our backs for themPrayed until our knees were numb,Whispered over rosariesUntil we ran out of breathAnd our fingers

Set the beads aflame.

Please,Let those who would fail themStep away,Let those who would distract themTurn their backs.Their only chanceIs if they can grow in knowledge Otherwise they will not growIn Gods grace.


51/53

Lost Hope Collins 48

Lost Hope

I heard it on televisionA snippet of conversationOn the Christian channel:God comes to you when you are broken.

But those are the times I feel most lost:In those days of darkness,In the dreary cloudy film which coats our livesAnd how it seems when times are worstThat he is somewhere and I cant find him -Could God be a butterfly beyond my graspOr a stranger who comes to my door, unanswered?

Could I have missed him, walked by him,Turned away from him and lost the chanceTo be whole again, to be unbroken?

Are there voices which sing to meAnd I cannot understand the language?Is he there watching me flounder and fussBut waiting for me to make the first move?I want to believe he is there omnipresent,But why can I not know he is thereWhy must faith always be blind and deaf?It is not my place to say thisIf I were him, I would not want to hear these things?I am an ungrateful child, selfish, absorbed in my tiny world Of insignificance to nothing else, a chaff in the wind, discarded.

Faith, faith, faith and hopeWhat happens when we just give up Our backs break from the weight of sorrow,The load is loosed and the bushels unburdened?Imagine the oxen, free from the reins,No longer captive, rushing out in bittersweet freedom!They no longer enjoy the convenient meals,But what a small price to pay for roaming at will.

I am too afraid to break from my habit -Of hoping and hoping until my failures

And sins and regrets and disappointmentsAll fall upon me in heavy gales, gusting around meUntil they encompass me in my own self-doubtAnd I dont know if its me losing my faithOr the devil stealing away with it,But I become blinded by the disappointmentsAnd can no longer see what I had hoped for.


52/53

Homecoming Collins 49

Homecoming

The return:To the place of orange treesAnd palms scraping the sky.Here, a place where my sandaled feet

Once glided across pavement.

A place of professors who pinned their hopes for meOn feather wings, their edges fanning silver stars.I had stood in this place with my feet on the groundWith hope diving in the sky above me,And imagination whirling at my feet.The whole world was ahead,A palpable object I would hold in my handAnd marvel at the small gumball-size of it.

This place was one where waves of imagination foamed

In the wake of my footsteps,Where the frothy whitecaps circled at my feet,The stirring tides of streaming dreamsSpilled over the edges of my toes.

But upon my return, I recalled the artillery,Arrows and their quivers, the catapults and fireballs.Triumphant arches called me to a distant victoryAnd my homecoming made it all the more clear.

I am no black-and-white photo,Never the smiling face for the catalog.

My look balances on the edge,Unkempt as fields of wheat barragedIn the whipping winds of November,Fields visible from the mount in the backWhispering, yearning fields which hunger for flames We always seek a patch of conflict.

Even children look away when locked in my sightEyes rage with untold anger, sorrow locked away for so long:A hermit whose loneliness has become a fierce dragonRed with bloody hatred, hungry for the mercury smell of violence.Here it all remains, under a pale yellow sun

Beneath a nondescript grayish-blue skyAll the mistakes have decomposedTurned brown with the heat And they still remain,Memorials to those daysWhen victory seemed imminent.


53/53

The Snail Collins 50

The Snail

I want to be free.I crawl in darknessPacing along in damp, dark earth.

I exist in solitude-No one will have me for a friend.I carry this burden,Inescapable prison upon my back.

I trail along in places nobody would dare go.I cannot share my thoughts with anyone.I am an oddity, my brothers dont even recognize me.

People walk by me

With no regard for who I amInside this plain old shell.

My dream is to lose the shell,Discard it in the moist soil,Deposit it at the roots of graceful foliage,Bury it with all the other dead.

When the shell cracks openAnd the light pours inMore beautiful than the underside of peonies,More refreshing than spring grass,More glorious than a rest after a long trip,I know I must die.

Someone will find me crumpled and forgotten,Not five feet from my former home.My body will be broken.My life will flee from me,I will be a crushed spirit.I will not be an emerging butterfly soaring to the sky,Nor will I be a transformed frog leaping from a watery crib:I will die without the shell,But I will die free and never defeated.

Documents

Pot Luck Manuscript