BLUE AT THE LAUNDROMAT

by Sandra de Helen

I’m not myself today. Seeing red
because some skinny-assed white
boy jumped in front of me – a
purple basket piled four feet high
with rags smelling of puked-up beer
and grabbed the blanket machine.
I have to wash my grammaw’s heavy quilt.
She’s laying up there in the assisted-living
with her weeping sores, dreaming of
that time she sewed her old man’s
wore out Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit
into this cover, and I’m sitting here
steamed, breathing Tide and bleach.
Usually I’d soften the old thing up,
remind her of the days we used to
run in the grass, lie in the sun,
bake blueberry pies. Sing the blues.
Instead, green ice pinches my trapezius
and makes my underwire bra ride up.

Days like this it doesn’t pay to get
out of my sleep number bed. Unless
I’m overlooking something? Is there
a soul mate waiting at the next dryer?
Not that jerk. Reading material? Only
an old O magazine. Watchtower brochures.
Alone with my thoughts. An open door
carries fresh damp air, a stranger dripping
with July rain, dropping white socks on the
grimy tile floor. A dangling chenille belt grabs
and she trips. Nearly falls into my lap.
The basket hits my face with a load of
whites. She smacks me with a laugh the
size of Texas. Sorry, thanks for catching me,
she guffaws.

I am brought back to the land of the actual
living, no assistance needed.
I gather my grammaw’s laundry,
and carry it back to her place, in a
brand new blue attitude.

Memorizing poetry

It's time to begin again. In my younger days, we always memorized poetry, other things too. It is time for me to begin again. I attended a poetry reading recently and was moved when one of the poets recited her own work -- a poem she had written only that day. Her name is Seal and the work was wonderful. The next day, my poetry teacher assigned the entire class the task of memorizing our own work. Timely. I've begun with an easy one, but I'll not stop here. Here's the one I'm learning "by heart" this week:

CRY AND LIE
by Sandra de Helen

I sigh. I want to die
you cried all night
last night and spoke again
of suicide. I lied and
said I know your pain.
I don’t. I know my own.

If you leave me alone
I may die, suicide
myself, rather than
face your life without
you in it. Cry and lie
but do not die, do not
leave your issue
for me to rear. I did
not bear them, and
cannot bear them now.
Not alone. Not without
you.

I realize I got you here
but cannot keep you here.
My will alone will not
hold you here, no more
than my arms. No more
than my love. I don’t
know your pain. I
know my own. Don’t
leave me alone,
I sigh.

At first I thought this was a "silly" poem ... it's growing on me.

ABUNDANCE

Resisting consumption becomes me
as well as my living space.
Minimalism has its place
it seems, in my home. See
the walls are not without art
the floors are not bare
in fact, the rugs I care
for are Turkish at heart.
I work from my chair, legs
resting on Eames’ ottoman
my iBook busy as I am
until I prepare to exit
my front door. Happy I
sprung for the glass door
that always presents more
bounty for my happy eyes.
Less is the key here
I still have too much
I find myself clutching
my favorite cashmere,
books, plants, bluejeans,
coats, jackets, too keen
on my favorites, I fear.
Minimalism has its place,
yes. But maybe not here
after all. Maybe here
is too small a space.
I’ll aim for compact
and tidy, neat, clean.
An uncluttered routine,
that’s my contract.
Two hundred square feet
One person, one cat
Six jackets, one hat
Twelve dresses, complete
half my closet, a dresser
that’s all, no mess here
I promise, replete.

Another dream

In the wee hours this morning, I dreamt I was almost out the door of a hotel with a male friend going to a swank party down the street. Along came my friend Dorothy who turned into Julia Roberts. We stopped at a jewelry counter where she quietly told me she had taken 120 nitroglycerin tablets and they were going to take effect. What? I was sure she would die. Then, as she was talking to the clerk at the counter, Julia fell back to the richly carpeted floor, and started doing gymnastics, but with extremely contracted muscles. Her clothes had changed from an elegant dress to something like a one-piece swimsuit. She continued doing these horribly tight movements so that her body looked like a giant Charlie horse. She assured me she was just fine, though I wanted to call 911, and the clerk did in fact call 911. I left her there to go find a bathroom. Well, what would you do? (come on, it was a dream. In real life I would save Julia Roberts, of course!)

Cadillac Confessional

Forgive me for being twelve,
blond, a good kid, a bad
reporter. The frontseat
refuses to keep

its quiet, the reststops refuse
any longer to withhold
their brutality secrets from
our faces. I’ve fallen for
the fifty year

old American Shriner who
gives rides.
I’ve invoked the goddess
I’ve desecrated – no – I
flamencoed cemeteries
that led to fiery tap-dancing.
With sisters
Tiny nymphs.

A breast
touching arm, the tongue
hooked inside teeth.
I’ll get over it and
bring myself about all over
again: the predatory American
the groping banker

with the hands. But I’ll not
cry tears dripping
someone else’s salt. At
twelve, I was wizened
by a Shriner

of fifty in the oversized
celadon Cadillac past Rolla.
My mother
shamed me into accepting
the fiver. I could die.

That Shriner is now 104
with a corpse in his grave
in the shape of my slipper.
My foot is a beautiful appendage.
I sometimes run. I don’t
indulge in abandonment.

I don’t hide treasures from
the old-age sisters who sang
songs beyond my heart
the last time we danced.
But I did. Found the guts of
the story and let those
intestines sing their
tales again

and again. I harmonize.
I’m a good reporter
who can’t help accepting
life, grasping toward
the future. This is not
the finale.

All of my finales
are prologues.

Poem of the Day: April 15th

RED CRESTED POET

Forty years after the last poem
burned on the altar of atonement
for the sin of having written
like a girl, she stands before
a crowd of welcoming readers
writers like-minded poets.
Rusty voiced she tells of
doorkeepers with feet
seven armlengths long
who keep paparazzi at bay.
Dead quiet room.
Next she reads a tale
called Unrequited Love
that sears the air with
violence and Amazonian
resistance. Applause.
Bolstered, the red-crested
poet carries on with fare
suited to the palate of
this blood-thirsty claque
feeding them with fugues
obsessions, and thwarted
suicide.
The poet and audience
are sated.
We finish with the one
with violets in her lap.

Poem of the Day 4/6/10

QUICKENED
by Sandra de Helen

You throw the rat poison
bottle out the door, down
the hall. It doesn’t break.
By the time I retrieve it
see the skull and crossbones
you have barred your door
and gone silent.
Scared, crying, but tiptoeing
I run outside the house,
peer in the windows for
a glimpse of your dying body
or maybe your prankster self
having a good laugh on me
like I thought you were
when Dad died.
That was no joke. Is this?
I can’t take it no more
you said before you
slammed the bedroom door
and sealed your promise
with a tossed vessel.
A darkened room, no
sound. Do I dare call
for help, risk your wrath
in exchange for my peace of mind?
Just because I wish you dead
doesn’t mean I want to be an
orphan. Do you really want to
die? Isn’t drinking enough?
I’m 14, I don’t know. Sometimes
I want out pretty bad myself.
I call you aunt and uncle.
No answer. I take this as an
omen, that no call is
necessary. In the morning
you slide the dresser away
from your door and are
resurrected.