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.

experience

Christina Katz says she will find me if I write about experience this week, I don't know how, but here I am writing about it. I first wrote as a poet, or at least I was first published as a poet back in the olden days when people wrote by etching into the mud of their caves and published by having someone carve their work into stone. I think that's how it worked. I was 14 and my English teacher Mrs. Janice Wallace had my poem on abortion (abortion wasn't legal at the time) published in a teacher's magazine. I have no proof of this, not even a copy of the poem, but this is what I remember. In my 20's I had more poems published, and I do have copies of them. But the year I was 26, I took a creative writing class at Alaska Community College and my teacher who shall remain anonymous told me that I could write poetry because I could write like a man (like him), gave me a C, and I stopped writing poetry. Later that year I heard about the women's movement and tried to find out where to join up. I went on strike with the rest of the nation, became a feminist and never looked back. Unfortunately, I forgot about poetry until this year. I became a playwright, and have been produced as such for more than 30 years, always
saying I didn't like poetry, didn't understand it, couldn't write it, and so on.
But I became interested in writing a play in verse. So I thought I'd better learn something about poetry. The minute I did, suddenly all this poetry started pouring forth. The beast was
unleashed. I haven't been able to stop. I've been writing twitter poems daily. I've been writing longer poems. Poems from prompts, poems from no prompts, spending hours and hours writing and rewriting poems, bothering my friends with my poems. I've even signed up to read my poems at an open mic in just 10 days. I'll have to buy a poet outfit. (Will someone tell me what that looks like these days? It used to be a black dress and ballet slippers.)
Here's a recent poem of mine:

ICON

by Sandra de Helen

Millions of us, women and men

thought we could save her, if

only she would let us or

know us if only we

could wrap our arms

around her ivory soft limbs

whisper loving soft words

nurture her with everything

money or no money could buy.

I know I could have.

I would have kept her safe

from Bobby from Jack

from Peter and Frank. Hid

her in my closet as I did

Mary in our sophomore year

when she was pregnant

her stepfather wanted to kill

her and her unborn baby.

I would have stolen books from

St. Louis public library to

feed her hungry mind. Shop-lifted

the finest clothes Famous-Barr

had to offer. Held her ten to five

through the night terrors.

Told her what a great actor she

was, how I saw through the

bombshell image, saw the true

amazon warrior yearning to

be known. To be free.

But I was born too late

to save her.

Just as she was born

too soon save herself.

Completed, submitted

The Godmother is out into the world, looking for a producer. Two Acts, simple set, 13 characters played by 6 actors, gender-bending multi-racial actors. Young, actors who want to have a great time. This play is The Sopranos meets The L Word. If HBO or Showtime comes knocking on my door, I'm ready to play. Know why? Because I am totally in love with every character who showed up for The Godmother. Everyone has a backstory and a character arc. Every body has a story to tell. There are so many A, B, C and D stories here that we can go on for years. Seriously, The Godmother is just the beginning. Tomboy wants a lovelife! Bill has to grow up and find himself. Who knows what all Corker has in store? Like I say ... they all want their stories told. Meanwhile, The Godmother needs a producer. Or local investors, we could produce it here in Portland, Oregon no problem. The director would love to continue on. The script it already out in the world, and will be in other theater's literary managers in-boxes shortly. Wish us luck.