poetry thursday: that song

It changes over
time, doesn’t it?

The song you thrilled
to, because it was her
song or our song
or just the song
that was everywhere
then:

Gets displaced, replaced
by the next thing.

I found this album at the library.
I heard this band at a bar
a friend’s house
on the radio
and from there
over and over again.

I could write my list

(in part: Monkees = 1987; Cure = 1989; Indigo Girls = 1994; Cake = 1997)

and so could you and
you and you and you.

May I recommend
a moment of

silence

while we all remember
songs gone by.

sunday scribblings: hotel stories

this week’s prompt. it spawned a poem, which I wrote in my paper notebook and edited a bit before copying it here.

the sxsw poem

I dropped my suitcase
my black wheeled bargain from Goodwill
as it strained at the seams
because I didn’t know
what to bring
or not bring
turned the dial on the air conditioning
with a gasp
of relief
pulled open the blinds onto Texas
or at least a smallish square
a parking lot
an american flat
a texas flag
a bit of freeway
two hills, holding the freeway
between their sides
overgrown
with the most vivid green
on the darkest near-black bark
I’d ever seen or could imagine

that hotel room: my home
base for a week
the tiny kitchenette
mostly-emtpy fridge
stock dishes, two burners
a microwave replaced the first night
the table where I plugged in
my laptop
tossing words a little bit
like these
out onto the carrier wave
a television
with no remote

oatmeal and a banana
a cup of tea
saranaded by an unfamiliar
radio station
not wanting television
or a big breakfast
only simple nourishment
to fortify days of complex
thoughts, emotions, wants

a week and a bicycle
the ride over the river
on a narrow concrete track
carved out from the freeway
morning solitude
just as I crave it
watching the river/not watching the river
dawn over rippling water
and the fear of falling

much later collapsing into bed
teeth brushed
face scrubbed
medicine taken, reducing my dose
while I’m here/gone
seems unlikely in retrospect
but that was what I’d promised
and determined to do

sleep in a strange bed
just as deep
the roar of the freeway
the same sound
as the tides of traffic
I hear faintly from my front yard

two peas in a pod

I pull fishing line
through the curls
the plant still working up towards the sun
even as I rip out its roots
and toss the whole thing away
into the compost heap

but the flowers
on the tips
are too pretty to kill

cut in a mass of green
bright flashes of pink, purple, white
in water,
in a pitcher,
on a table in the front room

(and it becomes the brightest thing
in a space torn apart
in a dream of creating something
better)

days passing in the hot summer sun
and in the shade, on the table in the front room
petals drop one by one
peas grow in their long green sheaths