Poems
SDSPS is in the process of getting more poetry up on our site, and I thought that it would be fun to feature poetry that was shared at our recent reading for the next two blog posts. So, here are three poems from SDSPS publications that were read at the reading:All a-winter-ling-From Pasque Petals Fall 2017by Erika SaundersHow the conscious floatingfall, the gentle descentmust feelas the turtleswaffle down to settleinto mud-suckeringshallow holes.All a-winter-ling,like those turtles, I settle to thebottom of this life, the dailyrepetitionof the daily grind. Alwaysanother chore undone, stillneeding me. To survive I allowmyself to go cold, intentionally,like those turtles. Heartslowed, mind lulled bythe mind-numbingrepetitionfrom this dayto that. Not for lack of love,my love, but instead asurvival instinct. Because onlyby slowing the heartbeat, byrelegating the duty of breathingto the tail can one consciouslykeep one’s selfstuckin the mud.But you grow weary of myweariness, I know my love.Count on spring to comewith fits and starts likethe way I work on self-improvement: intentionalbut inconsistent.It oftenseems that Spring hastrouble getting her shittogether too.But I can forgive her morereadily than I can myself;she has a lot more on her plate.But even as a mess, shemakes it. And I will too. Breakingfree of the freezing mud mysmiling, twinkle heart eyes-bright love-beat, so like thoseectotherms, will pop to the surfaceonce more. Night Lines-From Four Quarters to a Sectionby Darla BielWhen my father brought home stringers of fish,wet glassy bluegills and catfish, black and sharp,I’d toddle outside, still in pajamas and padded in sleep,slip my finger down their sides, seehow catfish whiskers coil and clingto skin, then wipe them away in still-wet grass.My father slid his knife (Lightly, the skin is not too thick, he’d say)and slit the fish’s length, reach between insides and skin,under intestines and find hidden behind its hearta round, white sack of air. (This is what holds the fish afloat, keeps him from sinking.)I wanted to carry it in my mouth, that silken sackof eggs or air, after his knife lifted it and cut it freewithout popping its milky skin. I should havesaved it for some heavy day like thisbefore he tossed it in his bucket of waterwhere it bobbed and spun before it slowly sank. Textures-From Pasque Petals Spring 2017By Jodi AndrewsIn the parking lot, my perfect spiral glides to his hands.He backs up ten feet, grips white lacing, lets it fly from his hands.Filling the crust with cherries and blueberries,we weave dough on a fruit loom; he makes pies in his hands.Fruit flies buzz around from fruit, faucet, or garbage.He sets vinegar traps and smacks! the flies in his hands.At 8, he chose the Broncos over his family’s Cowboys.From Elway to Manning, “Touchdown!” he cries with his hands.We stack wood, crumple newspaper, fan the flame withcracker- box cardboard. The fire grows high from his hands.His fingers jump on the keyboard’s trampoline—homework.He makes his hair dizzy, twists and ties in his hands.He kneads my back, presses out tension like air bubbles,feathers his fingers like lace, a lullaby with his hands.His shoulders— boulders, his thighs – sturdy pillars:“Oh Jodi.” He gathers me, his new bride, in his hands.Featured image by Dan Pearce under the creative commons license on Flickr.