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 2017
by Erika Saunders

How the conscious floating
fall, the gentle descent
must feel
as the turtles
waffle down to settle
into mud-suckering
shallow holes.

All a-winter-ling,
like those turtles, I settle to the
bottom of this life, the daily
repetition
of the daily grind. Always
another chore undone, still

needing me. To survive I allow
myself to go cold, intentionally,
like those turtles. Heart
slowed, mind lulled by
the mind-numbing
repetition
from this day
to that. Not for lack of love,

my love, but instead a
survival instinct. Because only
by slowing the heartbeat, by
relegating the duty of breathing
to the tail can one consciously
keep one’s self
stuck
in the mud.

But you grow weary of my
weariness, I know my love.

Count on spring to come
with fits and starts like
the way I work on self-
improvement: intentional
but inconsistent.

It often
seems that Spring has
trouble getting her shit
together too.

But I can forgive her more
readily than I can myself;

she has a lot more on her plate.
But even as a mess, she

makes it. And I will too. Breaking
free of the freezing mud my

smiling, twinkle heart eyes-
bright love-beat, so like those

ectotherms, will pop to the surface
once more.

 

Night Lines
-From Four Quarters to a Section
by Darla Biel

When 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, see
how catfish whiskers coil and cling
to 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 heart
a 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 sack
of eggs or air, after his knife lifted it and cut it free
without popping its milky skin. I should have
saved it for some heavy day like this
before he tossed it in his bucket of water
where it bobbed and spun before it slowly sank.

 

Textures
-From Pasque Petals Spring 2017
By Jodi Andrews

In 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 with
cracker- 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.