Long Grocery Poems
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Rose early, dressed fast.
quick grocery store run
already eight-one degrees. glad car has air.
brought home fresh vegetables
out of someone else’s garden
feeling weird about that
When I was a child we all had gardens
shared produce with our neighbors
at the clothes lines, no fence lines
free range people where I grew up
small town southern Iowa
poorest dirt in the state
Delabettas had corn and tomatoes first.
Edna across the street brought over radishes and carrots
Our mother took gardening seriously.
We were out on a real farm in the country
from six to ten every morning.
We had an excess of everything.
The Pelligrinos brought over their watermelon,
which was always a treat.
And the Ingrams had pumpkins, but later,
more toward autumn
None of us would have bought fresh vegetables
out of someone else’s garden.
It would have seemed weird.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every Thursday, the smell of ink
and newsprint smudged my fingers
as I leafed through the Green Stamp catalog
feverish with want~
not Barbie’s dreamhouse, not a bike,
but Betty Crocker’s Cookbook for Boys and Girls,
two hundred stamps, crisp as lettuce,
which I didn’t have.
All summer I worked in the neighborhood:
hung Mother’s laundry outside to dry;
ironed Mrs. Thacker’s shirts till my wrists ached;
fed the Schroeder’s smelly basset hound;
scrubbed Mrs. Struck’s bathtub till it shined;
and ran errands to the grocery store for Mrs. Coyne.
Payment came in emerald rectangles,
licked and pressed into rows~
a fragile ladder toward the dream
of being a girl in an apron, frosting a cake.
December gnawed at me.
The stamps in my cigar box sighed~
not enough, not quite enough.
Christmas Eve, I curled by the tree,
counting them again,
spread like sad confetti on my bedspread.
Then Dad, grease still under his nails,
tossed an envelope in my lap.
Got these when I filled up the truck at Texaco, he muttered.
Inside—a cataract of green stamps,
enough to fill my heart with Christmas joy.
The day after Christmas, I woke early~
Dad drove me through slush to the redemption center,
Green Stamp book clutched to my chest.
By noon, flour was blooming in my hair.
you may read the related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_eskimo_igloo_cake_13654
I remember long ago when I was just a child
Climbing into Grandma’s arms and the way she smiled
She’d hold me close and rock me, kiss me on my head
When I’d fall asleep she’d gently put me in my bed
There was a coal stove in the kitchen used for cooking and for heat
When Grandpa picked blueberries, she’d bake us a special treat
For the little things in life, we would thank the Lord above
We had more than what we needed, we were enriched by love
While Grandma was doing wash, I would be playing on the floor
Sometimes we’d take a walk down to the grocery store
After supper she’d be tired and sit down in the rocking chair
I’d climb into Grandma’s arms. I was always happy there.
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Welcome.
I'm the one they left behind.
An alter ego of sorts—
just the keeper, the inventory clerk,
interim ghost.
New items arrive every day—
spat out from my boss's pockets,
sometimes still wet, still ticking.
I stack them in corners.
I don't ask where they've been.
This way, please:
to the Room of Poorly Considered Promises—
frayed friendship bracelets, a mixtape of second thoughts,
a half-cooked wishbone labeled optimism.
Mind the crack in the floor—
that's from the time we tried to leave everything behind
and tripped on the way out of the closet.
(Management regrets the inconvenience.)
Here’s the Gallery of Bruises:
small, private ones, mostly.
The kinds you don't point to at dinner parties.
Each one catalogued, misfiled, reopened at least twice.
In the next corridor:
the mirrors that don't reflect anything anymore.
You’re welcome to try.
They mostly cough up fog and old arguments.
Storage Overflow spills into the stairwells:
expired passwords,
shriveled peach skins,
the name of the street we shouldn't have turned down.
The New Arrivals bin is humming again—
today it choked up a plastic ring from a grocery store gumball machine,
still warm with old laughter,
still sharp enough to leave a welt.
Please do not feed the exhibits.
They remember the taste of your hands.
Before you leave—
you might want to check Lost Claims.
Sometimes you find a breath you didn't know you misplaced.
Sometimes you lose one just leaning in too close.
Thank you for visiting.
I’ll be here when you come back.
Even if you don’t.
My first kiss was with a boy named Scottie
He was new that year
A freshman like me
We were sixteen
He was quiet
Tall and slim
And easy to make smile
I liked him
I asked him to homecoming
And he said yes
And that night when he said goodbye
I had my first kiss
But a few days later
I broke his heart
Not because I meant to
I just didn’t feel that spark
There was no wow factor
It was my first kiss
And it felt like nothing
So, I ended it
Without explanation
And for months
He wouldn’t speak to me
By the next year
We managed to become friends
Never more
Even in the moments we both wished otherwise
It didn’t feel right for me
It’s been twelve years
Sometimes, I see him at the grocery store
Still tall, still slim
Still smiling
But when he passes
There’s no eye contact
No words
I’m unrecognizable and forgotten
But I didn’t forget
He’ll never know my first kiss taught me to listen for the feeling that wasn’t there
He’ll never know the impact he had
And I never thanked him
For letting me break his heart
A blank page does not have a chance around here.
I have pencils, markers, inks, so let’s make it quite clear.
A blank page is a challenge, and a blank canvas too.
I have nine thousand poems, and my canvases add up to 522.
I used to see a blank canvas and my mind would twitch.
Will I waste it? How much did it cost? Am I incredibly rich?
Now I think of all the money I have spent on expensive paint.
If I don’t use it, someone else will, and that would be a taint.
A blank page dare not show his face in this underground house.
He will soon have scribbles, and edges eaten by me or mouse.
Scribbled stars, underlines, and flowers in all of his corners.
Words causing havoc for his ream’s untouched mourners.
They will not recognize their friend two minutes after I see
A blank stark white sheet of paper dare looking at me.
Papers and canvases in white or black I cannot resist.
I will fill them with illustrations, words or a grocery list.
CHEERY 2
Weathered wood bench
Old as us two;
Hardy as teak
~~~~~~~~~
On this trip
Make ends meet;
Garage sales
~~~~~~~~~
Joy seeds enough
No need for stuff;
Just call the bluff
~~~~~~~~~
Just two old souls
In brief posture;
Human nature knows
~~~~~~~~~
Cheery in grief
Joy fills the brief;
Small talk punctuates
~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday cascades
New mystery floats;
Touch of morning light
~~~~~~~~~
Morning Glory flowers
Temporary respite;
Hazy sun floats
~~~~~~~~~
Laughter and glee
Children frolic;
Playtime melodies
~~~~~~~~~
Chinese pugilists
Martial arts dancing;
Crafty moves delight
~~~~~~~~~
Stillness permeates
Silence glowing;
Calm quiet creates
~~~~~~~~~
Grocery shopping spree
So much to carry;
Overstretched arms
~~~~~~~~~
TV conversations
Meal time indulgence;
Sitcom fantasies
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
25 September 2015
Singapore
Laying very still actually afraid to move my head unbearable headaches after two strokes severe anxiety syncope fainting spells my husband rushes me back and forth to the hospital I felt horrified anytime you have a traumatic brain injury a lot comes into play first it was waking up from the coma blurred visions big words from nasal radiology deplopia vertigo early onset of dementia learning to walk talk again physical therapy hope laughter crying pain and suffering now this 3mm basilar tip aneurysm right where in front of my brain stem which meets blood vessels to my spine now what lay still treat the pain prepared for an angiography just when I thought having two strokes after traumatic brain injury couldn't be any worse well now it is afraid to breathe cardiovascular attacks Afib irregular heart beats afraid to panic ptsd envisioning myself deceased grieving my health as I once knew it before traumatic events before traumatic brain injury before traumatic headaches never knowing when this will erupt will it be riding to the doctors pharmacy grocery store church or just while having tea watching King of Queens reruns will I be laughing crying or taking a bath when it burst ticking time bomb an yet I am reminded everyday of all the wondrous things God has created life is funny that way I suppose I'm still wondering life death do I get to choose rather I come back as a cardinal an eagle or a butterfly something with wings to soaring with the angels watching over God's earth for now laying still treating pain
Signs
everywhere in Asia
you see strange variations
of English
Japlish, Konglish, Singlish
the street signs in Okinawa
are all in Chinese, Japanese, English and Koreans
the bus and train announcements as well
Hard to get lost
even when you want to
but the random encounters
with English words
puts a smile on my face
as I drink my “boss coffee”
wondering who is the “boss”
and why is smoking a pipe?
and many years ago
I saw on a menu
at the old Kimpo Airport
Baked Rick
and in Korean grocery stores
one can find
corn flights
I look forward
to many more years
of linguistic confusion
as I travel about Asia
Dream 1074 Visit to Okinawa Aquarium
Whenever I visit an aquarium,
zoo or wild life park
I am reminded of a prison
the prison is filled with animals
who amuse us for their food
I am sure that the animals
hate us humans
who are watching them
do their animal thing
but looking into their eyes
the eyes of the sea turtles
swimming back and forth
in their prison cell
in the Okinawa aquarium
filled with hatred
for the humans
who had imprison them
and hunt their kind
and don’t get me started
on the dolphins and killer whales
who preform acrobatic feats
for their daily meals
and the sharks
the king of the ocean killers
they too
if they could
they surely would
escape
their prison cell
screaming
Death to all humans
as they flee
back into the ocean’s depths
Okinawa West Coast Road
Riding down the west coast road
of Okinawa
echoes of other beach roads
fill my head with memories
I am reminded of Hawaii
and driving along the Oregon coast
east coast beach towns as well
and Barbados
and the Caribbean islands
all the roads
are lined with tourist resorts
beach views and restaurants
all very similar
yet different
and as the beach towns
fade away
behind us on the bus
my memories
of all the other beach towns
I have visited
fade away
into my memory hole