But who will free the poetry
Of its endless binding history
In doing so free you and me
To write as if we’re truly free
Of meters lockstep droning march
Of lifeless linen, too much starch
Tongues twisted by alliteration
Trains of words leaving the station
But who will free the poetry
Still locked within the who of me
Until I shout – “just let it be”
For poetry’s always been free
Its forms a method to a means
Ekphrasis words creating scenes
Of city streets in tattered jeans
Fairy tales of rescued Queens
So, fill the page with loving’s rage
A gentle breeze on windblown sage
Release the Kraken of the mind
Rescue the poet left behind
BOIMA.
Pelo e rwalego meloko,
Mogawo wo o sa fetošwego ke nako.
O wa ka mangwele—
fela
wa se khuname!
Botiipane ke matlaka
a go gana go robega phetšong;
Lenganego ke kotse e tiilego ya sebopego,
e sa letlanywego ke tšhošetšo.
Boima bjo—
bo go tlema fase bjalo ka thaba,
gore moya o se ke wa go tšea.
English translate
HEAVINESS.
A heart carrying whole generations,
An unyielding stance against the drift of time.
You fall to your knees—
yet
you do not bow!
Stiffness is the dry stem
that refuses to snap in the gale;
Starch is the crisp, unruffled shield of form,
unwrinkled by the threat of collapse.
This weight—
it anchors you deep like a mountain,
so the wind can never steal your breath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The third drawer down,
stuck sometimes,
resists like a child refusing supper~
then gives all at once.
Inside:
a landslide of faded cotton,
each square a surrendered flag.
Some still crisp with the ghost of starch,
others softened by years of fists,
damp with forgotten tears.
The blue gingham one
worn thin at the edges~
once blotted my knee
when I fell running toward her.
The white lacy one,
embroidered with spring flowers,
never used, as if saving itself
for a grief too clean to stain.
At the bottom,
one still folded tight
into a perfect rectangle—
the way she left it,
the way I won’t unfold it,
keeping her last touch
trapped in the seams.
related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lavender_time_and_mother_13659
I like to eat pickles and rhyme.
And tackle gravity from time to time.
A plateful or wishes and strawberries.
Are all the day carries.
Delicious chips which crunch like old pipes underground.
That give us a chuckling sound.
I like to eat pickles that rhyme.
As I hurt with slime.
Try to make a poem sandwich.
Whatever that means to a light switch.
Fall asleep because of dust.
Wake up due to picture frame rust.
I can’t make a poem make sense.
So I take the poem for a rinse.
He goes into the bath I made on a whim.
His chances of escape are slim.
Because it’s poisonous starch in this water.
I did it for the writing fodder.
I have enough to write about these days.
While carving out a pickle haze.
Since last June they’ve been working our main street
waiting in lines had us all off our beat.
Now in the middle of March
can we lose any more starch?
With all four lanes closed, for routes we compete.
Perhaps next June, when the pipes all are done,
cables in place and concrete has hardened,
all the bumps will be leveled;
we can get back on schedule.
Can a year’s aggravation be pardoned?
There I was,
Horned out like a crooked starch in the dark,
Praying my way to the middle room.
Turn left right up the back of the front stairs,
and that’s when I knew things would never be the same.
Down the hallway towards the stink.
Reality freezes...............
ZERO O'CLOCK ZERO O'CLOCK ZERO O'CLOCK
ZERO O'CLOCK ZERO O'CLOCK ZERO O'CLOCK
picked food is complex
hard to grow, with goodness sparse
slow to chew, digest
native creatures evolved
balancing, yield, taste, and toil
mouthfuls interlaced
fiber, protein, starch, cells, grit
a feast in wholemeal
hunger sated, kept at bay
with low-density nurture
then came processing
oils distilled to easy fare,
grains stripped to white ghost
sugar added to boost taste
complexity was erased
Sweetness in a flash
fat that melts before the tongue
salt sharpening crave
a banquet turned to quick hits
food factories replaced fields
food calorie dense
drove people to gorge too much
with same portion size
so they all became obese
as their bodies begged for more
evidence is clear
just see how fast, how sudden
Polynesians who
adopted Western diets
became fat and unhealthy
rich over-processed
food mutes satiety's bell
body asks for more
calorie-dense concoctions
devoid of complexity
back in the day
we polished our shoes
laid out our clothes
put our hair up in curls with pointy picks
on Saturday nights
back in the day
it was church every Sunday
chicken or beef with noodles for lunch
always pie, cake and Jello
then a visit to grandma’s house
back in the day
we ironed our clothes
using sprinkled starch
dressed up to go on airplanes
purposefully did not swear
felt safe at school
back in the day
monks once used egg whites
to starch their habits crisp clean
dumping yellow yolks ~
but a waste not want not pledge
inspired a baked custard tart
in an act of grace
their heavenly recipe
was kept secret sold
I was seven, barefoot in the hallway,
nose pressed to the brass knob of the guest room—
she’d left the key out,
but I wanted to see through,
the way you want to see the belly of a piano,
strings naked, all hammer and throat.
The maid caught me,
her voice full of linen snaps and starch—
What are you doing, Miss?
I lied. Said I was looking for the cat.
There was no cat.
Only the shimmer of her hair under her cap,
and the broken goldfish bowl of my curiosity,
spilled on the carpet of my chest.
That night the sky turned dark like a locked door.
I thought about the keyhole,
how it had looked back at me.
How secrets sit still like fish
in the murk of people’s lives,
waiting for someone small and stupid
to come tap the glass.
And I,
with my hollow hands and soft mouth,
wanted only to know
what lived behind things.
Petrified zombies march
past displays of potato starch
Onlookers stop to gape
at what’s depicted on their capes
The clue connecting all this
floats upside down in the abyss
polish outside
royce, he hide a boy, called him sunshine
he so starch on the collar
he don't appreciate the cloth
till the potato off it again
stingiest thing ever, hold langstons typewriter
ima go shuffle it again for yu ryan, danial, ward the spirit
pop lost the address,
in his toe winkle, he had it
how this the rhyme?
the partner upstairs
cant see me
i do it this un?
the girls the stowaway fortune
beneath the slavery laws?
its the first time california girl not a bikini
girls, the womens rights is 60 year old league of dont care
Hybrid babble tap it chan
Jackie!
Jackie?
News instructions coming back
Huh? From your special where?
Here
"Food is our common ground, a universal experience." - James Beard
Spice-sweet-sour-salt-starch-blended
dumplings, like dim sum...
Fish, meat, or greeneries filled
enzyme-fiber-mixed
nutrient cuisines...
They thrill my
tongue...
Packed with starch, protein
Provided for many
People called 'earth apple'
Placed at gold value once
Potassium rich veg
Peruvian produce
Peel, slice, fry and enjoy
Air conditioner is loud and steady
Wind chimes prove the wind is ready
Balmy spring day bringing us March
Limber and lithe, not a bit of starch
Dogs stare at me on this lazy day
Loving the country in an appreciative way
Not a single sound, no tweet, chirp or peep
The kind of day I could do a lot of serious sleep
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