Who Made This Angel?

The lights are dimmed
a florescent glow
comes from the Television set.

A Radio humming incomprehensible
oldies.
Pillows
and quilts thrown about.
Soft,
with age.
Surrounding them:
5 lounging creatures
with deadly rippling
laughs only teen-child girls can create;

Their voices
rise high and low
as the night or morning
Sky
twinkles with random beeps
and bangs.

Only four voices
are so insistent.
The last is silent;
lost in her own
Drifting thoughts
which spin and
Twirl
in place
like her frizzy
Halo-like
hair.

Her subconscious
aims to pin
the indecision
the difference
she sees
Down
like a butterfly
to a cork board.

Her mind
is lazily debating
choices.
How do they
divide those
Who are
assumed
to think alike?

Her thoughts
hover around the room
the people
the places
that hold these choices
In place.

Her brain
Discusses
her choices:
whether they were
Taught
Or inferred
Or born
into this
graceful
lounging
teen-age
child.

Yes, she decides.
They most definitely were.

A little girl presses her nose against the glass,

She stares at the blue silk dress,
embroidered in pink rose buds.

"Someday,
You will wear a dress like that."
says her mother.

"You will marry and have children.
You will clean and cook and care for your husband."
The little girl opens her eyes wide to face her mother.

She sees hands.
Hands that are strong.
Hands that peel potatoes and that every night
are given a lemon juice washing.

She sees bags
full of meat from the market,
bolts of cloth,
and pipe tobacco
that are held by these hands.

"Mommy, I'm going to be a reporter when I grow up."

A weary smile.
"I don't think so, sweetie."

"And I'm not going to wear dresses."

"I don't think so, sweetie. That's not the proper way to dress."

"And I'm going to write for a magazine, like the ones you get."

The little girl hears a sharper voice now.
"That's enough."

They walk home,
mittened hand in gloved hand.

Underneath the soft leather gloves,
there are smooth hands. 

The mittened hand
will never be soft.
It will be hard,
callused
A large,
callused hand.

And it will never need
a lemon
juice
washing.

two children
room divided
you stay on your side
and I'll stay on mine.

twins,
separated at birth.

sisters,
separated by a line.

everyday,
chubby fingers grip the chalk,
leaving lines along the ground.

lines of pink chalk.

one sister craves the view of the park
its many hiding places
new places to discover.
the other
wants the view all to herself.

all the traffic
day to day,

wears the line down.

the chalk becomes blurry.

the children
keep drawing the line,

back and forth

with pink
sidewalk
chalk.

Feels the tears.
               The tears,
of others.

They mingle
               mixing into
one.

One pool of sorrow.
He cannot stand the sorrow.
Smells the stench.
               The stench,
of fear.

it comes.
               Comes in wafts
with a sweet
breeze.
               The breeze does nothing to calm him.
As sorrow pulls him
               and fear
clouds his eyes
               he stares,
across the sea of tears.

The boat rocks
back and forth
on the vast waters
that could swallow it
in more ways than one.
               He feels the tears
He smells the stench.
               Surrounded by this ever-pressing sadness

only one thing clears his clouded eyes.

Light.
               Far away light,
twinkles with the eye
               and dances
with the sea.
makes the heart skip a beat.

               He smiles
and dives.
He is in the light.

Some people say america is like a weed:
It grows and grows,
killing everything in its path.
When you pull the top off,
          the roots are still deep in the ground.

Some people think the tomato is a vegetable.

When america was new to the world,
it was treated like a rare flower.
It needed a little water,
a little sun,
To blossom with petals
that sparkled
like gold.

Leaves that were
          gold.

But the world has gotten sick of america.
It has gone from being a rare flower
          with golden petals,

To a rosebush:

	Reach in 
and you will touch 
a thorn,
or a rose,
soft petals
          that are cool to the skin.

Look closer at the rose:
It is flushed 
with a deep
blood red.

Are we figures of nothing?

To be toyed with,
plastered on magazine covers
pushed into mini skirts
and high-heeled shoes?

Poised in that perfect position?

Why is it that we take up 51 percent of the 
population?

Why is it that we are sub-categories,
sub-categories of a 
"better" specie.
The male?

Why is it that 
when we look to be business women
and bankers,
scientists
and electricians,
that the world says no?

Many of us,
prefer the front page of the newspaper
to a
cheesy
supermarket
aisle 6
tabloid.

We'd take the newspaper
any day.

The First Rain
means spring is here.
it has finally come 
for that quick visit it's been waiting to make.

The First Rain
arrives with a crash
and a bang
as it's suitcases drop to the floor.

Then it flicks on some lights
so you come running to meet it.

And then, when you wake up in the morning,
it's gone.

You walk into breakfast
looking glum and crestfallen

"Why so downcast?"
Your mother asks,
"The Tulips have bloomed"

You run to the window
and spy a row
of pink and yellow flowers.

Each one
seems to have one word
written on it's petals in dew:

Spring.
 

Warm summer rain
washes over me in one big wave.

It seems to fill me to the brim
and tip me over,
like a glass of milk

It's drops glisten on my skin like jewels.

I lift my face to the sky,
feeling drops splash into my eyes and my mouth.

Every ounce of me is dancing,
dancing,

with the rain.

a gentle tapping
tap
tap
tap
I sigh
look up
and walk to the window
I open it
and as I do a gush of windy-rain
pulls loose strands of hair
away from my face
the tapping stops
I hear now
the soft swish of the wind
I hear
the gulls crying
their soft voices
echoing
on the water
I hear the sound
of the rain
on the wet pavement

It is as if
opening that window
opened
me up

I begin to write.
 

I clutch my sister
as we stand
underneath an awning

Plink, Plop

I shift my bag,
directing it away 
from a leak.

I look at my feet; Staring into this cold, wet world
sends a chill through my body.

My father, 
brave in his own way,
is catching our ride home.

"Emma, Kate"
He motions to us.

Quickly we run out
into the stinging mist

As we ride down the slick street
I watch people shuffle under black umbrellas
I feel their shivery-wet coldness
skin deep.
 

The sign said "The Light bulb, the paper and the tiger"

So we entered the huge blue-black starry arena

There was a sky
that flickered like a dying light bulb

The rain
came down like shredded paper

And the thunder growled
 like a tiger hunting prey

But we all stayed quiet

Waiting for the light bulb to die
For the paper to stop shredding
And the tiger to stop roaring

When their act was over

There was a thunderous applause

When we stepped out of the arena

It felt like we had been struck by a storm.

Rainbows
are drawn proud, thick and bold
they form on the paper with vibrant colors
that do not match

Rainbows
are shy, thin and misty
they whisper in drainpipes
and arch over fire hydrants

Drawing
does not capture rainbows

Rainbows
capture themselves

The Pumpkin smiled his evil smile

He laughed his horrible laugh

The children cried and ran away 

To please the Pumpkin man

All night long he guarded the porch

And scared the people away

And when they ran he cried in fright

"Happy Halloween!"

Saluting the light
 

I could
scale
every book
attack
every page
plunge into the paper
yet
the view I'd see
would not be like
the mountains 
I climb
Which are
silent at some moments
but always simply sweet
 

Memories make me smile
chess
you beat me
laughing
you wouldn't stop laughing
we still play
we still laugh

But it slowly fades away
like a painting exposed to too much light
the colors get blurry
and not so clear

Help me make the painting clear

And I will still smile

The night sky looks haunted

Grey ghosts seem to fly across it

The land sparkles but the sky is dark and quiet

Grey Ghosts will slowly drift away 

Watching and waiting and haunting

the sky

Everyone
Everyone
Everyone
thinks rainbows are BOLD
with BRIGHT colors
But I know...
that rainbows are shy, thin and misty
and hardly there.
That they whisper in drainpipes and gutters
and arch over fire hydrants.
Only lucky people see them
floating
softly
in the
air.

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