My master's thesis was a collection of poetry and it's ensconced in the library at the University of Tennessee, in Knoxville, probably gathering dust. I've been away from the world of poetry writing but I occasionally like to read it. I found my thesis in a drawer and felt very nostalgic reading the outpourings of my 26 year old heart. Below are some of my favorite poems.
Floating
Alone in my pool I float,
arms and legs the compass points of nowhere, water breathing with me,
I hear only tiny slaps
of waves against my ears.
drifting a little,
it's more than weightlessness I know.
And I am the same as that leaf going by, Alone in the hand of the pool.
**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Sundown Feeding
Late in the day, the lake diamonds,
air softens, lulls
downy ducks bobbing, soft amongst the shine.
Loud honks punctuate their ascent. I hunker down in the grass,
a plastic bag of stale bread in my lap.
Like children seeing a curiosity, they bustle to me
Tiny bits of bread soar in the fading pink sky.
Necks craned, they crowd together, pecking, honking. I throw some back to the shy gallery,
intrepid frontrunners poking beaks into my hands, knees.
I toss it all away, delighted with their gobbling, Giggling a little, as around the yard
The flock follows me, though
my hands are empty. I
Though the dangerous depths of blue and green shimmer close, the sun fires
From far above the trees,
pulling night on like an old gown ablaze.
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Battleball
The class divided, we'd crouch like runners on either side
of the field, the balls lined up between us, on the ground.
Only at that unbearable moment when everyone went rigid, finally shut up, finally stopped everything in anticipation,
Sixty-four eyes fastened on eight rubber balls, only
Then would the insane shriek of the gym teacher's whistle send us surging forth to grab the balls and hurl them with
Adrenalined abandon, adolescent yelling, pent-up derring-do
to thwack the hard-muscled missiles at the opposing line.
When you were hit--quite often on the side of the head--you
had to leave the battleground and stand on the sidelines, and It was your duty to scream encouragement, warning, directions
to those left--to contort your face, put hands on hips, and Challenge everything, notice everything, and cheer as though
the world's fate depended on the fact that your side won.
The fate of those shirttailed warriors still left feigning and
dodging, hurling, scuttling away, retrieving, dancing, shqwing Off--playing deadly, so that time was a vacuum. •
We threw everything wrong away out there. The stolen pencils, timples, forgotten homework, Sunday School clothes, unrequited crushes,
Little brothers, clawing braces, unaffordable tennis shoes, divorced parents, dead dogs, dead grandparents--
It all vanished in the sanctity of asphalt and rubber, whistles and sky, manic and frenzied combat, sordid and beautiful.
Nothing in adult life has been as simple, as purging, as primal, as glorious and heartbreaking and thrilling as Battleball.
