17 Short Poems, by Heather Boob, written in response to phrases found in the poetry collection “Blood and the Word,” by Rosaire Karij
WHAT WE HAVE FORGOTTEN
Is to stop and breathe
In an out
To look each other in the eye
And to remember
We are all – only human
Or did we ever know?
A TOO SMALL APARTMENT
Is a perfect size
To keep tidy
And a good excuse
To get outside
YEAR AFTER YEAR
We see white canvas
Come to life in chartreuse
And budding rainbow blooms
Smoking chimneys turned campfire-side
To circles of celebration
Like a black bear after a long rest
Ready to refill and restore
On the wild fruits of late summer
Dreaming of hot, humid mornings
When running waters are
The only cooling relief
AT 6 A.M.
On a mid-summer morn
I rise with the sun
Yellow and blue filling sky
At 6 a.m.
On an early winter morn
I rise with the sun
Rose petal reds bursting blooms
Of color to carry through
Winter’s white
TELL ME AGAIN
Where you were standing
The moment you realized
This was not your life
What you were thinking
When she held your hand
So tightly that you felt like
You were choking
Who you called to ask
For help
What was happening
In your body
Why you waited
So long
THIS IS ABOUT A WOMAN
Whose body I came so close to
But whose heart I could not reach
THE LACK OF MONEY
Could limit one or expand her creative mind. Ben Franklin loved his beer and his women, and was crazy enough to fly a kite in a lightning storm. He had nothing to lose. A modest man, he was not. He started with nothing, and retired early in abundant wealth. He had nothing to lose.
WALKING UP THE STAIRS
Is so far, still easy
But I cannot help to think about
When the day will come
Where I feel effort behind every step
Thanking my thighs along the way
IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH
Or was it always too much?
THE FIRST TIME
I laid it all out on the table
You devoured every last morsel
Then hiccuped
I suppose that was your way
Of saying grace
SPEAK THE TRUTH
Even if it’s hard to hear the stuttering escaping your mouth
And terrifying to consider the reaction of the heart that will swallow it
SOME SMALL GRIEVANCE
Makes large
To the underdog
AN INVISISBLE MARK
Of time
Slowly reveals itself
Through a line
On her face
THAT WAS THE YEAR I LEARNED
That mothers don’t always come home
That little brothers are sweet to the blood
That young girls can become women too soon
And
That God doesn’t offer reprieve just because you’re sorry
FOR MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS
I’ll have to come back to this one
I REALLY CAN’T HELP IT
Love and compassion
Are innate
LAST NIGHT, I DREAMED
Before falling asleep
That when I awoke
I would carry the story
Of my yesterdays
Into today
Without attachment
Without hesitation
For the truth of tomorrow
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(Note from Zee: Thank you Rosaire, for your beautiful poems. Excerpts from your book served as the inspiration for our writing this week, in all the Circles.)
