Thunderstorms

This one is sort of...semi-autobiographical. There are images and specific experiences taken from this summer that I've included, but the story itself is fictional (Obviously, since August 22 hasn't happened yet, lol).

Any and all comments appreciated.

Do you get a sense of grief or loss from this piece?
How do you feel about the length? Are there too many vignettes? Do you think some of them should be combined?
Imagery: are there any places where I need to trim it down?
Tone - what do you think? Consistent? Inconsistent? Weird?

Sorry about the length! I seem to be writing a lot of long pieces lately.

"Thunderstorm Physics"

June 21st

This morning I woke up and
wiggled my toes, as usual,
listening to the drumming sound inside my head.
By lunch I was thinking—
Good Lord, where have all the thunderstorms got to?
—normally, I could pluck them out of the air like
apples on strings.

Isaac would have been proud of me.
When cold air and hot air meet…
But no. That's thermodynamics, isn't it?

June 27th

Today Mom shattered
the vase she'd been arranging sunflowers in,
and I watched the glass pieces skitter across the floor
like rain—
it's been so long since it rained
—before I ran to put shoes on and get the vacuum.
The clouds today are wispy,
cotton not yet spun for dresses.

Gases act differently in a vacuum.
All the equations become easy,
yellow and buttery like sunshine.

July 4th

In the mountains for the Fourth.
Wood shavings scatter over my hands
smelling of cedar.
I was making
something, until the wood cracked and splintered
in my hands.
I have a shard of it trapped under my fingernail.
The thunder rumbled like war drums
but there was nothing to put out the fire
when one of the fireworks went all wrong
and I had to go get a bucket.

All systems tend toward a state of equilibrium.
The drought is bound to break sometime.

July 6th

Driving home,
I could see the grisly, thick clouds
sitting low over the peaks.
Lightning crackled in there somewhere like brainwaves but
the stretch of road we drove down was lined with gold fields
yellowing and wallowing in the sun's heat.
I could smell the sickly-sweet grass, the swan-song of
something in its death throes,
like lilies beside a hospital bed.
The storm was a vulture clawing at the mountainsides.

Time moves faster the closer you are to the ground,
and objects moving away from you always
seem to be running.

July 15th

This afternoon I
shredded the pages of the book I was reading
on the floor of my room.
I couldn't even remember the title anymore,
and the order of words lying on the floor
made the way things happened make some kind of sense.
The clouds passed overhead like towers ready for a siege
but did not quiver once.

Really big objects drag space and time along with them.
No wonder each breath feels like an eternity.

August 1st

The August air is an ocean.
Mom's door stays closed most of the time, and I
go for long walks, drowning myself in the pollen and the humidity,
carrying an umbrella in hopes that
a passing cloud might find a reason to stay.
But like a magic charm, the umbrella keeps the rain
from touching our shriveled grass, brown as dried leaves.
The small patch of earth in the backyard where we used to grow tomatoes
stands empty.

An object moves at a constant speed unless acted upon
by something else.
I am waiting for the equal and opposing reaction.

August 22nd

I was sitting on the porch swing today when
Mom came out of her room.
She sat down next to me and held my hand,
like we did when I was little and we waited
for Dad to come home from work.
My lungs shook in my chest and I didn't have to breathe steadily anymore.
The sky broke open like a glass vase shattered against the floor,
and the rain washed the tide of yellow pollen from the porch,
washed the little tomato plot clean.
The thunder
held the sky open for us, for us alone.

And for a moment we betrayed quantum physics and knew
exactly where we were
and how to pick ourselves up and set ourselves going again.

Pulchritude

Not terribly sure about how clear this one is, but I like it.
All comments appreciated.

I'd love to hear thoughts on the little italicized parts - good/bad/neither?
Also, as usual: imagery? flow? I'm not satisfied with the second line, any thoughts on it?

enjoy

"Labyrinth Children"

I rebel against the boiling
Icarus-blood in my veins,
but still fill the labyrinth walls Daedalus builds around me.

Fire in the sky

We turn our bare bellies toward the sun and
are told we have to be pretty,
have to sweep away the light dusting of hair on our arms.
The early sting of hot wax
scalds like sunburns and redemption,
residual heat softening our skin
baby-new.

We pull feathers from our skin like scraps of time.

Our father builds splints and wooded frameworks,
and we turn our faces to burn them in blazing skies.
We wish only to sprout branches and grow ourselves sunward,
green needles flashing.
Daedalus looks for us, gleaming sunspots as we are —
a sound sharp and sticky like pine cones.

We are leaves, and a flick of their hands
sends us spiraling into the wind.

Comer's Rock, Virginia

Spent this past weekend with my partner at his grandparent's cabin in Comer's Rock, Virginia, and it was FANTASTIC. I had so much fun, and the landscape is simply beautiful. Therefore, it seemed about time to write my poem about the town; most of the "town" is actually just the landscape. The town center is comprised entirely of a post office, a gas station, and a fire station. But the hills and mountains around it are amazing.

As for the poem itself: I'm still rather unsatisfied with it. I'd appreciate some thoughts on...
Imagery, as always;
Flow - I'm a bit concerned about how well it reads and about where I've broken the stanzas;
and Line breaks.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Enjoy :)

"Grassroots, River-roots"

I am no Wordsworth, but
I have become an extension of the hills,
a bristle-cone pine above the quarry.
The way the earth falls down to dusk
makes spreading myself this close to heaven
like breathing.
My mountains curl around me
gold and green, my cliffs fall
clear like flutes
across my chest.

Whistle me a song, Mother Idoto—
your summer and lightning
bring the rain.
Your mist presses its palms
against my face, presses
its smoke into the depths of my folds.

Valley winds, neither you nor me,
sweep me from the rock faces
and bring me back clean as red Virginia clay.
Black-eyed Susans pool
sun-like,
raw leaf edges catching—
still and quiet feathers.
My mountains grow
more real in my shadows, in the
green that's so green it's blue,
in the clarity of cloud pinnacles.

Idoto, rushing wide
as the Potomac, you bear
a crown of mountain laurels on your brow,
a fistful of Queen Anne's lace
in your upturned palms.

I stretch myself as a slate mountain
with crystal-sharp bones, beacons
within fields of grass
sweet and golden as honey.

My Idoto is a row of wind chimes
rippling across river water, gathering
cicada crackles and the
whisper of dappled butterfly wings.
My clover blossoms sweeten and ripen
like grapes.

Idoto sinks her streams
into my heart, prickles
sweat down my neck.
Her clouds spread onto
my foothill skin, smelling
softly of pine sap.

   We rise,
future summer rains,
   toward the sky.

Folklore

Sooooooooo I'm not entirely satisfied with this one. I feel like I somehow need to conclude it better. Generally concerned about some of the imagery, as usual. It feels...uneven. And I sort of like the format, but I also don't. Comments appreciated!

PS. Thoughts on a title? I hate this one >_<

"Tall Tales"

I find myself taking posthumous advice
from Anansi.
        I swallow him regularly as I sleep
        and morning birds snap him up in their beaks
        and carry on singing.
His careless webs span
the inhale and exhale of chasms.

I regularly hang my head
upside-down beneath bridges.
        Only the ducks bellow at me
        and demand nothing more than
bits of bread.
 
I try to pile stones along roadways
but the walls are never tall enough
for Mercury to hide behind;
        children or sprites follow behind me,
        skipping the wall-stones across ponds.
Mercury whispers from all the wrong places,
        suction-cupped to the kitchen window
        and fleeing up and down the glass,
a silver bead that boils and burns my veins.

I don't set even a toe
inside rings of mushrooms
        and I wield "I wish" with care,
        but there are no more elves or goblins
        hiding under my bed
or at the bottom of the well in the garden.

I have never seen nightmares tangled in dream catchers,
but still I am careful with plants like mistletoe
that have been the death of gods.

Rocks and Water

Based off Deb Talan's song, "Rocks and Water" (which can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoRVzSup5WY). It has such a wonderful warmth to it...like the desert at night as it's still losing its heat...

I couldn't resist writing a poem about this one. Unfortunately, I am entirely unsatisfied with what I have. At some later date, I will likely write another one, because I just love this song too much to be satisfied with what I have come up with.

Comments appreciated!

"Desert Widow"

Isis bears the sienna brown of a desert -
she is a terra cotta jar,
twisted and turned by expert hands
to be evenly baked by a lidless sun.
Her hands are a scroll of flax or parchment,
old, careful, experienced,
a cluster of pictograms
with knuckles sturdy as rocks standing guard -
a pride of lions against the sky.

Her sun
is a nest of copper wire,
the smell of blood
breathed in through open mouths.

Isis grows sunflowers between her toes
and goes down to the water at sunset
when she is lonely.

She sits by the riverbanks
and waits for the spring floods
that carry her husband home.

Isis is red clay -
crisp, sunburnt,
and covered in ivy,
full to the brim of nighttime rainwater.

Cycle

Okay, believe it or not, I did actually write the following poem with cycles in mind. I'm not sure how clearly it came through...

Written in the form of a sonata, which you can read about here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonata_form) if you're interested. Written mostly to the sound of Yo-Yo Ma playing Beethoven's cello sonatas. check youtube if you're interested

Just to clarify: a la orilla del mar = by the shores of the sea
a la luz de la luna = by moonlight (therefore, la luna = the moon)

What do you think of the format? Do you like the way I've broken up the "solo" and "accompaniment"? Does it work?
As usual: how well does the imagery flow? Do you like the images themselves? Do they fit well together?
How do you like the repetitions?  Is the "theme" (by which I mean musical theme, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theme_%28music%29 for reference) fairly evident?
Any other thoughts?

"A la Orilla de la Luna
      Cello Sonata in E minor with piano accompaniment"

La luna brushes
The spirits in their seasons
Against the wall,
Then tilts and turns
Toward darkness.

A la luz de la luna,
The dead tilt and turn
By the light of the moon.

                        she says it with a smile
                        that cuts your
                        knees out from under you:
                        'a la orilla del mar.'
                        by the shores of the sea,
                        in the season of snow
                        she still grows up from the earth -
                        saw-grass climbing dune crests.

                        the magician wolf-child
                        twists her fingers
                        and does not trust her words
                        the whole of winter -

                        and in spring
                        a spade turns the garden
                        from weed-green to brown,

                        flames turn the fields
                        from brown to volcanic black,

                        while, cello between her knees,
                        she plays to the ghosts
                        who know her name,

                        plays her cello
                        to the red wallpaper
                        soft as cream.

The black water
Beneath la luna
Shines pewter at
Its wave-crests.
The salt smells
Like summer hurricanes.

                        a la orilla del mar
                        the sand still clings to
                        the heat of the day.

                        the milky way
                        is a waving field
                        of wheat and silver barley grass,

                        and the wolf-child's padding feet
                        track sand inside the house.

                        she plays
                        with sand under her fingernails,
                        and her spirits
                        kneel and bow
                        to pick it out of the carpet.

                        their faces are painted
                        on the red wallpaper -

                        red
                        like the fires
                        in early spring fields.

                        and the magician
                        runs her fingers
                        through the barley grass
                        to teach it to sing.

With a sigh
La luna turns away from the sun.

                       'a la orilla del mar,'
                       she says with a smile like cream.

                       she grows up from dune crests
                       with her cello between her knees
                       and autumn leaves
                       burning into the carpet,

                       returns her ghosts
                       to what they once were
                       as crumbled leaves
                       and old wheat stalks,
                       brown and gold as ashes.

                       a la orilla del mar
                       the cello-player
                       sends the spirits to the earth,

And autumn fades
To the season of snow,

A la luz de la luna.

Psalms

Wow. I have been waiting to write a poem that really encompasses my homesickness since I got here, and finally, 3 weeks before I'm headed home, I've written it. But I love it :)

So yeah. Questions for critique:
How do you feel about the dialect? Too strong? Not strong enough?
Plot: is the "story" cohesive enough?
How do you feel about the words themselves? Does it get too close to prose?
I'm also concerned about the beginning of the "David" stanza - does it make sense, or do I need a better transition in there?
Thoughts on imagery in general, or any other comments are definitely appreciated!

"Psalm for the South"

Momma gave me a quilt when I left home
so I could lie me down in green pastures,
jus' like her black book says.

I learned to read
in a town where the churches got porches
jus' like everybody else.

Taught myself astronomy
with cogon grass ticklin my bare legs n'feet
n'ticks on the backsa my knees.
I couldna shown you
the long necklace'a stars
people say is a dragon,
but I could hunt down rabbits n'hazelnuts
on their way to Heaven.

Since I left
I've seen long plains a' steel buildins
that crowd out the sky
n'shine their own stars.

Grandaddy Solomon still sings to me in my sleep
in Grandma's old wicker rockin chair,
still reads to me from Momma's black book.
I like him better'n God.

My first music lesson
was the wind in the blue grass,
my breath vibratin the green ribbon
crushed between thumb-joints.
Since then I've learned from voices jus' as sweet.

I read lots more than the black book, these days.
I've walked through lotsa valleys,
dryer'n salt or wet as an afternoon in March—
walked there myself
with a cane I cut from the oak tree out back.

Sometimes Grandaddy Solomon
sings me the songs David wrote.
I don't like David much.
His graspin hands
never reached for anything,
jus' begged to be filled.
He ain't strong as Grandma,
with her hands knotted like wood,
n'he ain't strong as me.

I've got more time on Sundays now,
but I dress up anyway.
It's a holy day,
sure as the summer brings pollen
to paint the screened porch yellow.
Whether God says it's holy or not.

I shoulda known
you gotta get everything for yourself.
I shoulda known
I could study a universe
in the hickory trees along the driveway.

The bricks for the tall, new city buildins
may be baked in the sun, just like ours.
But I'm gonna build my home
from wood n'stone first.

I still know when a thunderstorm's comin
n'when it's gonna break.
I know the shape'a clouds
n'the way they fill with heat.
It's something in the air's smell,
the way the electricity gathers on your skin
n'pulls you towards Heaven.