Archive for August 2015

Alice   2 comments

I’ve grown attached to my middle name
like waking one morning to love
limburger cheese no one else cares

but the way the name slides
soft as a dream out of slumber
the way if you called it
through the woods

it would slip over leaves
with nary a rustle “Oh, Alice”
and wouldn’t move the monkey hair
on a newborn’s back

a barely used name except by
twin Aunts, Leota and Leona, (Odie and Onie)
now it seems a shame to waste
to let it go uncalled upon

never to know if it’s a gifted urchin
or a lazy imp too late for a lot of things
too late to be an Alice now
what does one do with a keepsake moniker?

I once knew a boy                                                                                                                                                       named all his pets “Blackie Charming Billy”
tomorrow I’ll get a girl cat
because I’ve never had one
and call her Alice

Mary (Alice) Strong Jackson
July 2015

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Posted August 30, 2015 by strongjacksonpoet54 in Uncategorized

Moving From Santa fe   Leave a comment

Moving From Santa Fe

there are those things that mean something

and all the odd shapes and shadows to pack away

luckily the 5-inch origami swan that came

with promises of luck fits in the double-boiler pan

in a box marked “kitchen”

 

what to bury in the yard, what to bury in a box

keep the dog’s ashes?  holding her beaded collar

brings back the reds and blues bright on her black fur

this move is a chasm, a crevice, a break

this time she goes alone without the man or the old dog

 

she packs two hearts, one glass, one with Frida Kahlo’s face

both breakable         puts the book of love poems by Pablo Neruda

beside the moon-gazing hares because the fit is right

it’s said Neruda never learned division

not good at splits and break-ups

 

she packs, runs the clear tape across the box, sighs

pulls black marker from pocket and  writes on the box

out-of-work swan, Tucker’s collar, crevices,  pots, pans,

Pablo poems, moonless hares, and bits of lonely

 

recipes for calabacitas and biscochitos go in a box

memories of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains

pressed into box corners and coat pockets

another leaving with things that refuse the box –

goodbyes can’t be pushed inside

 

or the skipping raven carrying the red hanky

the same raven who caws good morning

from the cottonwood tree everyday

 

who will answer her tomorrow?

 

Mary Strong Jackson

July 12, 2015

Posted August 13, 2015 by strongjacksonpoet54 in Art, poetry

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