—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Take these stanzas
for a ride,
gun those couplets,
love the mileage
of the meter.
Clutch your pearls
and let the wind
chew down your nails.
Wring your hands
and pay me,
pay me for this poem.
for a ride,
gun those couplets,
love the mileage
of the meter.
Clutch your pearls
and let the wind
chew down your nails.
Wring your hands
and pay me,
pay me for this poem.
I wrote this about visiting my grandparents' house as a child. My grandmother always burned her toast, then scraped all the black stuff off before she ate it.
Burnt Toast
Trees play pat-a-cake
above my head,
a sheltering sunshade,
lead us to your house.
Your house. Surrounded.
Homes worn smooth
by feet and anger,
paint-chipped bruises,
sagging bases.
Attic steps to hidden
treasures, peeking
through thin sun,
musty dust and
fading mint.
Kitchen reeking
borscht and black stuff,
singed with burning toast.
This is how my parents met.
That Moment
At a family wedding,
he was bored, brash,
but dutiful.
At a family wedding,
she was overlooked, born too late,
but obedient.
Their eyes roamed the room,
looking for an exit.
Instead, they saw each other,
an unimagined exit,
married at first sight.
Devoured
I’m a shell of myself,
tossed by the surf,
shot from a gun.
Subjected to time loss,
another dimension,
devoured, sucked empty
by Twitter and Facebook.
Buttons
I gather buttons, sweep them off the table.
Once they held my clothes together.
Now I hold their empty purpose in a box.
I gather buttons, sweep them off the table.
Once they held my clothes together.
Now I hold their empty purpose in a box.
Waiting
When the crossing
arm descends, you race
across the tracks.
When yellow lights
say wait, you say
go faster.
When traffic clogs
the roads, you jump
the median.
You have no
patience for delays,
you will not stop
until you’re dead.
When the crossing
arm descends, you race
across the tracks.
When yellow lights
say wait, you say
go faster.
When traffic clogs
the roads, you jump
the median.
You have no
patience for delays,
you will not stop
until you’re dead.
Not Speaking
The curtains don’t tell
what they hear.
The carpet holds
footsteps of exits.
The faucets leak
drips of resentment.
The windows pretend
perfect people.
Words left unspoken
peel paint.
Fear is not speaking
at all.
Wrapped in Plastic
Like vegetables
or day-old bread
wrapped in plastic,
she wants to preserve
her shelf life.
She wraps her body
in plastic
surgery.
She wants to preserve
her beauty.
She wraps her hair
in plastic rollers.
She paints her face,
a plastic mask
to hide the flaws.
She bought
a plastic casket
to preserve
her bones,
her beautiful bones.
Like vegetables
or day-old bread
wrapped in plastic,
she wants to preserve
her shelf life.
She wraps her body
in plastic
surgery.
She wants to preserve
her beauty.
She wraps her hair
in plastic rollers.
She paints her face,
a plastic mask
to hide the flaws.
She bought
a plastic casket
to preserve
her bones,
her beautiful bones.
She comes back
to haunt him.
She sits in
their café,
a ring on
her finger.
Their eyes meet.
He looks down.
He walks out
forever,
the one she
will always
remember.
Gardening
She cultivates stupidity in her garden,
planting it with sunflowers and squash.
She tells her friends stupidity
will make them rich and famous.
They buy it from her, every single stalk.
She cultivates stupidity in her garden,
planting it with sunflowers and squash.
She tells her friends stupidity
will make them rich and famous.
They buy it from her, every single stalk.
What we miss when the oven door
shatters in pieces on the floor
is not the money that
we pay to buy
another oven,
not the baking,
not the broiling.
We miss the handle
to hang the kitchen towel.
shatters in pieces on the floor
is not the money that
we pay to buy
another oven,
not the baking,
not the broiling.
We miss the handle
to hang the kitchen towel.
No glasses needed
in my dreams,
the story sharp,
no rounded corners,
choices clear from
coming back here
every single night.
in my dreams,
the story sharp,
no rounded corners,
choices clear from
coming back here
every single night.
Flower petals scatter
from a flush of wings that rustle
leaves the memory of the flush
of cheeks, the flush of love, a promised
flush of bricks that wall the royal
flush, a hand that claps, applause for flush
accounts, no money left to toast
the scotch flushed down the drain.
from a flush of wings that rustle
leaves the memory of the flush
of cheeks, the flush of love, a promised
flush of bricks that wall the royal
flush, a hand that claps, applause for flush
accounts, no money left to toast
the scotch flushed down the drain.
Hope hitches a ride
on unbathed white hair.
Wind slicks and sun flicks
float with each footfall,
the floor a dusty flashback
of unswept fields, and a race
to embrace the wind.
on unbathed white hair.
Wind slicks and sun flicks
float with each footfall,
the floor a dusty flashback
of unswept fields, and a race
to embrace the wind.
Today’s LittleNip:
A hyphen
blissful to bask
in bubble bath,
instead constrained
by corset to curtail
contemplation
as a comma.
A hyphen
blissful to bask
in bubble bath,
instead constrained
by corset to curtail
contemplation
as a comma.
—Nolcha Fox
___________________
Our thanks to Nolcha Fox for her bouquet of poems today, as we dream of gardens to come~ For two collaborative pieces done by Nolcha (poetry) and Bonnie Meekums (fiction), go to https://www.roifaineantpress.com/post/nails-and-spoons-fiction-by-bonnie-meekums-poetry-by-nolcha-fox?fbclid=IwAR1I8S9c-wRKrI6ReEDn2PrsJJR-wDVrwg3Pz0BKRvQPkE04RnRweKK3E9o/. Nolcha does a lot of collaborative work; tomorrow, she will have two poems posted in the Kitchen that were illustrated by watercolorist Laurie Edelman. Lovely!
___________________
—Medusa
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