A Perfect World, my new poetry collection, is now available on Amazon.
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A Perfect World
A Perfect World, my new poetry collection, is now available on Amazon.
A Perfect World Available Soon
My next book of poetry is entitled A Perfect World, published by One Spirit Press. It will be available on Amazon both in print and kindle, but I will also conduct direct sales. Details to come!
Missing
There is that something about you
that’s like an incredulous piece of some divine puzzle,
some little thing that falls soundlessly to the floor
disappearing under the sofa or chair
and in spite of itself has not been missed until now.
Your hands are grasping for that lost piece,
that reaching—-
a drawn out sigh
a cat stretching its paws.
You are lost somewhere between that sigh and all of time and heaven.
You are reaching outwards towards some unanswered question on your Prufrock place,
the empty and awaiting space
searching always for what there was that was missing.
El Cielo Drive August Ninth, 1969
They are staying in for the weekend
joyful
the baby in the woman’s belly
floating
the stylist braiding her hair
casually
the heiress handing her a cup of coffee
respectfully
It is just a small party of friends on this humid August night
intimate, really.
Someone walks by the open bedroom door
unrecognized
but’s it’s okay, this is an open house after all
and friends do have other friends.
Suddenly there are more,
three women
unrecognized
who pronounce
“Come with us.”
Ashes
Ring around the rosy
We scoop you up fistful by fistful
spread you evenly among the gardenias and the roses
as we coat your garden with the film of you.
A pocketful of posies
You are now the sooty remains
gathered from the bottom of a fireplace
after a long winter’s night
Ashes, ashes
This is all that’s left,
these hands sifting through
the sand of you,
a requiem.
We all fall down
Ashes
Ring around the rosy
We scoop you up fistful by fistful
spread you evenly among the gardenias and the roses
as we coat your garden with the film of you.
A pocketful of posies
You are now the sooty remains
gathered from the bottom of a fireplace
after a long winter’s night
Ashes, ashes
This is all that’s left,
these hands sifting through
the sand of you,
a requiem.
We all fall down
Dan and Emily
she squirms and daintily moves the angle of her legs from time to time
as intermittent sighs drift their way across this distance.
he waits in the sidelines of her vision as evening lumbers clubfooted towards moon time.
she longs for his advance
for his foot to turn an inch, any indication suggesting interest.
there are distractions:
the symphonies play
the stereos jive
and outside
the wind and the trees
the lightening
the hail
stomp through the balcony and announce their selves.
he could be fishing in Wisconsin for all she knows,
dreaming of walleye an arm’s length or better,
yet every once in awhile her right side is bathed by his pensive gazing
as he watches her
as he just watches her.
Before You Were Born
In this way I held you and spoke to you
holding long conversations
my arms caressing my basketball sized stomach
as I told you everything I was doing every day.
You were for that interval detained,
floating dreamlike within your aquarium globe.
I would speak to you whenever the outside volume
became too distracting—-
when the threat of impending violence tensed the surrounding air.
He would be ranting about something
and so I would sit on the edge of the bed and sing to you,
“Don’t you listen to him; mommy loves you”—
my arms around the you inside of me—
placing my palms just where I thought your budding ears might be,
to keep you, I hoped, from hearing his voice.
Once, before you were born
I ran from him down the street
and again my arms desperately held you.
This time they formed a kind of lift, a restraint
against the jostling of juices as I held my bountiful belly
like a young boy who has just kidnapped a prized ripe watermelon from the neighbor’s yard.
Before you were born,
as your first endocrinological seas were forming,
establishing their own recipe transmuted from his ocean and mine,
I did not know then you would memorize those voices,
that you would carry them with you,
an imprint left
before you were born.
Where Poets Post
Starting today Tuesday the 21st of April and every Tuesday hereafter, I will post one of my poems. BUT, the exciting thing is I invite you to send me yours to dmariefitzgerald.com, then click on reruns: poetry and prose/official site of d. marie fitzgerald/author. Enter your poem in the comment box and I will post your poem on my site. If you wish a critique let me know. Let’s have some fun sharing our work!
Here goes:
Lonely Night in Sugartown
Street light burning
bulb hanging down below a willow tree
wrought iron from the balcony staring
white framed window pane house.
rugs hanging out to dry
and company’s coming
pot roast dripping blood
over Formica
to Formica.
The lady of the house is not in
she’s sitting in the bathroom
with a snifter of Drambuie
dripping of humidity
and smoking away the time.