Gamzon poems

AGENDA

VIEW:  Billy Collins: Writing Process
SHOW: Journal

WRITING:  work on poems

Intrusion

        for William Stafford

Traveling through the dark along the Seaway Trail,
we sense a family of deer, frozen at the edge
of the highway, staring back
at the headlights of our jeep--
their eyes wakeful, wary.

And so I must think of your poem,
of how the road we travel narrows and ends,
and why I, too, must question the swerving.

Later that evening back at home,
phantom deer appear.  Dreamlike,
they lurk at the very edge of consciousness,
silently watching a procession of ghostly vehicles
hurtle through the vanishing wilderness.

They wait and watch, bewildered
by these hardened shells
encasing our fragile hearts.

For Jennie, Dressed In Green Today

You are dressed in green today—

a light shade of green to match your eyes

still downcast as you mumble

a quick and timid thank you

returning my compliment.

Look up, Jennie.  Rein in your fears.

You see yourself within a still life painting—

you, a solitary misshapen pear juxtaposed

against a bowl of perfect fruit. 

The others are glistening red apples,

vibrant oranges, deep purple grapes—

all sons and daughters of perfect parents

so unlike your own.

And you-- you say are green, such an ugly green,

a green that must be pared away

to reveal soft sweeter flesh.

If only you knew how to dissipate when it hurts,

imagining yourself fog lifting from a deep lake

on sunlit mornings after a rain.

Wait patiently, Jennie.Still dress in green.

A time will come when the scars

you etch upon your arms will fade.

For it begins with green, a lovely green,

the certain steady greening of your world,

the deepening green of moss, lichen and fern--

this ever growing, deepening forest

in which you will walk without fear.

The Dust Lady

               --for Marcy Borders

1.      1. Victim 9/11/2001

Her mouth agape, lungs choking with ash, 

she remains in Stan Honda’s iconic photo

dust-caked and frozen in time--

a Munch image, silent schrie

echoing from the chaos,

from the 81^st floor 

of the  South tower

down the stairwell, 

a dazed witness

to unthinkable horror—

the dead, the dying,

souls falling from buildings

or rising into air.

A ghostly ashen figure,

her haunted eyes stare

 into the camera lens.

She reaches out a hand, a gesture.

       Perhaps she is asking, Why?

2.      2. Survivor  8/26/2015

Fourteen years later she succumbs

to the stomach cancer growing inside her.

She is remembered, even honored, the iconic “Dust Lady”--

her photo haunting a city and nation for years.

She kept the black fitted top, the cream fitted skirt,

the high boots she wore that day, unwashed,

covered with ash, grime and dust,

A lucky talisman or curse? she wondered

       

       in the years following, still battling her fears,

       crack hunger and craving.  She would not look

       at the famous photo, not wanting to be a victim anymore,

       or so she said. Perhaps, again, in the last days,

     

       she asked, hand outstretched, Why?

Resurgence

The roof needs repair.
Cracked tiles litter the yard;
moss clings to the eaves.
The spring rains fall unimpeded
through the rusted gutters.

Still, in the garden
the pink dicentra thrives,
each bleeding heart bursting into fullness
upon delicate arching stems,

and here and there
a single green fern curls
upward, reaching through a bed
of wet withered leaves
like a gangly adolescent
tentatively raising a hand
in class.