My Name Is Not Mavis

The Years of Missing Men

If I was mad and impulsive,
I’d book a ticket to Florida.
And return to the taste
Of salt and humidity
That I remember first.

Snarling gray waves.
Hot sand and treasured bits of shells.
And the need for my father
Who swam out so far
Into the mouth of the beast
I started to weep within and call out,
Please don’t leave me.

As if I knew then,
Of the leaving that would happen
A few years on. Beginning on that
Beach in Florida where I was
Small and first lost.

If I was mad and impulsive
And less like me,
I’d return there and reclaim
From the Atlantic
What started the years of missing men.

A Good Poem

The first line sets fire to the
Attention, chance, longing.
The last line brings a shiver
Of transformation, satisfaction,
The lingering pressure of a lover’s kiss.

Desert Sculptures

You were a roadblock of
Practicality when I needed
Wild fields where I could run
And fall and skin my knees.
All I asked for was a steady hand
Or a simple word or two that
Would have made all the difference
But didn’t. Because there was only
The acceptable that I swallowed
Reluctantly. Choking and making
Scene after scene. What a mess
Is this life of mine. That I gathered
Up in my arms like a collection of
Bits and pieces for the dump and
Retreated to built one of those
Oddities you see out in the desert
As you cruise by in your comfortable car
On the highway to your planned destination.

Sliding

Loose granite laughs under my feet
As I slide down a mountain face.
My heart beats richer, and
I am reminded of my short alive.

Searching

The man with a dog
Walks the desert in search
Of a totem, a sacred stone,
A rope to heaven
While his faithful dog
Searches for whatever he
Finds under the sage bush before
Trotting a crooked path
To the next what is.