Riding the Tube with a Pensioner
(For Maz)
You see this color when pulling carrots
from the garden after a long dry spell
but never expect to find it hardened
on the pursed lips of a pensioner.
She stepped on at Piccadilly Circus,
a gold-striped mini skirt riding
her thighs like the silent pomp
of sunshine rippling the ocean at dusk.
Settled in with a deep sigh, maybe thinking
about the day behind that required cherry red
hair, swirls of pink rouge, blue eye shadow
and maroon eyebrows arched in surprise.
We got off at Kings Cross wondering
what waited at the end of her line -- perhaps
a row house garden overgrown with petunias,
or maybe a huge patch of brooding carrots
thirsting for release from the cracked earth,
craving a slow dance in her trembling hands,
a weeping kiss, sweet as rain, to waken the
twitching roots at the deep-orange close of day.
(For Maz)
You see this color when pulling carrots
from the garden after a long dry spell
but never expect to find it hardened
on the pursed lips of a pensioner.
She stepped on at Piccadilly Circus,
a gold-striped mini skirt riding
her thighs like the silent pomp
of sunshine rippling the ocean at dusk.
Settled in with a deep sigh, maybe thinking
about the day behind that required cherry red
hair, swirls of pink rouge, blue eye shadow
and maroon eyebrows arched in surprise.
We got off at Kings Cross wondering
what waited at the end of her line -- perhaps
a row house garden overgrown with petunias,
or maybe a huge patch of brooding carrots
thirsting for release from the cracked earth,
craving a slow dance in her trembling hands,
a weeping kiss, sweet as rain, to waken the
twitching roots at the deep-orange close of day.
A Mother’s Final Bargain
Today’s newspaper
waits on the bedside table.
Between naps, she reads
the Safeway sale ads,
thumbs for coupons.
No matter that tumors
saddle her uterus,
sharp spurs digging in,
giddy up, giddy up.
Never mind that pain
comes minutes apart,
racing clippety-clop as
she bears down, labors
a quivering smile, grips
the scissors to clip a coupon
offering a 10-cent
discount on Wheaties.
Today’s newspaper
waits on the bedside table.
Between naps, she reads
the Safeway sale ads,
thumbs for coupons.
No matter that tumors
saddle her uterus,
sharp spurs digging in,
giddy up, giddy up.
Never mind that pain
comes minutes apart,
racing clippety-clop as
she bears down, labors
a quivering smile, grips
the scissors to clip a coupon
offering a 10-cent
discount on Wheaties.
St. Mary’s Cemetery
Nobody, saint or sinner, has been
buried there for years.
The earth has gulped most
of the tombstones like a skull
swallows its own eyes.
Somewhere, beneath the roots of dream
a snarl of weeds ties knots
in the brooding peace of rosary beads
and lily blooms.
Families picnic in the park a few yards away
but don’t notice the earth caving in
like souls tempted by sin.
Most folks in Muddy Grove
hadn’t even heard of the cemetery
until the flood of ‘82
when rain pounded the town for days
beating down weeds,
exposing broken stones
and stirring up a restless sleep.
Pretty soon, bones were drifting
door to door like stiff-necked priests
spreading the Good Word.
First appeared in Whatever House We Come From,
a Pudding House Publication
Nobody, saint or sinner, has been
buried there for years.
The earth has gulped most
of the tombstones like a skull
swallows its own eyes.
Somewhere, beneath the roots of dream
a snarl of weeds ties knots
in the brooding peace of rosary beads
and lily blooms.
Families picnic in the park a few yards away
but don’t notice the earth caving in
like souls tempted by sin.
Most folks in Muddy Grove
hadn’t even heard of the cemetery
until the flood of ‘82
when rain pounded the town for days
beating down weeds,
exposing broken stones
and stirring up a restless sleep.
Pretty soon, bones were drifting
door to door like stiff-necked priests
spreading the Good Word.
First appeared in Whatever House We Come From,
a Pudding House Publication
| Three Poems By Carol Schott Martino |
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Carol's Essays