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Villanelle For
Joan
by
Constance Brewer
At her age I’d hope
I'm more sincere
after a lifetime
tempered by revision,
with patience
inherited from my mother
whose face in mine
lines now appear.
I hit hereditary
milestones with precision.
At this age I’d
expect to be more sincere,
political views and
love not reflexive veneer—
strong enough to
withstand subtle derision,
an art form
inherited from my mother,
who had the
reflexive ability to disappear,
and was seldom
wracked by indecision.
By this age I really
should be more sincere,
imperfections not
too fractured or severe
enough to race
destiny to cosmic collision.
My mother was the
daughter of another
who liked to
fabricate, and engineer,
not comfortable with
societal division.
If I reach her age I
hope I’m more sincere
for in the end... I
am my mother's daughter.
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Oceans Away
by Constance Brewer
I live one thousand miles
away from the nearest sea
So tell me why I hear at night
the waves pound by degree?
I feel the deep dark pull of tide
that breaks against the shore
So if I live on the prairie
why do I have surf rapport?
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Zero Gravity
by Constance Brewer
How
egotistical of you
to assume lack of resistance
to your gravitational personality
was the only reason to stick around, although
I admit at first the push-pull of our relationship
was an attraction. Surely you knew free fall
could not go on ad nauseum. Here I am,
dropping over the horizon at a constant
rate, hoping against hope that I gain
enough speed to stay up, to reach
escape velocity. That I haven't,
yet, is no reflection on you,
just the weight of your
self-containment.
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Guardian
by Constance Brewer
From the apex of my eye,
I see mighty seraphim,
exalting me to burn with-
out as I once burned within.
On other thrones ophanim
whirl, devoted, round and round.
I'll never reach their pinnacle
they will never touch my ground.
But far from lofty summits,
away from virtue praised,
attending to me constantly
my guard angel faith conveys.
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Cast Away
by Constance Brewer
Wine bottles lined up in military rows.
Each dead soldier prepared for this,
the final mission, a critical sacrifice.
Coiled tight as an old phone cord,
notebook paper stands inside its green
glass prison, ragged edge rolled
face to face with straight blue lines.
No directions to this place, just a handful
of sand and a poem scrawled on each
sun baked page. If this is the end,
the words have their orders. Carry on.
Flung into the salt blue sea, bottles
spin in the current, bob their way
to the horizon, and are gone.
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A Curious Exchange
by Constance Brewer
I caught the dog scrutinizing me,
speculative gleam in his brown eye,
an all-together too human expression.
He caught me watching him, watch me
and reverted to that dopey canine grin,
just before he bolted across the kitchen
to chase the cat, and skidded headfirst
across the linoleum into the dishwasher.
Eyes wide, he glanced back to see if I
noticed before he trotted off to nap on
the bed, nose to nose with the grooming
cat.
"She suspects!" the cat whispers to the
dog from behind a raised paw.
"Are you sure?"
The cat swipes paw over one ear. "Not
really... Nah, maybe not. Probably not."
"Good,” says the dog, “good.” He turns
around twice.
"Nice distraction, the dishwasher thing,"
The dog makes a last turn, settles in. "I
try," the dog replies with a yawn. "I do
try." |
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Carousel
by Constance Brewer
Resolution,
revolution
round and round we go,
promises made,
guarantee strayed,
centrifugal force, you know.
Jumper, prancer,
trotter, stand,
horse of a different feather—
whirling round
through unseen winds,
by law all bound together.
Leaning starboard,
outflung hand,
to reach the golden ring,
to grasp and grab
would only take
a heartbeat from the King.
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Late Storm
by Constance Brewer
robins arrive home
spring lively across the lawn
song scolds the fresh snow
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Seduction
by Constance Brewer
In the tire store, offering
its best come hither stare,
stacks of freshly molded
rubber, untouched, deeply
treaded, unkissed by any
pavement. Taunt and tight
as only the untractioned
can be. Alloy steel rims
gleam like modern grails.
Morning light illuminates
tiny feeler fingers budding
from whitewalls, reaching
from radials, mute testimony
to their virginal state. Out
front, in Stonehenge form-
ation, punctured by sunlight,
retreads play 'remember when'.
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Punked
by Constance Brewer
This is the face presented to the world, greasy,
ambivalent,
acned, laced with metal bits. Attitude hurled forth, position
spewed, grace eschewed for statement. Pagan symbols drawn
from obscure cultures, ballpoint ink, sewing needle stippled
connect-the-dot tattoos.
A revolting revolution, urban insurgents, who long
for upheaval
order anarchy from the Internet in hopes of a new rebellion
unaware, unknowing, or not caring of society’s lost interest
in rebels, regulated, related insurgents stick to network bites
of 30 seconds or less.
Topped by hair colored to paint chips, neon signs,
new cars,
teased, tortured, this is the face. Mutiny outlined by hair
struggling
to conceal the occupant below. A-frame, border-line, another time
unseen. What lies beneath will not be rejected, coerced, hijacked
by uniformity cravers.
This is the picture in the yearbook, the newspaper,
the mugshot
eyes flint-chipped, they stare to a distance, unaware, to a
different
future, one outside this town.
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Syringa in Space
by Constance Brewer
Violet hued, load-bearing lilacs
pull and sway in the backyard,
under the influence of a bleak
prairie wind burning through
the plains. Unpruned, defiant lilacs
bloom bright like stationary stars.
Guy wires surge-fall in winded
tensile dance. Purple flowers strain,
stamen, stigma prepare for launch.
Pollen swollen luminaries shimmy,
tethered to an indifferent ground,
flight delayed, filaments unfulfilled.
Genetic rockets, yearn to blast, thrust
for space unknown. Blossoms dip,
swing, lean, twirling with mad desire.
They burst, fragrant missiles cast off
the surly bonds of earth, slip, scattering
generations to the newborn sky.
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The Long Dry*
by Constance Brewer
Late winter snow
squall dropped eight
inches. After six years
of drought it’s not enough,
not now. Ranchers pain.
White flakes blow across
needy pastures without
sinking in. The coalbed
methane water that was
to save them bubbles
merrily from the spigot.
The land suffocates
in alkali silence.
*Originally Published in Wyoming Paintbrush
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The Last Time We Spoke
by Constance Brewer
Wind chimes haunt me.
From the back porch
breeze-swung undulations
undercurrents,
unbearable refrains
from a distant
past. Wind chimes
jumble my thoughts.
Stone-still air still
questions. Undertones
tickle this hesitant ear.
An unused Adirondack
chair, where you used to
wait
Wind chimes, dancing
leaning
keening, swaying—
catch your voice,
holding
just out of reach.
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Acrophobia
by Constance
I am afraid
of heights.
The top
of a rollercoaster.
Observation
platforms.
Winding mountain
roads.
Airplanes,
both taking off
and landing.
The price
of gas in summer.
The numbers
of war dead
in Iraq.
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Declaration
by Constance Brewer
Exultation—
Exclamation—
Hear now what I say!
From this day forward
I shall not be afraid.
No more dread of laughter,
no more fear of pain
It’s time to start the process
of living
once again.
I don't know who pushed,
and caused me down
to slide, but
I have my suspects,
they're living deep inside.
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Monumental
by Constance Brewer
Sculpture today tries
to distress and alarm.
It should back off,
and allow us to gape,
awestruck on its
monolithic vestiges
as we once did at great
paintings from dead
masters. Museums
carry Carrara marble
busts, gloriously veined,
polished oak and walnut
statues, reclining, age-
darkened bronze generals,
enameled and gilded Egyptian
glass. Bisque fired raku,
black-figure amphoras,
ivory netsuke.
In the Modern wing,
quartz rocks are dropped
into a pile of carefully
arranged abstraction,
clashing with artistically
set jumbles of junk throw
away, usually for good
reason, now resurrected.
Mixed up rusted metals,
plastic poured in molds
to replicate the living
palm trees outside the
window. We gaze intently,
desperate to connect to last
week’s trash, cheeks red
and strained. Equally
embarrassed, contemporary
sculpture stares back, tail
wagging, an anxious, seven-
legged puppy sculpted
from the brush of
Hieronymus Bosch. |
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Sympathetic Magic
by Constance Brewer
Having been connected
for so many years, I find,
much to my chagrin, we
continue to react upon one
another. The relationship
is long severed, such a thing
should not be possible,
given the physical distance.
I am not unsympathetic, just
bemused by cause-and-effect.
Cleaning the closet I found
several of your shirts, lost,
in the back. I took them apart,
ripped carefully along seam
lines around the shoulders
to make square rags of cotton,
I planned to craft a quilt
at a later date and time, not
some witches ladder. You tore
your rotor cuff that week. I
don’t know what possessed me.
In consideration, I fashioned
a puppet from the plaid cloth,
careful to sew the seams
with small, precise stitches.
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Attempted Resuscitation of Things Passed
by Constance Brewer
A heart beats
in the hollow
of a palm.
Between clenched
fingers, blood
rolls away,
down the back
of a hand, with
few regrets,
squeezed
by the fist
of give and take.
Released,
unaccompanied,
to plummet.
A feeble pulse.
Much too distant
for revival. |
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Recitation
by Constance Brewer
When I
was young
I believed
what I read aloud.
The Apostles
Creed.
The Pledge
of Allegiance.
Romeo’s speech.
When I
was older
I believed
the Lord's Prayer,
This Land
Was My Land,
and that Plato's
Apology was
heartfelt.
A youth no
more, I recite
to myself
with equal fervor,
poetry,
whose words
carry the
convictions
of a child.
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Prep Work
by Constance Brewer
Back and forth
back and forth
the CAT
spins over
and over and
over again.
Back and forth
sloshing water—
a satiated farm animal,
pounding club
feet into rich soil
with lumbering
force. Back
and forth
crushing silt
and clay until
I hear bleating
under the dirt.
The sheepsfoot
roller rolls—
back and forth
back
and forth
back and
back
and forth.
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The First Thanksgiving
by
Constance Brewer
In 1972 we made my dad eat turkey for the first
time.
Ever.
From 1960-1971 we ate lasagna and sausage for
Thanksgiving.
In late 1970 my brother and I began to plot the
holiday dinner menu—
with no success.
At six months old, my mother said I ate ravioli
instead of
baby food.
In 1938 my great-grandmother chopped the heads off
live chickens.
My father was six years old.
Man landed on the moon in 1969, I stayed up late
to watch.
Anything was possible.
From 1965-1973 I was only vaguely aware there was
a war.
Mom didn't let me watch the news.
From first to fifth grade I drank tea after school
with my grandmother
at least once a week.
In sixth grade I was an Indian for the
Thanksgiving play
because I had black hair.
Nobody in our family had a birthday in November.
Mine was 15 days before Christmas.
My other grandmother always fixed turkey/mashed
potatoes/pumpkin pie.
It was our second dinner of the day.
In early November of that year my brother and I
discovered
guilt trips.
In 1972 we made my dad eat turkey for the first
time.
Ever.
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Fractured
by Constance Brewer
If I shatter
into enough
pieces
will my life
still be
semi-cohesive,
a broken
windshield
held
together
by fine wire?
Fate
is sticky
that way.
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Bifocals
by Constance Brewer
A lens
in my eye
glass frame
is loose. Like
a shot-glass
window
in a derelict
house, it
rattles
and
threatens
to fall.
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Historical Fragments
by Constance Brewer
My favorite things are old and gray
antiqued, dead, and gone,
although I cannot touch them now
their ambiance lives on.
A picture perfect memory,
of a place I've never been,
built up by books and artisans,
lost music from within.
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River Song
by Constance Brewer
From the banks of Susquehanna,
blackbirds sing out “Poor me”,
and bandy about patch red wings;
like signage on a marquee.
“Poor me, poor old me, poor little me.”
Blood soaked shoulder slash
underlined by yellow,
the drill sergeant has arrived
and soon begins to bellow;
“Poor me! Poor me! Poor me! Poor meeeee!”
Sodden banks of emerald green
threaten to burst before long,
swollen ripe with serenades,
weighty with bird song.
"Poor me, poor me, poor old meeee."
Where the Susquehanna bends
toward the fading light of day,
a last reminding plaintive call,
this acoustical bouquet;
“Poooor meeeeeeeeeee...."
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NaNoWriMo – Day 22
(Courtesy of The God Hunter, another episode
of "Bad Poetry Playhouse".)
'Twas The Night Before Thanksgiving
by
Constance Brewer
It was the night before Thanksgiving and all
through the house,
My characters were roaming and one did espouse:
"I've not got much book time and it leaves me quite vexed,
"My plot-addled author sure must be perplexed.
"She's let a thin subplot move to the fore,
"And turned my fine speeches to words I abhor.
"I'm vain and long winded, arrogant and callow,
"And by the next chapter a whiny marshmallow,
"I fear my dear author is not on the level.
"She's trotted out monsters and demons and devils.
"Gave me a girlfriend and forbid we have sex.
"Told us the conclusion was much too complex,
"For our little minds to worry and fret—
"As if our capacity were floppy diskette.
"I'm a full grown creation, I demand all my rights!
"I implore all like brethren to remedy my plights.
"Hey! Don't turn your backs and pretend not to see
me.
"Because very soon you could also just be me.
"I'm divine, there's no call to treat me this way.
"You know what they say, every god has his day...
"Ms. Writer if you know the path to pursue,
"Give me my page time that's long overdue,
"I'm a god I tell you! So show some respect.
"What? You're killing me off? No wait, I object!"
The author she sprang from her chair with a laugh
Said "I just figured how to boost my word count by half
"I'll torture this character with no real misgiving,
"And that's what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving."
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