Freehand » Poems

“the most meaningful job of my life” by Laura-Marie Taylor

admin — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 20:11:19 +0000

I
When the store was empty,
I sang “The man in one nineteen
takes his tea all alone”
while my boss
was in the backroom
doing who-knows-what.
He drank Diet Coke,
and I drank Vernor’s.
He ordered pizza when we sold
more software than the other stores.
He bought See’s Candy
at Christmas.
I baked a carrot cake for Jenny
when it was her first year married
and her husband didn’t care
it was her birthday,
and she cried.

II
The volunteer had one drop of moisture
clinging to the tip of his nose.
He wore a straw hat.
“How long have you been old?” I asked,
and he said not long.
When I offered him part of my orange,
he told me he had picked them,
ate whole boxes,
and never liked them since.
There was a snake by my foot.
Robert rode his bike
all the way up Mission Canyon
and surprised me
at the admissions desk,
sweaty and wild.

III
I arranged purple and green kale
with frilly edges
in lines on the salad bar
to make it pretty.
I made loops of Jell-o
in racetrack-like molds
by mixing fruity powder with water
in a huge metal bowl
with a metal oar.
On Dang’s day off
a cockroach was found
in a bowl of strawberries.
I was uninvolved.
I drank coffee
when Dang knew how tired I was
when a shift started
at five in the morning.
I cut my thumb with a knife
and was “rushed to the emergency room”
with a white towel turning red.
I cut my fingers
on the device for slicing tomatoes.
I called for Elaine
and bled over the trash can.

IV
I sat in a cubicle
and read out loud
the essays of students
who wanted help.
We refined
thesis statements.
The shifts were two hours.
My boss thought I hated her,
but I was just afraid.
Then I walked to the bus circle
and waited in the rain.

V
Summertime
at Chinese school
meant kids had
Pokemon cards in albums
and seaweed-wrapped
rice crackers.
I drank bo-ba tea
and had a class of four.
“Do you like kids?” one asked,
and I said, “No more than
other kinds of people.”
On my break
I shooed them and smoked.

Laura-Marie is a 30-something poet and zinester living in Sacramento, California. She creates Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine and mental health zine functionally ill.
Website: http://dangerouscompassions.blogspot.com

“The Garden” by Wesley Ann Johnson

admin — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 19:58:56 +0000

“The Garden”
by Wesley Ann Johnson

The mercury sun swells
Looms
Hits the dust
Etching and polishing
Shaking the collisions of the blue
Ringed spiral sky
Making it smolder
Making it hum

Dashing lines
Green with bottoms
Deceitful and possessive
Of the silent rising fog
Drifting
To the valley
Of the yellows
Of the reds

Beasts creep from the corners
When Dusk drops
Her blue velvet cloak
Night arrives
Redemption
But the memory of the heat lingers
A golden paste
A golden smile

Morning cannot mock now
It seems
A swing creeps with company
Two starlings
Black satin cords sealing their blushing necks…

Oblivious
To the rage exalted
Only outside of the sweet shell
Where the witches
Perch the caves of the onyx and ivory
Desiring the wings of the bees
With the eyes of pearls
With the gossamer wings

One came to me –
“Would you like to stay?”
It choked.

Wesley Ann P. Johnson is a high school senior in Michigan.

“Fate” by Jeremy Burrows

admin — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 19:56:30 +0000

I need to give a warning to my own mind
as I sit here with a pen in restless hand
tapping, nodding, thinking, frantically worrying
what is coming up tastes like vomit but smells of smoke
it’s coming out on this notepad I stole
I remember stealing it
it was from the store where you had worked
I remember it being fucking cold
that kind of icy chill that makes your balls crawl up inside of you
that day was the second time I had seen you
the first; a week before I saw you order a latte from Starbucks
I was sitting by myself reading one of those pretentious papers
Our fucked up economy, some bitchy letter to the editor
but then there was that latte
I had never tried one before
after you left, blowing over the lid, I walked to the counter
I ordered my first of many lattes that day
I’m not sure if I like the flavor or just the image
now I’m back in the store when I stole this notepad
looking back I think it was fate
I didn’t want to write anything
I wasn’t looking for you
but there you were
standing in your work uniform
a blank expression
I knew I should have said something to you
I fumbled
I tucked my head in my shell
stole that notepad
ran the fuck out
I know that I’m being wordy and probably boring
but hear me out
all of this does have a point that in my own backward way I am reaching
that thing, that alien, that weird feeling I know you have all gotten
no, it’s not déjà vu, it’s something else, it’s something deeper
fate maybe or in some religions it might be called predetermined destination
that is what I’ve been feeling for the past two fucking weeks
ever since that damn newspaper and that nasty espresso wreck
it will not go away, it doesn’t matter how much I write
it will not go away, I’ve tried to forget but no fucking luck
I wouldn’t even be writing if whatever this is left well enough alone
but of course not
I had to see you a third time
stopped at the same intersection
I had a tugging feeling inside of me
I looked to the right and there you were
sitting in your pretentious help-me-save-the-god-damn-environment Toyota Prius
this time was different
this time I was able to smile
as that alien would have it, you looked back
You flipped me off
You fucking flipped me off
all this build up
this emotional ride that I’ve given myself
fueled by my own desire of mystery
I don’t want to call it love
I’m still not at a point where I believe in love
but there is something I thought I did believe in
that alien feeling
that destination you predetermined
with my notepad and your latte
this magical wet orgasm I dreamed up
You told it all to fuck off

Jeremy Burrows is a clinical psychology graduate student. He currently lives in Chicago and spends his time studying and writing.

“On the Corner” by david lee

admin — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 22:34:18 +0000

Sally remembers the Haight all too well
She burnt out years ago but she remembers how it felt.
Her husband left her some years ago
For him love was too free.
Sally still looked for something fulfilling
She sought for it long with her children.
Sally was the best mother she knew how to be,
Yet she loved liberation enough to share it with them.
Sally met a young man, almost half her age.
Kevin was a computer savant.
They shared their social security together
Sally and Kevin wanted to treat each other right.
She told the lore of that summer.
She told of the disco and Reagan.
He listened and kept interest.
Sally is beautiful to Kevin.
Kevin is her foundation.
He is still younger than her children.
He loves her more than they know how
Their house in the woods flows with dogs.
They are as free as the waters.
Sally’s mind couldn’t function too well anymore.
Kevin had his own cripplings.
They and their pets made a dysfunctional commune.
They built the past as she remembered.
They lived for that experiment.
They tried to live the Haight.

—

david lee is a professional bicycle mechanic and duathlete who seems to be squandering his degrees in mathematics and linguistics. He currently lives in Austin, TX with his dog Captain Kirk, and a harem of bikes.

“In the still, crisp hours” by Michael Harper

admin — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 10:03:56 +0000

You can download the MP3 of Michael Harper reading his poem at this MediaFire link.

In the still, crisp hours,
Dark, circled eyes staring down shoes,
Pushing against quiet, forsaking boredom,
Panged stomach, demanding crackers,

Dark, circled eyes staring down shoes,
Reliable, white canvas, worn rubber,
Panged stomach, demanding crackers,
Licked lips, suggesting cigarettes,

Reliable, white canvas, worn rubber,
Pushing east, away from home,
Licked lips, suggesting cigarettes,
Caving in, 3.50 for a pack,

Pushing east, away from home,
Auburn dashing, bleeding the clouds,
Caving in, 3.50 for a pack,
One lit cigarette garnishing a face,

Auburn dashing, bleeding the clouds,
Awaking, stirring, breathing streets,
One lit cigarette garnishing a face,
Complimenting smoke accenting hazel eyes,

Awaking, stirring, breathing streets,
Pushing against quiet, forsaking boredom,
Complimenting smoke accenting hazel eyes,
In the still, crisp hours

—

Michael Harper is a twenty something writer based out of San Francisco. He likes reading books, writing about erections, and listening to rude music. He dislikes fascism and dairy products. He aspires to one day live in a gutter. [Website.]

“In the Lines of Our Palms” by Jimmy Pianka

admin — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 09:59:12 +0000

When I was a kid I made art like a hurricane
but these days it just falls past my lips
like the shells of dead beetles.
I paint stick figures on bar napkins,
blow lopsided smoke-rings,
and write the same damn haiku a hundred times.
I push it out of me and hope it glows:
stand up Pinnochio, you’re a real boy,
but hours later I can see his paint peeling
and his eyes rolling back to stare hard
at the inside of his boring, wooden head.
I want art to move on its own.
I want it to pull me from Saturday morning sheets
with an eager tug on my sleeve,
point to the fresh snow
that blessed us in our sleep
and say “Look –
look what I have brought you.
The world is diamond clay,
now fashion me a David.”
I want it to stop me mid-sentence
with a beat I can’t but help but drum,
a rhythm in my brain like a worm
in a sombrero who’s busting out
no matter how solemn the funeral.
I want it to interrupt class like the Kool-Aid man
with a big “OH YEAH” as he bows his head
and fills the room with sloshy, red finger paint.
I want it to climb the sides of buildings like kudzu,
hijack antennas and beam opera into space.
I want it to blow through trees like wind
and make paper airplanes out of maple leaves.
I want it to animate books
and let them loose over cities,
clouds of dusty moths pouring
thick from library doors,
fluttering high around street lights
till kids catch them with nets.
I want it to flower in the lines
of our palms like amaryllis,
bloom on the headboards of nursing homes
and leave petals in the sheets.

—

Jimmy Pianka is a college kid who studies brains and occasionally writes poems. He is about to spend a semester abroad in the Himalayas, and hopes to one day find employment in the middle-ground between scuba instructor and politician.