|@2019 Abigail Benke

POEMS

From a novice poet:

// August Eve
On the  eve of August
there is more to hope for
than sopping sidewalks,
slogging sideways,
slipping side-eyes.
Thirty-one days to redesign
a life I'm beginning to love
from my head
down to my ten toes.
June and July were pregnant:
a friend lost,
a friend gained,
lots of Utahn miles ventured.
We close the door at night.
We even lock it, too.
Opening it again
when the sun rises.
 
Self-control makes the flowers
bloom and grow in wise places.
Marking a season delights like a frame,
contains the crazy-brain.
I always sigh at goodbye
but a good goodbye
breathes a glorious cry 
of a job well done.
Birth month, I'm looking at you.
It is time for something new.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.