Sex & Fireworks: a poem

Sex &

Fireworks--

the slow build, the

patience of

anticipation.

Darkening sky &

only silhouettes, bodies

lit in flashes,

appreciative

oohs &

ahhs.

The Grand Finale

comes in under 15 minutes--

no one

is disappointed--

lawn chairs & blankets,

bugspray &

the perfect spot,

all the preparations

only added to

the simple satisfaction--

the show delivered,

building from

slow to fast,

small to big,

finishing off

with a string of brilliant

sound & color

too fast to follow, each

explosion interlacing

with the next &

lasting longer than

expected.

Then-- silence.

Dusky dark blue sky

luminous from within,

trail of floating smoke

carried elegantly away

by the wind, then,

cheers--

tasteful applause

for expectations met,

for a flamboyant expression

of the American Dream.

Then--

cars start up

chairs are folded,

lights turn on,

the magic is over;

everyone goes home to their beds,

sleeps well

all through the night,

arms around

the ones they love.

Happy

4^th of July.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux, 4 July 2011

Gyspy Earth: a poem

She cried at the sink

when we left-- but we

were relieved.

A week of

working through our demons,

family standoffs &

miscommunications.

On to the next town

with our yellow gypsy caravan!

Set up our tents &

put on the show,

bright colors &

sleight of hand

dazzling everyone, even

ourselves-- then,

pull up the stakes

& go again.

Eventually

the wheels will appear

to stop.

Our travels

will appear to be over,

the horizon

within our reach.

But still the world turns,

spinning in her gypsy skirt,

orbiting the ancestral fire

attended by her sisters,

dancing with the gods.

She rests in

her own rhythm,

tsunamis

earthquakes

fires

drought--

they don’t stop her because

living is moving,

only death

lies still,

& only for a moment, then

the worms rise up,

pall bearers to

a worthy grave.

The earth reclaims her own,

buries & renews

herself,

gathers up her people

travels

always

on.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux, 4 July 2011

What Repeats: a poem

Home

is what repeats--

same door

same keys

dropping into the same

blue dish,

same fingers finding

light switches

in the dark.

Same sounds out the window, same

portion of horizon--

I repeat.

Me & my husband

& son.

We repeat.

Suitcases &

t-shirts (two)

shorts & pants

notebooks &

bedtime lullabies.

These are the constants now--

different kitchens

hallways

night lights

sunrises;

new dishes & spoons

& rules for living--

clean up here,

relax there.

Bring your own groceries;

eat grandma’s hot dish.

What’s the lesson?

If I remain steady now,

sane & on course

with every little inlet,

every reef of coral

forcing a tack

& constant vigilance;

If I am learning

to captain by feel,

keep my eyes on the stars

who are constant travelers, too

can’t I go anywhere?

Do anything?

Be

anyone?--

In all our travels

I return to my inner course,

my own Golden Compass,

having faith in it

because it speaks to me,

truer every time

I listen well.

--Take a depth charge!--

The voices call out

from their posts in the darkness.

Wind propels us,

the breath of God.

Angels, then--

is that who climbs the rigging,

helps mend the sails?

Bails water out beside me

down below?

As good as.

The rope comes up,

silent & slick

on its oiled pulley--

the reading confirms it,

what the map

the compass

the stars

have all been telling me:

I am not alone.

The ship sails on

with me at the helm

when the watch is mine,

but also when I sleep--

Who steers it then?

Who do I trust

never seeing their faces?

Wind,

Waves, yes,

but even more--

Friends.

Sail on,

sail on--

home repeats,

tomorrow waits.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux; 23/6/11

I'm thinking a lot about what "home" means during this nomadic couple of months before we move to India. Read more on our family blog.

Bean Field: a poem

Bean Field

The Sun looks down with

equal interest

on woods & prairie,

Minnesota & India, on

my childhood

my future, on

Thoreau’s bean fields.

Give up--he says--

not only the first fruits

but the last; Trust

as the woods do

to the squirrel; Rejoice

in the harvest of seeds

for the birds

though your own granary

stands empty.

But what shall I do as I wait?

Make the earth say ‘beans’

instead of ‘grass’--

again I must ask

What is my grass?

Which are my beans?

I stand, now,

with hoe in hand

not knowing

which end is up or

which plant be friend

or enemy.

What am I sowing here? Or

what am I meant to tend,

Seeds having been long sown,

broken though their small husks &

reaching green &

unhesitant into the light?

My child

of course. But

he is so old!

16 months &

I think

he doesn’t need me.

Not truly for sleep or milk

he can get both food & rest

from another.

I am as an old farmer

watching the big machines

do the work that once was mine,

shared with horse &

simple plow taking

many days &

leaving me tired

& satisfied.

What now?

Progress leaves me behind

not wanting

the noisy diesel but

feeling ashamed

of my patched dungarees.

Beans, beans--

I seem to have traded them

for a cow,

traded house & home

& mother

to a strange old man

who knew my name,

who made me believe.

Now they have grown up!

Towering above me,

these bean-dreams

that seemed so

innocent & small!

They sway

carrying scents of curry,

sounds of strange music,

clinks of gold--

do I dare?

This is my harvest--

a ladder into the sky,

a green & verdant journey

to another world.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

20 June 2011

Consider Chocolate

I’m writing poems
(& ignoring the dog)
because otherwise I’ll eat chocolate.
I could do my yoga,
I could,
since this is the first sunny November day in forever
be outside & be
good--yes,
a good, good person.
But instead I’m a
(practically)
unpublished writer
who is still in her long johns but
no pants
moping around the house
not really doing anything.
Some days these things just happen.

I tried “21 Jumpstreet”
but, as always,
the ending felt lacking,
my artistic idol
not at his best.
Just thinking about that
has the chocolate calling to me
from the fridge
(which is where we keep it),
or, there are the ginger snaps I made
chiming in
from their green bin just on top.
If I had friends, I would call them,
I think,
If I didn’t have a child--
but I don’t think like that.
I had one and lost one once,
so I don’t play that game--
chocolate, yes,
alternate universe, no.

Skip back instead to safer things--
my figure, my handwriting,
what to do with the dog if we move to India.
Stack up the unstarted projects
like dirty dishes in the sink--
hey--
wasn’t this place clean 3 days ago?
Think then ignore thoughts on babyproofing,
scrapbooking
Christmas shopping.
Flip mental channels
watch the infomercials
wonder what you usually do
at 3 o’clock
(Good God, it’s 3 already?)--
(Good God, It’s only 3?)
in the afternoon.

Look outside.
Think about laundry,
the defective, strobe light dryer.
Consider,
since your husband took the beer,
Chocolate.


-R.

p.s. I must admit I ate chocolate 15 minutes later anyway...