THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

My Garden Face

Alone in the yard, I have on my garden face, 
although I can only imagine what it looks like, 
because there are no mirrors among the marigolds. 
I tie up a drooping vine, fill my bucket with weeds, 
rearrange a stack of bricks tumbled by the squirrel
in her haste to collect her ration of nuts
before the magpies wake up.
My jaw goes slack with heavy breathing.
Creases of concern relax, leaving faint
pencil-lines to mark their places. 
I pause and stare straight up at the sky, 
heavy with clouds and promise. 
Eyes glazed over with birdsong joy, 
I surely resemble the village idiot, 
delirious with simplicity.
               --Agatha 

Food, a Tradition

A food, a tradition:
the family gathers on Christmas Eve Day.
Cut those apples!
Stretch that dough!
If you're careless,
there's a hole.
Patch it up.
Breadcrumbs hot!
raisins, cinnamon, sugar, nuts, a lot.
Melt butter over all,
lift edge of cloth,
and begin to roll.
Strudel, apple strudel
(as in old Vienna).
          --Isadora

Head Down

















Thirty degrees this morning and the
garden is still, chilled into silence. Birds
are holding their breath, hesitant to give
their side of the story. A sentinel cat
sits on the wall, scanning for tiny rustlings,
while the frosted grass holds still, wary
of giving clues to the whereabouts.
The sole surviving tulip leans
close to the ground,
keeping its head down, whipped
into submission by last night’s wind.
One velvety petal detaches into my hand.
I stroke its vulnerable pinkness
and think of new-born babies.
               --Agatha

Thursday, May 17, 2012

White Chocolate Star


The prompt for this poem was "A food that inspires you."

Oh, delightful white chocolate star,
you tiny container of phenylethylamine
that wonderful natural monoamine alkaloid,
descendent of entactogens, anorectics, 
and psychedelics of yore!
You are the foundation of the 
chocolate theory of love and 
holder of rich raspberry splendor!
You modulate my neurons, 
make my heart race, and lift my spirits. 
My eyes light up when your chocolate-brown 
UPS chariot delivers you to me in 
your golden Godiva Chocolate box.
I ravish you!  
               --Agatha   

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Minestrone

[Sung to the tune of "My Sharona"]

Oh my little hungry one, hungry one.
When you gonna eat-a my minestrone?
Oh it makes your motor run, motor run.
Smell it when I'm cookin my minestrone
Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.
Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.
My my my i yi woo!
M-m-m minestrone!
  
Come a little closer huh, will ya huh?
Close enough to look at my minestrone.
Keeping it a mystery, mystery
Add a cup of ditalini.
Minestrone!
Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.
Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.
My my my i yi woo!
M-m-m minestrone!
M-m-m minestrone!

Basil    onions    pepper
Carrots    chili powder
Salt     tomato puree
Kidney beans and barley! 

When you gonna visit me, visit me?
Come and get a bowl of my minestrone
Is it a tomato-y recipe?
Stirring up a pot of my minestrone
Don’t forget the freshest peas  
Fill up bowls for you and me
Serve it up with cheeses please
Minestrone!

Soak it up with breadsticks three
It's Italian, don't you see?
There's enough for weeks and weeks.
Minestrone!
Never gonna stop, slurp it up. Such an appetite.
Always get it up for the taste of the soupy kind.
My my my i yi woo!
M-m-m minestrone!
My my my i yi woo!
M-m-m minestrone!
          --Agatha

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Pet Peeve

















(for Jupiter)

He climbs the hillside in the rain
lies in the tall grass, perfectly still
watching, waiting, for as long as it takes
his mouth slightly open 
to still the sound of his breathing

When a dripping blade of grass makes 
a tiny movement in the wrong direction
his eyes narrow
his legs gather under him, ready to spring

after the pounce, he holds the prey steady,
bites the struggling prey
bites again, most cruelly, 
'til blood runs down his throat
and the struggling stops

My pet is peeved with me.
He wants a companion
A companion to hunt with in the tall grass

I tell him:
If only I were a cat, too,
I would climb the hill in the rain
I would lie in the grass with you
I would pounce and bite 
and bite again, most cruelly.
          --Agatha

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

How to Write a Poem


Consult the postcard recipe.
Pour a week’s worth of time into
a bowl of images.  Add a cup of
coffee and a pinch of rhyme.
Stir briskly with a pen or process
until smooth in your computer.
Procrastination will form on the
top.  Skim it off.  Season with
humor, hope, or desperation.
Frost it with a desire to belong.
Take it to lunch at Carol’s house
on Friday at 1 p.m.
Serve with love. (7-8 servings)
          --Agatha