By Jennifer Hubbard
Crunchy diamond grass ‘neath
blackened tread stripped soles
deeming death to young shoots
stretching for February mustard
sun ‘tween foggy boughts
purple yellow crocus beds
next to snow drop monk
figures bowing heads
to pray for gray cascades
from crisp moist air.
AFRICAN DRUMS FOR MARTIN LUTHER KING JR DAY;
PLAYED BY THOSE DAMN WHITE HIPPIES
By Jennifer Hubbard
Reminded of charismatic church
Sunday morning arms flail,
bodies twist
though not so supple
as the African midwife.
How is it that white
people want to be black
and teach black
people to be white
but they aren’t,
instead they expect natives
to stay
on their reservations,
to eat
WHITE fry bread
but say you have value
in your peace pipe yet
breed nothing of peace
with one’s soul, nothing
of the Good Samaritan
love and grace of Dr. King
in “I have a dream.”
By Jennifer Hubbard
Amid purple spring
crocuses, white snow
drops, blood
red roses tossed
into thin fake
‘n’ baked, manicured
acrylic, silicone breast
implanted, parted
collagen pumped
lips and nails
By Jennifer Hubbard
How fluting tears
threaten to breach
security of emotion
wells, tsunami deep
earth shaking quake
reverberating silver
sound waves
rock, destroy
illusionary strongholds
By Jennifer Hubbard
Why must a flower
feminine and beautiful
wait for the honeybees
to buzz and hover
discussing her nectar
comparing her gifts
to another.
Fresh she opens
to the first drone
and he so busy
tells a fellow drone how
to locate the bloomed one
in her flower-bed
now nectar-less
with pollen on her stamen.
By Jennifer Hubbard
I stand here, arms wide open, ready
to take you in beneath the clouds.
And we clasp our four hands
together, swaying with the dusty
spring air, stirred by droplets of rain
to the West. I laugh, uneasy,
at small mistakes; my toes
stood on; a beat missed
but unheard. And we waltz…
beneath a muted rainbow, no shoes
on feet, mud between toes.
My hair slicks down, flies in the wind
you spit it out with a light grin
from perfect lips, which can crush
or calm. Water drips off of my
chin, fingers, hair, lips, nose,
you and the apple blossoms.
I trip, on purpose, towards you…
you catch me up in your two arms
hold me to your soaked torso,
we laugh until cold starts to seep
into skin, leaving me shivering,
blue lipped, a flounder in foreign waters,
floating giggles to fade into silence like spring
rain, and me to drink in blue
pools of your eyes, beneath dusty
gray clouds. Crescendo
and decrescendo of notes
expressed in a movement
of measured time.
poco a poco; giacoso
By Jennifer Hubbard
What seeds have born
exciting spring renewal
rejecting cold
dormancy for green
lengthening days warm
bud hearts mature
pigmenting embryonic apical
meristematic bud tissue with April
showers of sun devotion
exciting electrons to jump
new rings, new lucid sweet sap
renewed interest in flowers
By Jennifer Hubbard
Ah me, how words ring-out
bell-like
with hollow resounding gong
layering tones and rhythm
touching the soul
without saying a thing.
By Jennifer Hubbard
You are not yet mine
elusive beyond tips
of grasping fingers
complete as the dawn
rising to prominence
painting broad strokes
of delicate knowledge
baptizing my soul
to your glance
Over
and over
I throw lots at your chest
firm as a pear plucked
destined for distant shores
in hopes a gamble for your heart
will reap a golden harvest
of wheat bowing to determined gusts
And you are yet not mine
to have
to hold
an indecipherable italicized code
I wish only to read
as endearment
And you are Not yet mine
but insufferable silence
slaps cheeks red
as the moon, the stars
the moth, the lithe black bats
swoon and crumble
before those shimmering lights
you call eyes
And yet you are not mine.
By Jennifer Hubbard
We write the words bland;
bland grey-white snow drifting at dusk,
blank, white, flavorless
gum chewed five hours straight,
amuse our silly emotional outbursts;
outbursts like Jews clawing to escape
German gas chambers,
outburst like cats in a bag
rocks and all sinking
in a glassy, cold river.
How we so highly esteem
childish doodles,
Crayola gray scribbles
on a page poetic waxing;
waxing armpits, bikini lines
screaming frustration
at a white heat lamp.
And then we are so proud;
proud as a sixteen year-old
serving brownies from a box,
proud as a frosty white
girl in February mini skirt
displaying fake-n-bake tan
bland as a mouth full of snow,
which has yet to fall white,
bland, flavorless
colorless poetic words.
Mom At Home Poet 