My Book: Unfinished

Dear Blog Reading Friends:

This is the cover of my book of poetry, just released by Woven Word Press. I thought I'd share the cover and a couple of poems from the book -- two of my favorites: the title poem and one on Rosa Parks.


Unfinished

Melancholy descends like a mother-in-law
arriving unannounced,
peeking through all your cupboards,
in all your most private corners,
until you throw your hands up in disgust,
leave your bagel on the plate
unfinished,
crawl beneath the covers to hide
from the obvious transparency
of all your flaws.

The painting sits,
only pinks and mauves daubed on the canvas,
as you forget
where you put the keys to your life.
One stanza of a poem moans with loneliness,
a one-sleeved sweater sits,
knitting needles akimbo.
The linen closet’s contents strewn
in the hallway attest to the fog,
descended
as you were matching striped pillowcases to sheets,
watermelon washcloths to their cousins the bath towels.

All the while, she lurks, reading your mail,
commandeering your haunts,
until there is just a tiny slice of you left,
peeping through the keyhole,
watching instead of living.

Then one day, fed up, you decide to throw her out,
summon the courage to tell her it is time.
You make the plane reservations yourself,

and when she is finally gone,
you batten down the hatches,
watching the midnight lift,
sunshine melt through the house,
buttery and rich,
alighting on that morning’s bagel.

Unfinished
on its blue willow plate.

You sit alone and begin to eat again.



Rosa Parks

What was she thinking?

Measuring hems,
taking fine stitches
with thimbled hand in 1955,
a department store
seamstress
to Montgomery’s finest ladies.

What alterations
to Alabama,
the seat of segregation,
did she contemplate
that destined day?

Inquisitive, Jim Crow
peered over her shoulder.
She sat
in middle seats
reserved for those of fated birth.

Quiet dignity
urged her to stay
when driver James Blake
ordered she stand
on worn feet
in sensible black shoes.

“To the back of the bus.”
Matter-of-fact,
he threatened
to call the police.

“You may do that,”
she rejoined, soft yet steely,
her proper grammar
and Mama’s good manners
an honorable hallmark
.
Ejected,
arrested,
fined ten dollars
and court costs,
courage took the reins.

Quiet icon making headlines --
erect, worthy of birthing
a movement she never intended.

“You may do that.”
A dignified refusal,
the fight song of a generation
whose cup of intolerance overflowed.

You can buy my book at www.womenwritingupnorth.com or at www.amazond.com.


Blessings,

Anni