The following pieces were written during the East Texas Writing
Project held during
the summer of 2008.
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"Song and Dance" by
Mary Collom
Buzz and be buzzed.
Tighten the lips.
Surprise moves those hips.
Screeching and blaring.
Muting the half notes
and tonguing staccato notes
short
and
sassy!
A brass en masse.
A collection of red-lipped lunatics,
madcaps swinging and swaying.
Call out the stray cats,
and dance through the fog
drifting from those Cuban cigars.
Groovin’ and movin’ and
leanin’ on that eighth note,
takin’ care of business.
Slow it down some, son.
Listen to the crowd
And the what, when, and how.
Bring it in with a four-four beat.
Mop up the sweat and bliss.
End your whole note
with a high-C kiss.
"Water Ballet (Raindrops and Snowflakes" by Jana Crank and Beth Rowe
We dwell in the clouds.
We dwell in the clouds.
I am a little lower.
I am a little higher.
We're made of water.
We're made of water.
I like spring.
I like winter.
We dwell in the clouds.
We dwell in the clouds.
I am a little lower.
I am a little higher.
I enjoy the sunshine.
It makes me sparkle like a diamond.
I like to float
Like iridescent pearls.
We dwell in the clouds.
We dwell in the clouds.
I am a little lower.
I am a little higher.
"Puss in Boots’s Complaint" by Doris Davis
Chicanery is inevitable
when one becomes the inheritance
of a third-son numbskull!
Life was better with witches!
Double, double, toil and trouble
never bothered me—they smelled
of severed thumbs and swine-breath,
mouthed their scrumptious concoctions
in my ears, taught equivocation,
even a trick of prophecy.
I come, Graymalkin . . .
Such fond memories.
Their tutelage benefitted
my fourth life with D. Whittington,
nice lad, but down on his luck.
I volunteered to go on a hunch he’d be Lord Mayor,
do his duty toward my kind.
Then I tumbled forth as Tom Tildrum,
summoned at ol’ Toldrum’s demise
to become King O’ the Cats, per-
fect distinction, stupidly proclaimed
by that sexton chap—none too bright.
But this dullard of a third son
makes Lazy Jack seem sharp.
His doltish questions stagger:
Who is the Marquis of Carabas?
Why must I hide my clothes?
Must you bother the ogre?
And so forth.
Yes, I am now Lord Puss
(royalty becomes me),
but my “master”?
Still a whey-faced sap of an ignoramus!
"Missing Pieces" by Colleen Narens
First sang me songs.
Second wrote me love letters.
Third’s only flaw?
He wasn’t Second.
Along came Four,
who also became husband,
soon becoming X.
Five said, “Hello” . . . and I was gone—
lost in sweet country twang, green eyes,
and the promise my feet would never
touch the ground.
Then I fell . . . hard.
Right into Six’s lap.
He was blue-eyed and dimpled,
always making me laugh
ever after after that.
These loves have come and gone
and come again,
leaving pieces of them
taking pieces of me.
And pieces are all that is left . . .
"Mom" by
Tamara Richert
You were his mother.
You held him when he cried.
You loved him when no one else did.
You were his rock.
Later—
You blamed yourself when
He fell apart.
Regrets filled you. You wondered
Where you went wrong.
That love that held him
Pulled you under.
You cracked. Your bones
Were visible through
Your weak flesh.
You reached out for those little hands
That used to hold you.
You longed for those tiny arms
That wrapped around you.
He still needs you
To be a rock for all those
He left behind,
To give the strength and security
You gave him . . .
He is gone now,
But you are still his mother.
"Goodbye, Home" by Agnes Tirrito
Distant music draws us in.
A skeleton key opens the lock.
I look through yesterday’s windows
at where the garden was—
where he came in from milking.
I listen for clanging buckets,
lowing cows, jingling bells . . .
the scratching of the screen door
saying he’s home.
A breeze whispers
through the front-porch screens
while I rock in a gray metal chair,
feeling diamond indentations
patterning my legs.
Smile at a photograph,
stare into an oak-framed mirror,
roll eyes at ten jars of coffee
(never opened), and wonder
what to keep.
I want that, and so do you.
Move to the next room.
Remember a story.
Defend an action,
a father, a mother . . .
Touch fingers to each door frame.
Touch . . . then enter.
Hear the New Year’s toast.
Dance again to an organ’s melody:
“Jingle Bells” or “Annie Laurie.”
Soak in every wood slat,
every piece of rippled light.
Some things don’t fit in a box.