It's supper time; run like a jack rabbit!

Sunset in the Hayfield


Jack Rabbit knew I was watching,
waiting for the perfect shot.
He was taking his time, testing me.

Red Tailed Hawk was a swift arrow,
straight to target from an evening sky.
I sat in tall grass, not fifty feet away.

I was waiting for a shot like that.
Surprised, I had no time
to reach for camera.

Jack Rabbit was not waiting.
Surprised, he had no time
to reach for cover.


Shirley Anne Alexander
2010

For Charles

Lab Partner, Chemistry 101



On the roof at Hoagies, we left our books open,
pages turning for the rare breath of wind.

September always remembered our names,
and pigeons left dry chalk calling cards
on our sun bleached lunch tables.

We ate Sweet Magnolia sandwiches, drank Coors
dark, foam kissed, and ice cold from the tap.

Conversation was easy, subjects heavy;
you solved my organic equations;
I explained oxidation reduction.

But, we never spoke of that other chemistry,
the class we knew we were destined to fail.

Back in the micro lab, sulfur acrid fumes mingled
with heady memories of Hoagie’s, and weed smoke
of others, who had chosen to lunch at Speedy’s house.

You opened a book, sparked your burner,
and prepared plates for a new inoculation.

I pulled our tray from the old autoclave,
washed tubes and tossed plastic Petri dishes.
All the germs of memory, raced into the drain.


Shirley Alexander
December 2009

Woman

Plight or Privilege?


Life is a broken bowl, held together
by the cup of a tired woman‘s hands.

History is written in swirls of dishwater,
crusty scent of freshly baked bread,
quick tilling of hard garden soil,
the relenting sigh of turned down sheets.

She knows how to touch a child,
a friend, a neighbor, a lover;
wicks pain with warmth of heart,
easy, the way a hot iron eats wrinkles.

Woman is the keeper of secrets;
practiced and painted smile,
under storm of hurricane eyes.


Shirley Alexander
© 2010

Snow Storm

Snow Storm


You meant to bring ice cream, you said.
We sat in the sun room and watched
as heavy February rain
washed old leaves into muddy rows.

Wind slammed water against my tin roof that night,
and we moved our bodies to its ancient rhythm.
I laughed at our noises, and you kissed me until
hunger became greater than sound.

While we slept,
laced together under the cedar scent
of my grandmother’s knotted quilt,
rain changed to snow.

We had popovers, with butter
and berries, for breakfast.
You made coffee, and I lied
when I said it was perfect.

We sat on a sofa in the sun room,
watched snow falling, and I thought;
it would have been nice
to have ice cream.


Shirley Alexander
© 2010

Still Searching

Searching For A Reason


I will myself to look carefully before a leap;
protection from protruding blunts and jags.

You say my morning coffee is too strong,
and you don’t take cream. You fold the paper
back to arrival condition. It looks unread.

I fight the urge to pull apart section A from B;
look down, and stir the milk storm in my cup.

Such a pity I have discovered this one thing
so early on a Sunday; this creased difference.

And here was I, bringing a night to sunrise;
eager to believe I had finally found Mr. Right.

It’s lucky for me I was paying attention;
attuned to possibilities of impending failure.
Anyway, who bothers to stir black coffee?


Shirley Alexander

I Am Not The Dream

I Am Not The Dream


In your reality, I have no pulse. I heard you whisper.
Did you know I felt you whisper? I heard you
whisper my name, and you put it to a dream.

See the swell of my warm lips, the fire of my father’s eyes,
the sure lift of my mother’s chin? Blood rushes here;
the blood of a thousand generations of proud lives in me.

And I begged you. I begged you to see me, to know me.
I begged you to love me, while a thousand generations
of proud ears closed themselves to spare me shame.

You turned away. I prayed for you; prayed for you
to know touch in a place real for you. I prayed for you,
while a thousand generations offered voices to heaven for me.

And one morning, I was awakened by a voice. My voice,
the voice of a thousand generations, called your name.
Sunlight warmed my lips, lifted my chin; opened my eyes to see.

And the face of a thousand generations of proud
looked sharp from my great grandmother’s rosewood mirror;
looked into my eyes and asked why I had cried your name.

I touched a finger to real blood warmed lips and smiled.
And with the voice of a thousand generations of proud
I answered for all of us, ‘Hush now, he was only a dream’.


Shirley Alexander
© 2009

An Important Call

An Important Call


He was born on a hot July morning.
I could feel discomfort drift
from wary and avoiding glances.
One single line across a tiny palm
is an indicator extreme;
hard news to be delivered.

A test for Down Syndrome took
two weeks in nineteen eighty-two,
and everyone knows the rules;
a nurse calls to spill good news.
For everything else,
doctors call to talk plans.

So, I knew when I heard his voice,
words slow and cautious,
asking me to find a seat.
I dropped a pan of hot grease
and wasted fried chicken
on my bare summer legs.

It wasn’t from anger or shock;
I was in such a frantic rush
to get to his little blue room.
Unaware of burns and blisters,
I held my sleeping angel tightly,
in love’s sheltering embrace.


Shirley Alexander