Saturday, August 30, 2003

Clean Fun

I wield my wand
create magic
made of soap and water
Joy and glycerin.

From my hand an airy
fairy bit of
rainbow nothing
from the wand a giant
bouncing orb-
Catch it!
and it's gone.

Let it float
on evening breeze:
humans stand, transfixed.

Friday, August 29, 2003

I would feel badly about posting these, which are essentially poem fragments rather than actual poems, but it has come to my attention that everything here is actually fragmentary, unfinished, so therefore I will see each of them as a work in progress.

As I drove out of the city, the structures were swathed in silvery silken shroud, making otherworldy the earthbound forms of blocky buildings. Neon signs shone through, eerie glimmers of alternate life, rather than brazen advertising.

Today I will travel East, though not so far as the sea. I am longing, yearning, aching for the ocean. I sit on the sand, counting waves. The roar of surf is the roar of my blood, the thump and crash is the pounding of my heart. The sun is one with my skin, and my nostrils open to the scent of salt and sunscreen. Screeching seagulls and screaming children, fragments of radio song and barks of laughter are my thoughts. My head empties, my heart is full, I am reduced to pure sensation.

If I don't go soon, I may not survive the approaching winter.

I think I am too strong to fade away, I think I am too fragile for this world. I think I am wrong on both counts.

Or is it the farm smell, the fertilizer, manure-y, cow smell. Or the pesticides they spray on beanfields. Chickens. Hay. Elderly wood, feed, dried corn, more hay, stagnant water on the still side of the pond, stale water in the trough. The metal of the farm implements, machine oil for the JohnDeere tractor (is there another kind?) mud, household cleaners, the garage-y scent of the garage (how surprising) late model Oldsmobile and leatherette benchseats. Concrete parking pad. Gravel, ever pulverized smaller into gritty white dust by passing pickup trucks. The dairy room, metallic, sterile, warm, filled with creamyness. Cow, and whatever is on her hooves.

I had no idea I remembered so much about the farm.

Wednesday, August 27, 2003

Day at the beach was wonderful...sun shining, surf smashing, seagulls screaming...


Heavy raindrops, cold and driven, a noisy, sparking sky, chase people from the Boardwalk. Rain across the ocean blurs the line between sky and sea. The sky flashes madly, reaching out to touch the water.

It was fabulous.

26 August
I wake to air that's soft and sweet. Tea in hand, I watch a smokey
lavender sky turn to pink and white and blue. Clouds obscure the the golden
orb I seek, but a firey orange patch marks its location. The crickets sing
a sultry summer song, one that speaks of heat and wet and rolling around in
tall grass.

26 August

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

THE BEACH! where the sun will slither its wicked rays across my skin, the sea will pound a rough, exciting rhythm against the sand, and the seagulls will scream a scream that sounds like ecstasy.

26 August 2003

Friday, August 22, 2003

17: Steep

Immersed in steaming water
darkness releases
through my bag of skin.

(don't have a date on this one, winter 2003, March, maybe?)

Thursday, August 21, 2003

I wake to a morning heavy with mist and promise. Today being the
first day of the rest of my year, I determine to make it beautiful.

2 July 2003

I vibrate in harmony to the music of the Universe. The Universe and
my imagination are one in their infinity. Take my hand and fly.

30 June 2003

Wednesday, August 20, 2003


We fit each other into
The margins of our lives:
hearts of aching passion
We stretch and reach and strive
wondering the years that
unknowing, we survived.

Thunderstorms in secret,
unwitting wounds of rage,
tiny tender moments,
Stories on handwritten page:
in above our heads, we uncautious dive
And fold each other into
The margins of our lives.

I listen now to hear
The things you will not say
if what you said last weekend
is applicable today
heat and touch and quiver
tension in the way I drive,
But we restrict each other to
The margins of our lives.

Now your subtle language
I’m struggling to learn
to be content with little
Though my insides simmer, burn
For your breath, your banter
And a thousand things besides:
stolen time, close spaces intimate we hide
and tuck each other into
The margins of our lives.

Monday, August 18, 2003

17: Stain

First time since the first time
then final fatal cut
fitting there was blood.


White hot fire of anguish
ringing iron
mallet blows
of rage
coldwater bath: indifference
diamond grinding
scraping sharpen
honing into Blade.

17: Trite

Shredded daisies, silent tears
sound of phone not ringing:
same sad story.

Sunday, August 17, 2003


Metallic ribs mark monster
rising from the mist
sneaking gleam of sunbeam
sparks water into flame.

In belly of the beast
peek over, down, to see
boats and boaters, birds and bouys
bobbing far below.

Clean breeze unleashes
stray hairs fleeing
binding braid.

Suspended between shores
thank creaking creature
for safe passage
passing peace.

13 August 2003

Saturday, August 16, 2003

Act of Nature

short skirt, sit
bare thighs against
superheated brick
sideways slash of wet
accompanied by drums
and flash

drumbeat drops upon skylight
stand under, soaking wet
twice showered, outdoors, in
smack and patter overhead

flash again a slash across grey sky
crack and booming shatters
fragile glass
shards rain down
blood rains down
rain rains down

tile floor awash

I breathe in wet
superheated thighs
bare against cool tile
light rains down
to pull me from my eyes
Missing Him

Black, black, black
black ragtop, parked
Yellow, red, white
silver ragtop
red, topless
black, red, white
silver topless
red rag
blue convertible
and that was all.
One blue convertible
white, yellow
red convertible
silver, red
teal green, topless
Black, like his.
Black like his
red convertible
his -doesn't count, drove by just to see it-
silver, green, green, black
white vintage with racing striipes
blue and
like his.
yellow, wearing
a black bra
(not much like mine)
red with air scoop
teal green with ground effects
red with an air scoop, or was it the same one?
that's got to be an after-market color.
Black (like his)
red rag top.
Vintager black convertible
(not so much like his)
black with beige rag top
vintage burgundy
teal green, it's for sale
how cute would that be, matching cars
silver with black bra
red with airscoop
royal blue
aging white convertible.
black topless
black topless with mag wheels
Black (yes, like his, please stop)
silver with a pizza sign on top
blue, green
Black (don't say it)
Black (again)
yellow, red, green.
Dark blue
bright blue
black vintage
white topless
vintage purple ragtop
bright blue with air scoop and a racing stripe
(when will he be back)
purple with a spoiler
red, silver
yellow with a spoiler
black, like...
It's his
he's here, sliding into Park.

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

Until January 1943

I was in my town
-about a thousand people
(three hundred Jews)
I was born there
lived there
stayed there
until I was taken away
to Auschwitz
in 1943.

My Polish, it was secondary
to my Yiddish.
No one spoke Polish
Our Christian neighbors, even
spoke Yiddish
When I went back I was surprised
how much Polish
I remembered.
Our homes they gave away
put Christians in our houses
they looked forward to it, those Christians
who had been our neighbors.
When they came to wall us in
(called us all out to the market)
many they selected
to take
into the woods
Einsatz Commandos
took them
while soldiers built the walls.
Those people died,
were buried in those woods.
We were contained
(two families to a house, or more)
walled into a ghetto
four streets
or five
those few left
from when the Einsatz came
and they came
Inside our walls,
we were free
as we could be.
We would sneak from the ghetto
when hungry
to steal food from
surrounding farms.
Any Jews that escaped to hide,
live in the woods
were killed
by Polish partisans:
there was a prize.

Do not tell us stories
of resistance
in Warsaw-
We don't want to hear
futile tales
of hope.

Monday, August 04, 2003

posted 11-19-2002 09:21 AM
Before the Nor'easter hit, I was tickled to spend an afternoon at my favorite place on the planet. Aglow with rustling leaves, the Maryland Renaissance Festival site was mine to tromp through, without the responsibility of performance. A light, damp breeze and a heavy hand with the glycerine made giant bubbles gyrate into fantastical, cosmic shapes, and the sun shone them up real pretty. My children chased the bubbles across the parking lot, and I didn't yell at them to come back. I sucked in atmosphere until hyperventilation seemed a real possibility.
Letters Home- (Cybele Pomeroy; music by Jason Brown)

(Vietnam soldier steps into a spot on the apron, holding one sheet of paper.)

‘Nam soldier:

Dear Dad
I’m here dear Dad
Dear Dad, he’s dead dear Dad
I killed someone today
It was my job to see him dead
Put my bullet through his head
I did my job, I shot a Gook
And now he’s dead
Will his Mama cry
Did he lie to his children
Saying he’ll be home one day
Real soon.
Dear Dad, while I’m here
There’ll be more dead
It’s clear to me
That every day I’m here I’ll see
More dead, Dear Dad
Dad it’s so hard
Killing people is so hard
Does it get any easier
It just must get easier
If it doesn’t get easier
I don’t know if I’ll survive
Tell that lie to my children
Dear Dad

(He steps back, spot off. New spot up on WWII, holding a sheet of paper.)

WWII Soldier:

Momma Momma Momma
We shot SS men tonight
I saw their camps
I saw their crimes
I saw the whites of their young blue eyes
They maybe were all of seventeen years old
Our unit mowed them down
Momma Momma Momma
Though I’m sure we’re right
I don’t think I can sleep

(WWII steps out of spot, spot up on Jonny Reb, holding a sheet of paper.)

Jonny Reb:

To my sisters safe at home
I hope
No time to write more than this
Short note
I killed my first Union soldier last week
With bullets and with blade
And then I took his boots
Now I don’t know who I’m fighting for
Remind me
Oh my sisters,
There were darkies
And they fought against me
Some of them I’d known most all my life
Oh my sisters, I think of you
To justify what I must do
Though these Union boots that are a bit too tight
With every step remind me to wonder if I’m right.

(Johnny Reb's spot out, spot up on Father, war medal pinned to his seventies sweater, holding a sheet of paper.)

Dear Son, oh my Son
My bright and shining Son
War gets easier
It does get easier
Killing men is easier
Each day.
And when you come home
You will come home
With glory raining down upon your head
When you come home from killing fields
After war’s got easier
You’ll find you might as well
Be dead.


16 June 2002 -for Watergate! the Musical

Saturday, August 02, 2003

C.reative J.eanius

In the breaking of the morning
In the waning of the evening
in dull, delightful moments in between
I call, and you hear me
I speak and you listen
though it hurts, you know just what I mean.
You speak back what I’ve spoken
and if my words are broken
you weave them into patterns bright and clean.

My memory still serves me
(first impressions being what they are)
you deserve one better
but my mind does not improve the past.
Your voice is my first vision
strong and steady,
bright and merry,
Get used to it, you said,
from a prone assumed position.
Get used to it, you said,
you’ll be seeing it a lot.
I didn’t know it was your voice you meant.

Do I see you crouched and crawling? in tattered rags, with tiny bags
skinny as your greyhounds
in laughter wreathed all over
Fire in your face, your eyes, your speech.

When the rain came calling
spitting, splatting, ever falling
turning bales of straw to spongy heaps
bedraggled and lank-locked
chilled and grinning down you sat, squishing in the reddish slimy glee,
prone again, began to work.
You built a tiny fortress on the ground, gave tours
to straggling patrons,
who sparsely populated our damp field.

Ever building, yes you were, mud and actors,
words and humans
which (at last) may be the same
subtle magic you created,
a smile and a mystique that coupled with your name.

Things fall apart, yet you rebuild
your company
your mother
your fragile health
and me
Something stronger, something safer, more solid and more free
you sing them up,
with hands and vision,
words and humor
work and art cleverly disguised as play
juggling like lightning things that no one else would notice
(putty in your hands, or so they say)
so gifted at your craft
that many never notice
never notice,
as, rebuilt, refreshed, and whistling
you watch them walk away.

Notes and notions and emotions
jumbled up with costumes, blood and books
noise and numbers, crows and frogs,
attention heaped on wretched, regal dogs
Life’s confetti tossed and tumbled, ever changing
stirred around by joy and fear and strife
kaleidoscopic, fascinating, I smell the brilliant, fragrant picture
hear the texture, feel the flavor, always see when seeking comfort in your voice
Fortress built of friends,
Family by nurture
I am blessed to know the blessing of your choice.

2 August 2003

Friday, August 01, 2003

Porcupine and Velvet Frog
(as requested)

Said porcupine to velvet frog
Admire my glittering prickles
They frighten man, and cat, and dog
But lady porcs they tickle.

The velvet frog croaked his reply:
I'm soft and smooth and supple
Which oft promotes and multiplies
My tendency to couple.

26 June 2003
Spock On Rock with apologies to Gene Rodenberry, Leonard Nimoy and Dr. Seuss

Who sells Spock rock?
Jock sells Spock rock.

Spock takes rock and rock gets Spock off
Spock takes chock and knocks Jock's block off

Poor Spock thinks stalker's out to maim him
Spock walks to hock shop, practices aim, then
Soon poor Spock is hock shop's patron
Spock steals spoons to sell, then buys gun
Guns from hock shop are often hot now
Spock doesn't care; he's ace crack shot now.

Jock with grudge steals ears and eyebrows
Spock with gun sees Jock's guts fly now.

Spock turns tricks for smack and crack now
Spock's cuffed by chicks who're stacked and packed now.

Spock in lockup sees bees and fleas
Fleas and bees buzz.
Bees buzz and fleas flee
Spock sees fleas flee
Spock and Dee see these fleas flee.

Spock and Dee from lockup flee
Spock's free
Dee's free
Lockup is now flea and bee free.

Lockup buzz with flies and ticks
Lockup's checked by cops with sticks
Cops can't find Spock or Dee
Cops don't mind, they've got coffee.

Donut stand likes cops with sticks, and
Cops stand stuck at donut stand
Donuts are what cops like licking
Cops find donuts so addicting:
Who put crack in Krak Kreme donuts?
Withhold donut, see cop go nuts.

Spock's home free with Dee and fleas.
Dee strips
Spock flips
Fleas freeze.
Freezing fleas then flee from Dee-
Finally, floozy Dee is flea-free.
Dee's not just cheap
She's free.

See flea-free Dee watch TV.

Who sees Spock snooze at Blue's Clues?
Shoes see Spock snooze at Blue's Clues.
Blue and Steve see Spock's blue shoes snooze.
Dee and Spock and shoes snooze at Blue's Clues.

Spock tries tuning space-dude buddies
Spock tunes in to Teletubbies
See Spock wink at Tinky-Winky
Tinky-Winky smirks and winks-
he's not what everybody thinks.
Laa-Laa thinks that Tinky-Winky stinks.

When Tinky-Winky wades through an inky stinky puddle
With a locket on his neck, while Po and Dipsy waddle
Spock grabs his pocket rocket
(which is much more like a noodle)
And Jock walks in the back, with a paddle and a poodle.

Jock smacks Spock with big bad oar
Spock on smack and his crack whore
whack Jock back with slats from floor.
Dog named Jack jerks Jock back from door-
Spock and crack whore whack on Jock more;
Jock goes smack on back on Spock's floor.

Spock and crack whore slap high fives now
See Spock and Dee at sleazy dives, now.
Spock and Dee sell selves for drugs, now
Vulcan Spock says "no" to hugs now.

Cybele Pomeroy, November 1999

Wish I was a black girl
at a black folks' barbeque
smoking up a squallid city block

Sitting on a lawnchair
with another little black girl
to braid my bushy bushy black hair.

31 July 2003