Searching for Sushi in a Walmart in Salina, KS, by Barbara A Meier

Searching for Sushi in a Walmart in Salina, KS
by Barbara A Meier

Obesity roams the aisle, and Meth stubs grimace in a smile.
Plodding onward through a grocery wasteland;
A desert of Little Debbie crème pies, Pringles with a pop!
Coca-cola, and Jalapeno Ranch Doritos.
The best bargains at 11 o’clock at night.

Sorrow dictates I eat. Lateness dictates Walmart,
and all I see is a holocaust of processed foods.
Pain rises up to choke the heart lodged in my throat.
Tears seep down the back. Drip. Leak.

And I think I can find sushi in Salina….

There’s no sushi in Walmart in Salina.
There’s no way to feel good. It collapses inward on itself.
The pressure spills and there’s no stopping.
I’m truly alone and nonexistent at this point.

I cannot lay out my life like rice on a sushi mat.
Nor can I pick and choose spicy,
Fullmoon Combo, or California Rolls with Eel.
There’s no wasabi to burn away the pain,
or pickled ginger to open the dam.

Just myself, dressed in cold fluorescent light,
walking circles in Walmart.
I cannot roll my life up to fit my dreams
or my ideas of what should have happened.

inspired by “What Passes for Salvation in Salina, Kansas” by John Dorsey

Barbara A Meier has spent the last four years living on the Southern Oregon Coast. She retired from teaching this summer and hopes to find time to travel and write. She has a Micro Chapbook coming out this summer from Ghost City Press. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, TD; LR Catching Fire Anthology and The Fourth River. https://basicallybarbmeier.wordpress.com/

Advertisements

Look Here Too, Pamela Alexander, by Barbara A Meier

Look Here Too, Pamela Alexander
by Barbara A Meier

Next time you post that fruity paper sculpture picture-
you know matte white with golden phallic swirls
your scalp all gleamy like candied apples, neanderthal ridge
like a mounded fruit basket,
next time you post across my page with your slender folding fingers
reaching with hers in Warrior one on Coronado Heights
wearing arty turtlenecks like fruit baskets wearing cellophane,
I may just vomit a bit in my mouth,
next time I see you in flowering lotus, origami creases,
those spirals held in place with Elmer’s glue,
you could answer the questions in my email sent 4 years ago.
Your silence in the Cloud is as loud as your buddha sitting on your shelf.
If you can’t at least give a reason for silence- like
“I’m not interested in you anymore.” or “Long-distance relationships just don’t work.”
don’t be trespassing on my facebook page with Down’s syndrome girls draped around your shoulders like a bouquet of grapes on your vine,
or holding HER hand in “fruited plains” of sunflowers.
I won’t seek you on the web- your flat dimensional imprint hiding in my hard drive –
my life is 3 dimensional, fat and meaty.
Time like fruit ripens
becoming compost with fruit fly mists,
soil to bury you in my dreams.

inspired by “Look Here” by Pamela Alexander

Process notes: “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned”. I am at the Southern Oregon Writers Conference listening to Carolyn Miller talk. She gives us copies of Pamela Alexander’s poem “Look Here.” Wow. We analyzed the poem and I made a connection to my last experience with a relationship with an ex-boyfriend from Highschool. It felt good to rip and tear him up with words. I did not want the ending to have the hope implied at the end. I just want him to know I am just fine without him.

Barbara A Meier has spent the last four years living on the Southern Oregon Coast. She retired from teaching this summer and hopes to find time to travel and write. She has a Micro Chapbook coming out this summer from Ghost City Press. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, TD; LR Catching Fire Anthology and The Fourth River. https://basicallybarbmeier.wordpress.com/

The Wrack, by by Barbara A Meier

The Wrack
by Barbara A Meier

I came to dig through the wrack.
The blades are the experiences.
The stipes are life.
I came to see what was salvageable
and how many pneumatocysts are intact.
I grip the shaft of my shovel, tense my muscles
and scoop anticipating.
This is the life I live for:
the wrack and not the sand.
Pieces of vegetation, not the ocean.

The seaweed flies swarm upward toward my face,
disturbed in their feeding, attracted by the rotten smell of kelp.
Their maggots gorge on gelatinous fiber eating away at membranes
of memories stored in gas-filled bladders.
I spread the kelp on the dry sand shelf, nudging it,
But the shovel is not enough–
My hands need to feel
The putrescence of life.
it coats my hands
as the flies invade the nose,
the mouth, the ears.
It makes a bed when spread to sea,
a mattress to bear my weight
green strands grow from my sides
Medusa hair of kelp.
It’s hard to see where my life
begins or ends on the high tide line.
The ocean nips at my ankles.
Between the wrack and rock
below, above the wave
the harvest continues.
The sand, the kelp, the shovel
Begin again in a Book of Death
where my name is written.

inspired by “Diving Into The Wreck” by Adrienne Rich

Process notes: Southwestern College, Winfield, KS, 1979. Mrs. AD Cope, one of my college professors, introduced me to Adrienne Rich. She became my favorite. 30 years later I picked up my pen and decided to write poetry again. At loss for where to start, I decided to use “Diving Into the Wreck” as my model. The subject matter- divorce and being alone.

Barbara A Meier has spent the last four years living on the Southern Oregon Coast. She retired from teaching this summer and hopes to find time to travel and write. She has a Micro Chapbook coming out this summer from Ghost City Press. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, TD; LR Catching Fire Anthology and The Fourth River. https://basicallybarbmeier.wordpress.com/

Let August Be On Woodrat Mountain Rd, by Barbara A Meier

Let August Be On Woodrat Mountain Rd
by Barbara A Meier

Let the dust of a gravel road
mask the reddest of red poison oak,
Twining
the Douglas fir, reaching for sun.

Let the yellow jacket suck
the juice of a rotting plum like a drunk
nursing his bottle. Let August be.

Let the chrysalis on the milkweed fall
beneath the blade of the county tractor,
the Monarch disappears. Let August be.

Let the ghost of my dogs, pull me up
the road, tangling their leashes, tongues lolling.
Let August be.

To the Bud can in the starthistle, to the buzz
of the junction box, to the beat of a heart.
Let August be.

Let it be as it comes, as it will always be,
life sliding down. Summer whining
in the cicadas, so let August be.

inspired by “Let Evening Come” by Jane Kenyan

Process notes: I discovered Jane Kenyan about 2 years ago. Poetry was at a hiatus in my life for the past 40 years about. I started to write again at 58. I have 40 years of poets to catch with. One of the magazines I submitted to recommended reading Jane Kenyan. I knew I had to try her style. I’d been playing around with August a lot and not really finishing anything. August to me was a cruel month. My Dad died in August, summer is dying in the madrone trees shedding, and poison oak turning red and yes time to report back to work. (teacher) The greens are tired and dusty. It’s hot. It’s dying.

It is what it is and I let it be on my walk up Woodrat Mountain Rd.

Barbara A Meier has spent the last four years living on the Southern Oregon Coast. She retired from teaching this summer and hopes to find time to travel and write. She has a Micro Chapbook coming out this summer from Ghost City Press. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, TD; LR Catching Fire Anthology and The Fourth River. https://basicallybarbmeier.wordpress.com/