Poems of an American Woman

Penelope Snow

"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes...

ART is knowing which ones to keep." -Scott Adams

Samples from my pile of scribbles, and some reflections on what inspired them:

Snowfall, Sunrise

It is early evening and fresh snow,

sweet and cold, frosts branches and curbs,

and crests like tiny waves along the path

on either side of my black-booted ankles.

It’s quiet as I walk, I hear my breath,

and the soft crunch of my footsteps.

The cool air tickles my nose,

at my lips a little white cloud swirls and disappears.

My dog, in his fuzzy fleece, zigzags ahead,

sniffing and wagging, as if greeting each snowflake.

Ice sparkles playfully everywhere in the fluffy ground,

like tiny stars in a white sky.

Without warning, my eyes water and my throat feels thick,

amidst this sudden, simple beauty.

I walk the block and turn toward home,

warmed by the cold night and new snow.

This day, painted with frustration and disappointment,

is suddenly renewed, the evening snowfall

landing like the a sunrise,

bringing me a new day in the middle of the old one.

A moment of awe on an ordinary day.

On Being

You ask what we are…

We are all cells of God?

You ask how it works…

Like colonies of coral, building the skeleton of civilization with what moves through us, swaying and pulsing, tiny, in a cosmic ocean?

You ask where it begins and ends…

Each breathing body is both bridge and barrier between what surrounds us, soaks us?

You ask why...

Why is a question for the living, so to ask it is to answer it?

You ask what is sacred and what is science...

If magic dust is put under a microscope, is it still magic?

This poem aims to answer questions about the meaning of life, because poems can sometimes be the question and answer both, without being either. Some questions are answers, some answers are questions, and sometimes there is something else, that is both, and neither. Putting these thoughts together was inspired by the conversations chronicled in Becoming Wise by Krista Tippet, and her podcast called On Being, and the philosophy of living the questions, and someday living the answers too (Rainer Maria Rilke).

Misplaced

What are you doing there?

That's not where you should be.

You belong over here,

In my world, with me.

About missing someone. I like this one because of its simplicity and the easy

rhythm, limerick-ish (...which actually took lots of time, like some poems do!).

Entwined

This yawning grief,

Tireless, momentary, infinite.

This cavern I walk toward, pulling me.

Willing, a weary Jonah, I enter.

Trapped inside this pulsing prison, alive and gone.

Submerged in endless waters,

Torn, in tears,

Sinking toward the surface.

(Written after the death of my twin brother, for Scott)

Dream Man

Pulling the cover of my laptop open I feel your arms wide,

Leaning into the screen, I can almost hear your heartbeat.

Notified of a new message, like a quick kiss on my head.

My fingertips on the keys, like scratching your rough back?

These pixels of you, they aren't much next to warm breath,

or the smell of sweat, or tracing your dry lip with my thumb.

So I'm shutting the cover,

Pressing the power button.

As I do, I can almost see that last glimpse of your shoulder,

Just before my door swings shut behind it.

I'm left with a lump in my throat,

Swollen eyes, no place to put my face.

But I think I'd rather be alone and know it,

Then be alone, and think I'm not.

Dream Man is the story of a woman who falls in love with a man online, but it never moves offline,

he never materializes in person, and she realizes she loves someone that doesn't exist in reality.

A Banquet of Crumbs

Tangled in time, ripe on the vine,

the seeds and weeds of unmet needs,

watered by drought, roots pulled out,

what poisoned me then will nourish.

Harvesting more, I carry and store,

this crop of mine, the grain I grind,

brought into bread, I bow my head,

and remember my banquet of crumbs.

This one is meant to be a metaphor for how the tough and traumatic

times we struggle through are essential to grow into fullness, as

seeds have to push up through dirt to become what they are meant to

be, we have to push up through tough times and trauma to do the same.

Brother In His Arms

Invisible to the self, swiveling eye of the mind.

Whispering sounds like a siren, his silence, it screams.

Undeniable, this, the presence of his absence.

GET HIM.

New mission: Operation Furious Mercy.

Armor forged before this fight in a fire that fuses souls.

Locked in loyalty. Loaded with unrelenting purpose.

ENEMY NO FACTOR.

This fighting and ferocious love?

This bond as strong as motherhood?

He simply said,

"It's brotherhood."

-Penelope Snow 2017

Written after listening to the story of Lt. Michael E. Thornton (Ret.) United States Navy SEAL,

a recipient of The Congressional Medal of Honor for actions of valor during the Vietnam War.

HERE

We were here.

Like writing this poem on white paper

In white invisible ink.

Here becomes her,

Her becomes he,

Then it is like he was never here at all.

A blank space, without a trace.

Dissolving in time just as designed.

"Here" is about a relationship that fades away

gradually, without drama, but not without loss.

The Invisible Man

I used to know the shape of your jaw,

your collarbone,

turned, you were,

facing me,

mirroring me,

marrying me.

Later it was your ear,

and your shoulder blade,

farther away,

turning away,

while I held a baby.

Then,

just the palm of one hand,

hidden by your keys,

the back of your knees,

your elbow vanishing around a corner.

Now, your voice, clipped and quick,

the back of your head,

your heel,

going out the door again,

the chime of your keys

growing fainter.

I see the back of the car,

driving away,

again.

But here. HERE,

I know the cheeks

of our children,

They have the sweetest lips,

and chubby fingertips.

So I stay.

You go, but me,

I will stay.

About a husband who emotionally abandons his family, and

his wife who tries to compensate for his absence at home.

In Deep

The way the word,

the way it was said,

it was then that

I knew you loved me.

I said “Have a great weekend,”

you said “You too.”

The words anchored, afloat,

you, ashore.

“You”, the word, laden and light,

on a long, low-rolling wave.

Close-hauled to your breath,

held tight, alight and reaching.

I tried to hear them over again,

in my mind’s ear, speaking.

I could not raise them,

they were swallowed swiftly

then, sunken.

Then I, alone, found the words,

and heard them rise up

from down in the deep,

shaken loose from the chest,

where words, once engulfed,

Wait.

In Deep is one of my favorites. It is about two people who fall

in love, pulled together magnetically, and both feel it, and

they know the other does too, but they don't let themselves

tell the other, but so much is said somehow, without saying

anything, because their feelings saturate the words spoken

even though the words themselves speak nothing of depth.

Eve Explains To Adam

Born of your rib,

I would suggest,

that it is I that know you best.

Rich in rib and swirling spine,

silent, twisted in the vine,

I thought him also of my kind.

Is it so very dark a sin,

to sit and eat with newfound kin,

when offered fruit I was by him?

I thought it was polite to do,

Sharing food, and water too,

I'd no intent to ruin you!

And underneath that Holy tree,

Where were you when softly he,

took so much from you and me?

About the story of Adam and Eve and the untold post-apple

protests that Eve gives, knowing she is innocent of deception,

probably irked that she is about to be framed for Original Sin.

The Simple Absence of You

There were no IV drugs. No story of squalor.

No wading through beer cans. No adultery.

Just a tidy home and an American family.

But a sickness like a cobra came.

A venom.

Sometimes I stayed in the bathroom for a hours.

Or I'd sit in my car, digging at my nails, in some parking lot.

I remember there were times at 3 am.

I would wake up with you standing over me,

Your face red, twisted.

Angry, yelling, pointing,

As if I was betraying you by sleeping.

You don't have to fear for your life

To have your fear be your life.

I didn't know that.

I didn't know that punching a wall was punching.

That kicking things like that was kicking.

That screaming was not yelling,

And yelling was not arguing,

And arguing was not talking.

You stopped talking to me,

Long before the judge made you stop.

He said you lost your privilege to talk to me.

I, twenty years your wife.

Mother of your children.

You, my husband.

It was a crime to speak to me now.

Why?

Because the way you spoke to me before?

It was criminal.

I didn't know that.

The moment his pen touched those papers,

Your voice began to fade.

You say you miss my voice!?

I do not miss your voice.

I've not heard yours for two years now.

Yet I still shudder.

This thing that I had forgotten!

This that bathes me now like a warm breeze?

That adds hours to my days?

Inches to my height?

PEACE.

The simple absence of you.

Penelope Snow 2017

About being delivered to a place of peace through a court

protection order, and realizing again what peace feels like.

Just A Phone Call Away

iphone,

myphone,

youphone,

wephone...

Then SHE phoned.

>:(

Why???!phone?

Cry-phone.

I-want-to-die-phone.

We say goodbye-phone.

:*(

Then HE phoned!

;]

Is he for real?phone?

I start to heal-phone,

I say how I feel-phone.

Trust-phone?

Us-phone?

:->

"I love you too"phone

We'll say "I do" phone!

:):)

Oh I'm SO OVER YOU-phone!

This poem was inspired my teenage daughter and her friends and their frequent phone shares about their romantic dramas and dreams...

I wanted to experiment with using emotions or some emoji in poems. It was fun! Copyright Penelope Snow 2017

Radio Silence

I hear your voice beyond your words,

It lingers in my ears.

I hear again all I’ve heard,

For what, I think three years?

Your weekly talk on air,

To me and other me’s,

Produced with so much care,

Two hours, always free.

I take with me your voice,

It rolls within my mind,

It’s never been a choice,

I guess I found what I could find-

To bring me ease,

To guide my way,

It never leaves,

It simply…stays.

It whispers of a man

I barely ever knew.

Echoes from a broken,

Softer sort of you.

"Inspired by the voice of a radio/podcast host that triggers memories of an important voice of the past."

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