When my daisy
Came to life
I hinged myself forward and tickled her petals
Then plucking her up forcefully
I cradled her and twirled her up overhead
Dangling her between sky and ground
And like a rabid saltshaker
Her pollen milled through the cracks on my fingers
And seeped into my skin.
T DM
While she lay in bed, she felt the breeze rush in from the open window. The curtains danced along with every gust and whip the wind took. What pleasure the night had brought her. What utter content it was to have the light of the moon hover outside, as she lay cloaked in sheets, sinking into cushion and feathers. Every inhale took her deeper under the covers, every exhale was a cuddle and a relief. The chirping crickets sang to her, or were a steady beat, keeping with the rhythm of her breath. If she could stay this way forever, she would.
TDM
I would skip
rocks
with my feet plunged into moss
curl my toes underneath mud
grip myself
turning a stone over in my hand
weighing it with every rotation
to make sure it wouldn’t just
plunk
to the bottom of the brook
though if it did
it would not be lonely
because there are plenty of others
who have
sunk
to the
bottom
and nestled themselves
even after they’ve skidded the rapids.
TDM
If only i could lie
in the grass for more
than just a little while
I could graze the atmosphere
with my drifting eyes
turning my head this way and
that way
I’d twitch my ears
to tune them to the sound
of daffodils being kissed
by tiny insects
I could wipe my nose clean and
inhale perfumed stardust
that would shake itself off
and hitch a ride on currents
golden flecks falling through my hair
hovering first like a halo
and I would not mind nibbles
from creatures polite enough
to make their presence known
take what they need and then leave.
TDM
With so many tears
A dismal life of clutter
And not
Having anything of value
Not a one
Decent face
with whom
To bid the morning anew
Sallow and pale
A cause for no real
Alarm
Nothing permanent to cling to
Not in object defying
Wasteland
Sleepless nights
Tangled sheets for one
With so many tears
For lights out
Without any bed time story
II
With so many tears
A hopeful breath familiar
And with
Attentive nods and grins
Always
A lovely face
with whom to
Tuck away the evening and
bid the morning anew
A smitten tide of
Suitable love,
Of comfort,
Of
Mind at ease and
Simple pace of thoughts
Heart still racing
With excited touch
Lights out
With promise of bed time stories
TDM
The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM
I held on to the poll tightly as the streetcar screeched along its tracks, and the bustle of China Town rushed by the windows.
An old man sat directly in front of where I was standing, and in a mumble that released the scent of cheap whiskey, cleared his throat.
“A seat my dear?” he said.
“No thank you,” I said.
I really did not want to sit, nor did I think this old man would do well staggering, trying to maneuver himself between seats and staring eyes.
“I can even get off two stops ahead of mine, so you can sit, if you’re more comfortable with that,” the old man mumbled between his liquor soaked beard.
“No thank you, but I really appreciate the offer,” I said.
I rang the bell just as the streetcar was pulling up to my stop, and the old man smiled.
“Have a good day my dear.”
“Same to you,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding my head.
I hopped off the streetcar and as I waited at the cross walk, wondered if the old man had a home.
He had blue eyes.
T. DM
Poetry and Prose by Teresa Di Matteo 