Connie Post Poetry Collection
Her Kitchen ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~
She left the gardenApprehensivelyLate one afternoon.Left the soil and the small shovels,The hand rakes and sprinklers.She needed to go to the kitchenWhere the fine dust of dormant flourWaited for her handsUntil they sprung to the cupboard,Until her fingertips would transformThe flour to a tender crustUntil it would lattice itself uponThe juices and fruits ofCobblers and tarts andRows of baked intimacies.Waxed paper, steamed by the bottoms ofThe undersides of freshly baked cookiesLeft their marksLong after the spatula had lifted themWhen it was finally over,She swept away the flour from her apronWashed away the butter, molasses and eggsShe neatly, frantically, folded the pastry clothesPut them away as they were memoryBut the aromas lingeredUpon the curtains, the window stillAnd through to the garden sh thought she had left.She vowed not to forget these scentsNot this timeVowed to remember the building ofKingdoms, laced in pastryAnd the fine sugars that would blanket herWhen her garden became covered in snow.
* "Her Kitchen"- 3rd honorable mention Byline Magazine-November 1999
At Times ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~
She would file her nailsAt nightDown to the cuticleDown to the bedWhere her tortured memoriesWould lieAlong side herAnd slowlyAs the back and forth motionsCeasedThe hard, protective coverWould recedeAnd tell her more than she needed to knowAbout sharp, stabbing painsAnd her need to file down rage.
* “At times”- First Honorable mention 78th Annual Ina Coolbrith Contest
Autistic Son, Almost 19 ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~
You are not merely metaphorTrying to take shape in a poemNot just stanzaAttempting perfect rhythm or cadenceYou are not formal verseTrying to make its way to a journalOf high esteem or reputationYou were home last weekendI put away my journalsWiped mashed potatoes from your mouthAnd picked up little crumbs of toast off the floorWhere you sat for breakfast.Although I go to my desk again and againI cannot seem to chisel out a sentenceThat begins to tell your storyI cannot force myself to reduce your aphasiaTo the very words you cannot speakI put in another load of laundryWrite sentences that disappear before my eyes,Run upstairs again to make sure your clothes are still dryYou kiss me on the forehead and all elusive alliterations fall awayA Sunday in October is overYou won’t be home again until ThanksgivingThe leaves in the front yard are turning colorAlong with the shades of your disabilityI look outsideMy words fall from old treesBlown and tousled by invisible windYou come to find meIts dinner timeYour shirt is on inside outI leave it that wayI serve baked chickenWhile a kitchen window remains openA somber breeze blows through ripped holes in the screenLike an allegory forgotten,An autumn unheard
* “Autistic Son , Almost 19”- 2nd Honorable Mention 79th Annual Poets Dinner Contest