Wanda Phipps

 

morning poem #11

full of too much sensation
thoughts also
lifting heavy objects
to benefit the arts
cramming facts
in paragraphs
for art and profit
dizzy on a cool
September morning
dizzy with the sound
of angel coming
hands on my breasts
thoughts like heavy
objects juggling
through too much
of everything

morning poem #33
for Joel

he sits one sock on &
one sock off
legs together tight
black cat on his lap
light gray through
window spreads
through dark loft cavern
he's an art saint at home
head haloed by
reels of film

morning poem #44

black cat Tristana
sits on angel's computer
wagging tail back
and forth across
the screen—a fuzzy
windshield wiper
keeping time
to Haydn
on the radio

morning poem #51

waning desire
on election day
"do you think that?
is that what you think?"
two voices on
the machine now
tuning into the
return of the
nineteenth century
"I'll be the one
with the yellow rose"
all things are impossible
your hand on my hand
in the hands of
some wild ecstasy
"I'll speak to you soon"
"let me buy the honey"
belly dancing to the
Velvet Underground
in my I-Dream-of-Jeannie-
hairdo—your head in the circuits
his head in the software
my head in between the two
nestle me in with your
voice hoarse in my brain
"let's fuck" dreaming
all the time of China

morning poem #57

I am the catalyst
worlds whirl around me
fixed habits burn to cinders
new paths open and contract
and open again and again
lost children become stars
dead roads metamorphosize
I am the sand's irritant
working into pearl
an ankle bracelet
scratching skin as reminder
of connection, family
ties breaking walls
I am the directional
pull towards center
I am the savior of lost causes
the grace given the wayward
the open palm of plenitude
the Tao of the indecisive
I am the turner of pages
the alchemist of city grit
the waver of wands
the rocker of personal planets
I am the catalyst
for everyone
but myself

morning poem #25

poor people have
no place to be
poor people have
no protection
under US law
poor people
can't afford rights
poor people
can't afford dignity
poor people
can't afford doctors
poor people are disposable
because poor people's value
can't be measured
in dollars

morning poem #60

call for work
erasing dreams
wake up Joel and Tristana
and spritz a cloud
of Tatiana—rise and run
super stops on stairs
asking about the steam
about the heat
see former Mellow
Freakin' Woody on the way
handlebar moustache
a new addition
taking the shorter route
two stops and there
not more than two thoughts
in morning brain
forgot which company
forgot which boss
Fifth Ave. & Forty-Second
commuters frown
forgot to avoid
oncoming eyes
speed walk in a
comfortable daze
automatic movement
fine perception drowned
in self defense

morning poem #66

what's left to do
what's left
rain mists
in head
on pavement
check the lists
cross off
done done done
in back of mind
evening plans
guitar—singing
hot food/warm hearts

 

Wanda Phipps is the author of Wake-Up Calls: 66 Morning Poems (Soft Skull Press), Your Last Illusion or Break Up Sonnets (Situations), and the CD-Rom Zither Mood (Faux Press). Visit her website at: www.MindHoney.com

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