To My Hands

To My Hands
by Jill C.

Why did you never grow--
but why are you so old--
skin already shriveled and cuticles dry
nails to brittle to grow out and get a french manicure
freckles that come and grow
then fade
with the callouses
from raking the lawn once in a blue moon

Why is the soft crescent shadow only on my thumb nails--
is the one most often crushed by a clumsy hammer
really the only one deserving of health and beauty--

Why is 'pretty hands' such a hard thing for me to grasp--
the photographer repeats it again
no, pretty hands, not alien, not ugly
but my wrist simply does not bend that way

Why are you so cold--
so pale
so mottled
lacking all the comfort a normal human should give
a cold hand on a warm shoulder
it beckons death
not love

Why are you so weak--
that's not heavy to anyone else
they can give a pinch of pain
their touch can bring pleasure

Of all the things you could do well
why did you choose holding a pen--
How did the perfect first grade grip get ingrained in muscle memory
when so much else was passed by--
I could have been a mechanic
a boxer
anything
but I am a writer

My weak little hands have made me
a writer
my power comes from the page
and strength is in my speech
physical beauty is nothing compared to words

But in poetry
even cold death can be
beautiful
and I an be giant
holding the world
in my pen
that I have
tightly clutched
in my hand

Confessions 3: I am a Jelly Doughnut

Confessions 3: I am a Jelly Doughnut, or at least I think I ought to be after I read that
by Jill C.

There is a sign (in the horse feed store, of all places) that reads, "The optimist sees the doughnut. The pessimist sees the hole. The realist sees the calories." I knew I was a realist the moment I saw that. I look at logic. And for that, some people hate me. Or they think I'm autistic. However, there is no getting around the fact that it's true. That there is a plethora of calories in a doughnut. Especially one full of chocolate creme.

Jean Shepherd wrote a wonderfully witty book called In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, upon which the classic film "A Christmas Story" was based. (If you haven't seen the movie, you need to.) There are so many hideously funny moments entwined in the plot of Christmas preparations in middle America. No one can easily forget the pink bunny pajamas, the Santa slide, or "you'll shoot your eye out!" But there is more to the story (especially the book). Each sentence is done up in a genuine "great-uncle telling stories" way. There is perhaps little exaggeration, but the moral to the story is always there--Things like this happen.

It's the little things that count--and make my day. One entire chapter of Shepherd's book is devoted to the difference in connotation between "to fish" and "fishing." "To fish" is more sophisticated (if that is possible when talking about pulling scaly creatures out of water with hooks and string) and requires expertise and finesse, while fishing is a family sport done on Sunday afternoon while drinking beer. Another anecdote tells of the shock that came from finding an ovaltine can rolling down the sidewalk with the label still on it. This label had a code on the back, which was needed to send away for a "Little Orphan Annie's Secret Circle decoder pin." Therefore, anyone who threw out the can with the label still on must be either very rich or very stupid.

I love those connections. They are admittedly flawed, but it is because of the extreme logic behind them. That, and the wide-eyed-behind-glasses childlike view of the world from which they come. I love that a person's character can be decided by how they get rid of their cans, or by their syntax when talking about catching fish. I love it because I do it every day. The little things speak the loudest, especially to us small people with big brains. I love to pin down personalities by doughnut opinions. Because I can. And because the results are true.
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You voted for it! I bet you always knew that I was an opinionated bookworm...

What's in a name?

Welcome to 2011 with more (real) poetry!!

What's in a Name?
By Jill C.

John C. Calhoun rolls from my tongue in neck-jerking glory
Benvolio crushes like velvet on the way up my throat
Siddhartha seems an appropriate name for a lion in well earned majesty
And in ages past, I wanted to be called Blythe

There is some actress or other by that name
but I pay no attention to her
It was the meaning of the word that I followed

Happy go Lucky
flighty
full of joy
loving life

Twirling through meadows of Queen Anne's lace
with daisies entwined in long dark hair
Not concerned that the shades of red in the curtains and quilt barely don't match
Joyfully embracing dirt beneath fingernails
Gracing Marc Jacobs perfume ads and artists' canvasses alike
wallowing in the souls of those who draw near enough

But this is decidedly not me
Counting the number of repetitive clicks that wave through Newton's Cradle
before its inertia stops

Not that I much resemble my own name
I always thought that Jill was a good name for a promiscuous surfer
with short blonde curls
catching the eye of every man
Maybe even James Bond

What name suits me?
something stoic at first, then fanciful, imaginative
yet solidly phonetic and rooted in reality
a name that explains mysteries
and wraps them up as solid facts

It should be a name I actually like
perhaps Abraham Maslow
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Thanks to my two favorite Patricias: Avalon and Gillikin