Little Nick

 I’m sick of cuts and scratches
And patchy malatchy,
And broken baby toenails snagged
In the midnight sheets;

The little nicks of razor blades,
Right below the knee;
The avocado accident;
Thorns snapped from a blackberry branch;

That canker sore in the corner of my mouth;
Flesh flaps ground between taut sleeping teeth;
A cat’s claw lodged in a passing sock;
Splinters, especially under the nail –
invisible – is it really there?

Scrapes from ragged window frames,
supposed smooth;
Paper cuts; the open safety pin
I thought was closed;

Stepping on a tack; the revenge of the plucked rose;
A jagged bottle cap; the lid I snapped on tight,
pinching my own skin.

The world’s sharp, scratchy objects win their war on me.
Bandaids shine like blisters where medals ought to be.

Detachment’s not an option, that is clear.
Impish Life, armed only with a sharp little knife,
Calls out, “Wake up! I’m here!
I’m here!”                         

                                                                           --Linda Brown Holt

 

Posted on Friday, May 9, 2008 at 07:58AM by Registered CommenterLinda Brown Holt | CommentsPost a Comment

Dandelion Coffee

Dandelion coffee

Dandelion tea

Drown as I would in a magical

Sea, redolent me, all

Braided in savory herbal

Glee. Sipping and dipping

And slipping again

Down wild slimy walls

Of the herb-mighty main.

Dandelion ecstasy

Cup after glance,

Spinning and grinning

In dandelion trance.

Have a new sip of these

World-weary meads,

Tangled in brine and

In weir-widows’ weeds.

Falling, let go, and tide out

With the sea.

Dandelion coffee

Dandelion tea

Posted on Monday, April 28, 2008 at 01:51PM by Registered CommenterLinda Brown Holt | CommentsPost a Comment | References1 Reference

The Lilac Thief - Collection of Poems 2004

Please click on The Lilac Thief to see this collection. It contains a couple of typos that I couldn't correct on the old PDF. :-)

Posted on Friday, February 15, 2008 at 11:07AM by Registered CommenterLinda Brown Holt | CommentsPost a Comment

Paisley at Lits

Too shy to look directly,

Too disciplined to touch,

A shopper passed the counter

Where paisley scarves,

of silk and wool,

Lay in a soft display,

random by design:

Teardrop swirls—some muted,

heathered,

faded to the sight—

Soughing in enticing folds:

Impalpable delight.

And yet, head low, in awe

Of beauty, more or less,

Her eye’s edge merely glanced,

Then turned away

from such a peacock’s

fine bouquet,

Heart-stabbed by what

We never can possess
Posted on Monday, October 15, 2007 at 06:02AM by Registered CommenterLinda Brown Holt | CommentsPost a Comment

Someone I Wish I'd Met

 Someone I wish I’d met:

A slight young man, and somber,

Book held close to chest;

Searching eyes and open brow.

One afternoon we passed in Walden Woods.

At daybreak, he was walking north

As I drove south,

Back from the Old North Bridge.

He caught my eye,

But revealed no recognition,

Just the steady, head-held-high

Integrity of one who knows

His path.

October 8 and 9, 2007

Posted on Friday, October 12, 2007 at 06:09AM by Registered CommenterLinda Brown Holt | CommentsPost a Comment