Saturday Poetry

The Days of Children

By Billie Daddario

The wind blowing the long grass across the prairie

looks like ocean wave hues of brown and tan.

The dust swirls and settles and swirls again.

The field birds flying sideways in the wind

trying to catch a draft.

The three of us running down the street for home.

Laughing for the day was long and fun, and we were so dirty.

Brown and white lines of our skin where the clothes covered up.

The long day. The long night. We spent together as children.

Making mud in the tub when we washed our feet and legs.

These were the days of children.

Saturday Poetry

Precocious

By Billie Daddario

“Hurry, It’s raining.”

“You won’t melt.”

“Yes, I will.”

“B.S.”

“What does B.S. mean?”

“Bologna Sauce.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means bull shit.”

“If you knew what it meant, why’d ya ask me?”

“Cause I wanted to know what you’d say.”

“Hurry, it’s raining.”

“You won’t melt.”

“Yes, I will.”

Saturday Poetry

The Heart

By Billie Daddario

You breathe for me and we.

Inhale our excess

and exhale what we need.

You give breath

From you and your shrinking sisters.

Home to ten thousand few.

Balm, elixirs, health

The things we’ll never know we lost.

Saturday Poetry

Christina Rossetti and the Goblins

By Billie Daddario

I was reminded this week of Christina Rossetti,

And a promise I made to you.

I would have, and I should have

Given to you all,

But I held back from you

The thing you wanted most.

The reason doesn’t matter,

But I loved you once.

I love you still.                                                                                                                                                  

I made you a promise.

I won’t let the goblins get you.

And they did.

Saturday Poetry

Zen and Dirty Dishes

By Billie Daddario

The dog outside the window smears the glass.

And the sink is full of proof that I exist.

The messiness of life is all around me, and I revel in it.

Tidiness is for the old ladies that knit their lives by patterns.

A life to full of what is now, not yet past.

Untidy lovers leaving scars on the furniture,

Children screaming and laughing, leaving toys to be stepped on and broken.

Weeds in the garden where I started to plant a bleeding heart. The flower dead.

Folded laundry on the table undone, almost.

This is life. This is the day. The hour. The second.

I am enamored, breathing in the possibility of joy.

Content with questions, only God Knows.

Saturday Poetry

These Times We Live In

By Billie Daddario

These times we live in

some say a throwback to the

dust bowl and great depression

with breadlines and massive homelessness.

These times we live in

Some say are a throwback to

Selma and Kent State and voter suppression.

This is its own time.

With its own heaving and struggle

with jack boots on the ground

pressing down on our neck ,

the Dow losing ground

politicians losing face

this is its own folly

killer aerosol without a cure.

This is its own time.

With its own heaving breath.