A Chocolate Dream

Dream Poem

I’m walking through a porcelain grove of trees
An old mug leads the way
No one is talking
The woman stops
Points to a jar of spiced hot chocolate powder
The trees are huge with chocolate roots
We gather around her
Open a can of coconut milk
“This is where we placed the hot chocolate yet to come,”
The woman says
This chocolate tree she points to has been hollowed out by fire
And in my head I briskly stir the coconut milk with chocolate powder
The woman is a survivor of genocide
She turns to face us, taking out a stirring spoon
I see her, and she looks like thick, melted chocolate
She shuts the dry, papery door
I know she is like this because of the coconut milk
That she was tortured, singing verses
“I am smooth,” she says
She stirs her chocolate and coconut milk
“They cut out people’s hearts with old-fashioned can openers”
I shake my head, sing the last verse
I imagine my chocolate heart carved out
She smiles, pouring milk into her mug
I realize I’m not wearing shoes
I stir until my mixture is smooth with no lumps
I feel lost, exposed, chocolaty
And I sing half a verse
I climb the porcelain trees
I climb to the south and take the first sip
I climb to the east and take the second sip
In praise of the gods of chocolate and coconut milk trees
I climb with my perfect chocolate

Love Found--A Sonnet

When I was young and thought I was alone,
I wept my bitter tears of heart-felt pain
And flung my arms and gave a dreadful moan
The angst, the fear, the never-ending strain.
So then I knew what needed to be done;
I read a book so thickly stuffed with words
And every word shone brightly, dressed to stun;
The meanings fluttered ‘round, a flock of birds.
Oh, Basho, Whitman, many more delved I
I read until my eyes did cloud with sleep
All night I’d sit, so drenched in words divine
‘Til through the window dregs of light did creep.
Oh, how my heart did fly and my soul shook
To learn my love was simply just—a book.

Color Transformation Poem

For today and every day
I am cool and calm without dismay
Always polite, peaceful, perfunctory.
And when you care to talk to me
I listen with every sign of glee.
I am green, olive green, pond green
But really, underneath this thin green sheen
Is what most people have not seen.
Behind green skin, a seed of red,
But I guess it just exits within my head.
So when I go on home
And spend some time all alone
I am sharp, I can burn
My green disappears and red takes a turn
Do you know I sing, when there’s no one to hear?
But around people I can’t, I quiver with fear.
It’s like I’ve put my insides, my guts, my brain on a shelf
I guess it’s a shame I’m only red when I’m by myself.

On the Occasion of Having to Catch Some Mad Chipmunks that had Gotten into the House

The day before school
—This story begins—
I was getting ready for bed.
It was nine or so
And I was so tired
That I flopped to sleep in my clothes.
Then came a loud shout,
A screech of surprise
I jerked up and opened my eyes.
I walked to my door
And poked my head out
And saw my parents thunder by.
It seems that before
This evening began,
My cat had brought in some friends.
“Good lord,” chuckled I,
Chortling wickedly,
I watched, the drama unfolding.
My cat had captured
A chipmunk or two
And carried them into the house.
My dad scurried by,
A stewpot held high,
Trying to catch our furry friends.
It went on for hours,
My dad ran around,
Howling heart-felt four-letter words.
At last, at midnight,
There came a loud shout,
This time of glory and triumph.
The chipmunks had strayed
To the bathtub, it seems
And couldn’t scramble their way out.
My dad slammed the pot
Over the first chipmunk
And then briskly caught the other.
He flung them outside
With a furious cry
And snarled he was going to bed.

Companion Poem--Ode to a Sock

The Cremation of Sam McGee
By Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Companion Poem: Ode to a Sock

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
by people who toil for clothes
the washing machines have their secret gleams
that would make your blood run cold;
The dryer machine, queer things it has seen,
But the queerest it ever did see
Was that night of shock when I lost my sock
and screamed that I only had three.

Now socks should be not in groups of three, but in wholesome groups of two.
Why there were three in the washing machine all alone, God only knows.
I've always had four, but the washer door seemed to open into hell;
And so I said I'd much rather be dead, and from happiness I fell.

It was Christmas Day I was washing my way through my mountain of clothes.
Talk of your pain, of the housewife's bane, a chore that everyone loathes.
If my mouth I'd close, then my traitor nose would inhale an awful smell;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to labor was me in this hell.

And that very night, as I stuffed clothes tight in the drum inside the dryer,
And my dregs of soap, I began to mope, weren't enough for my attire.
I turned to see, and "Darn," said me, "I'll be without soap, I guess,"
With nothing to do but sit there and stew I sobbed from so much stress.

So time was at hand, I could no longer stand, and I gave a ghastly wail;
The worst part, you see, of what happened to me comes later in this tale.
I crouched on the ground, with an awful frown of such utter misery
And before midnight, sunk in my plight, I wept for poor little me.

I couldn't catch breath and I felt like death, so I promised, horror-driven
If no sock I could find, I'd lose my mind, because of this promise given.
So I stood with a start, and with glory at heart, I set out to find my sock
As time's running out, I begin to scout, ignoring the ticking clock.

With my promise made for my sock crusade, I began to look near and far
In the hours to come, though my heart was numb, I searched even inside my car.
In that long, long night, my eyes over-bright, while I flew and tore through my house,
I was the one who became undone--Oh God! How I foamed at the mouth.

At last I cried that with great pride I couldn't live or go on like this;
My spirit spent, to my room I went and embraced the chilliest kiss;
The night was bad, and I was quite mad, and I, for my sock, lay to rest;
And the trigger sprang with a dreadful bang--I knew it was for the best.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
by people who toil for clothes
the washing machines have their secret gleams
that would make your blood run cold;
The dryer machine, queer things it has seen,
But the queerest it ever did see
Was that night of shock when I lost my sock
and screamed that I only had three.