Anya Sees the Gulf of Mexico

Finally I have finished (I think) my poem about this picture of Anya. I've been working on it for several weeks. I think this might be the last draft I make, at least for a while. I hope you enjoy it.

Anya Sees the Gulf of Mexico

Corpus Christi wind whips
her red hair.
Grainy sand rubs
against her feet and hands.

Brown, pink, blue, and green
striped bum
doesn't quite touch
the sand
as she crouches low,
for she doesn't want to get dirty.
Mother says
she must wear pants,
so they compromise
and she wears
her favorite shorts
over them.

Cerulean shovel
matches the sky,
matches the water
that laps up on her feet.

She digs to China,
will sail to the distant country
on the USS Lexington
that sits at bay
across the water
a couple hundred feet.
She'll cuddle
with the pandas,
talk to them,
roll around with them,
gnaw on bamboo with them,
sleep with them.
And when she wakes
she'll venture
back to Corpus Christi
and her family.

Anya sees the Gulf of Mexico.
She soaks in the sun,
imagines,
digs.

after the magic

This is my latest poem. The assignment was to write a non-sentimental poem about Christmas. I tried to stay true to our family's Christmas morning, though I may have exaggerated the negative for the purposes of the assignment. I just want that to be clear so you don't think all I remember is the bad. I basically took a spin on some of my best holiday memories.

After the Magic

Branches hang limp and tired after being cut

from their roots two days after Thanksgiving.

Hundreds of needles blanket the floor,

and the green Sprite bottle that Dad rigged

to water the trunk

sits on the rust-colored carpet.

Sweet smells of pine, frosted cookies, German pancakes, syrup,

and smoke from an old, dirty wood-burning fireplace

are gross smells to tired noses.

Presents have been opened and sit idly on the floor

amid green, red, and gold bows and paper--
Christmas vomit--

that only hours before had been beautifully wrapped

around big and little rectangle boxes and stuffed beneath the tree.

Cabbage Patch dolls, bright pink Barbie cars,

jeweled trolls with blue and orange and green hair,

Legos, Connects, Micro Machines,

makeup, CD players, and New Kids on the Block posters

now lie scattered around the room.

Chocolate oranges cracked against the hard piano bench,

lifesaver books torn apart by sticky fingers,

and seven pairs of bleary eyes look around the room,

one big holiday mess,

and no one can eat breakfast

until the paper has been burned in the fireplace

and the bows have been gathered in garbage bags,

imitations of Santa's bundle,

and saved for next year.

"Don't touch my cars!"

"Give me back my Barbie!"

"We're going to be late to Grammy's house!"

"Come help me set the table!"

"Don't burn those bows!"

"It's my turn to take a shower!"

"You're not helping clean up!"

The holiday magic has been replaced by the whines of children and parents who awoke

three hours before the sun came up.