Yin-Yang #1 (Poetry Pair)

A fellow poet coined the phrase "bummer poem," and when one comes along, I find it nice to unleash its counterpart, restoring balance to the complex universe of emotions shared with an audience.

 

Yin: Polyester Seas

Slowly I burrow under the mounds of cotton and polyester. The printed flowerbeds punctuated by cool rubber soles of tennis shoes and sharp edges of Sunday's best. Here in my cell the temperature rises. Folded between cool clothes and dry, hard tile, I disappear as the Valley heat makes the upstairs off-limits to grown-ups. I hope it lasts, this heat wave that makes them lazy: those big brown hands with matching plain gold rings. All four brown hands obey the blonde one with his stubbly face and wispy hair that blows off in a strong wind. His pair are softer and more severe. Hers are calloused, and reluctant - at least at first.
 
Sweat stings my eyes and dampens the long beige hair, and the tangles turn to knots, but the salty thirst feels safe: the taste of being left alone. Alone below the sea of children's clothes - enough to start a thrift store - but each piece must find its way to the closet or the drawers. It better be done by six, when the blonde one comes home. It's a job for a big girl, not little kids. Almost six means being responsible. Almost six is almost going to school, is in charge, in charge of the room and in charge of bath time. This mess is someone's fault! not the little kids.
 
Her fault; almost six and she didn't clean up her things and their things, and all the things that flock together like a school of fish, too many to count, bright and colorful until the shark comes and throws them everywhere and almost six has to start over. Tossed back with the fish, back into the ocean of polyester flowers, with purple trees and red roses decorating the arms and legs that the brown hands took, because "clean up your room! doesn't mean naptime."

Yang: Summer Swing

wind rushes underneath

like a Nike swoosh launching the pilot into the sky

Just Do It! Higher, higher

Reach for the sky!

The golden legs stretch upwards

as far as the chain allows,

then, Snap!

The pilot throws it in reverse,

watching the trees move away

like a video rewind.

The hot rubber stings through the cotton,

the molten metal links merge with the tiny grasp

swoosh

swoosh

swoosh

the tiny white hairs dance

on the wiry arms who've found their favorite

swoosh, swoosh, Swoooshhh!

the sun and clouds - in rhythm -

tangle with grass and trees and steel

swoosh-swoosh-swoosh

Can't touch this!