Connie Post Poetry Collection

Waking State-2005


Her Kitchen  ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~

She left the garden
Late one afternoon.
Left the soil and the small shovels,
The hand rakes and sprinklers.
She needed to go to the kitchen
Where the fine dust of dormant flour
Waited for her hands
Until they sprung to the cupboard,
Until her fingertips would transform
The flour to a tender crust
Until it would lattice itself upon
The juices and fruits of
Cobblers and tarts and
Rows of baked intimacies.
Waxed paper, steamed by the bottoms of
The undersides of freshly baked cookies
Left their marks
Long after the spatula had lifted them
When it was finally over,
She swept away the flour from her apron
Washed away the butter, molasses and eggs
She neatly, frantically, folded the pastry clothes
Put them away as they were memory
But the aromas lingered
Upon the curtains, the window still
And through to the garden sh thought she had left.
She vowed not to forget these scents
Not this time
Vowed to remember the building of
Kingdoms, laced in pastry
And the fine sugars that would blanket her
When her garden became covered in snow.

* "Her Kitchen"- 3rd honorable mention Byline Magazine-November 1999


At Times ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~

She would file her nails
At night
Down to the cuticle
Down to the bed
Where her tortured memories
Would lie
Along side her
And slowly
As the back and forth motions
The hard, protective cover
Would recede
And tell her more than she needed to know
About sharp, stabbing pains
And her need to file down rage.

* “At times”- First Honorable mention 78th Annual Ina Coolbrith Contest


Autistic Son, Almost 19 ~ Copyright by Connie Post ~

You are not merely metaphor
Trying to take shape in a poem
Not just stanza
Attempting perfect rhythm or cadence
You are not formal verse
Trying to make its way to a journal
Of high esteem or reputation
You were home last weekend
I put away my journals
Wiped mashed potatoes from your mouth
And picked up little crumbs of toast off the floor
Where you sat for breakfast.
Although I go to my desk again and again
I cannot seem to chisel out a sentence
That begins to tell your story
I cannot force myself to reduce your aphasia
To the very words you cannot speak
I put in another load of laundry
Write sentences that disappear before my eyes,
Run upstairs again to make sure your clothes are still dry
You kiss me on the forehead and all elusive alliterations fall away
A Sunday in October is over
You won’t be home again until Thanksgiving
The leaves in the front yard are turning color
Along with the shades of your disability
I look outside
My words fall from old trees
Blown and tousled by invisible wind
You come to find me
Its dinner time
Your shirt is on inside out
I leave it that way
I serve baked chicken
While a kitchen window remains open
A somber breeze blows through ripped holes in the screen
Like an allegory forgotten,
An autumn unheard

* “Autistic Son , Almost 19”- 2nd Honorable Mention 79th Annual Poets Dinner Contest