| Chicken Little It is odd to look up and see no planes. How can the government close the sky? Was God temporarily moved to a small, basement office with no windows? Did they make the angels into political prisoners? Was a clean storage room offered for their wings? The clouds didn't give their opinion they are lazy and silent, everyone knows that. Then, the helicopters, buoyed by the unsuspecting wind, crown our heads. We have put our security into the hands of the missile holders, the ones with shaky fingers desiccated from Parkinsons, trembling, quaking, praying behind bullet-proof glass. Previously published in Mother Earth Journal copyright 2005 Angela M. Mendez |
| From Poet's Pockets Some of us steal time: pocket watches, grandfather clocks, travel alarms...... all the things that, in time, will have no place. We surround ourselves with seconds, wrestle in the mud of minutes, hang on to the hem of hours. I steal words: remove them from unprotected tongues, pick them from poet's pockets, lift them from library books. One day someone will open up Tolstoy and find blank pages and I will laugh at their shock and as I go to console them I will grab their words of dismay and run. Performed by East Haddam Stage Co copyright 2005 Angela M. Mendez |
Downtown I met you Downtown in the center of Chaos at the corner of Grief and Suicide across from Depression. I turned my head to scream and there you were holding out a naked hand. Where are your gloves, I asked. You giggled. I watched your small lips move. "It's September, stupid." I remembered Audrey Hepburn's long, white gloves. A beautiful woman should always wear gloves, i thought. I glanced down at my bare hands. As if reading my mind, you grabbed my hands, turned it up and kissed my palm. I felt your small lips move and forgot where I was. Previously published in "What It's Like to Love A Woman" anthology copyright 2005 Angela M. Mendez |
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| Probably Christ probably wouldn't be able to drive past a trio of telephone poles without having an anxiety attack Adam probably hates apple pie as much as Eve hates snakes and Mary Magdalene would probably stand on the cobblestone streets of Boston and cry because anything can remind you of something you need to forget Publication upcoming in Angel Face copyright 2005 Angela M. Mendez |
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| POEMS BY ANGELA M. MENDEZ |
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