Category Archives: Poetry

“You taste of ocean,” you said.

We arrived when the tide was turning, pulling up
her hem like a mother who’d never once forgotten
she was a woman first and always. I went down

to her edge, surely just to my ankles, I thought,
but she lapped my legs and clapped her bawdy castanets
on sand bars ever just up ahead… “Come!”

she laughed. Not one to resist the tease of salt I waded in,
she, nipping at my calves then knees then place of joy
I never could quite help in spite of myself. Further and further

I went, shallow then deep then shallow again,
turning and squinting into the sun now and then to find the shore
of your long arms waving. Surprised, every time,

I’d wave back, only to be pulled away once again
by riptides of once upon and ever after, and all the things
I could only ever feel, without breaking, in the ocean.

(c) Heidi Fischbach, 2010

Wanted: Sweet Relief

April is National Poetry Month. This one’s been brewing for months. It’s getting there.

What Wants Saying

Merchants of luxury trade in securities
back and forth and up and down the walled
streets of restless minds, selling lies
of commission, omission, and so-called re-
mission to save us from what
we never asked for saving from,
never listening for what
really wants saying, lost
as it is in the nah-nah-nah-noise,
static electricity, lint of too much spin
cycle, re-leftovered ten too many
times ticker taping two-bit drones
along the barbwire guarded margins
of our strip malled minds.

Are you exhausted yet?

Spare a change for the homeless,
that’s your mother on the street.

Spare a moment for the homesick,
put some ground beneath their feet.

Spare a nickel for your freedom,
bareback horses on the beach.

Spare a lifetime for some sadness,
welcome motion, sweet relief.

(c) Heidi Fischbach 2010

Essence of You-ness

I got myself an itty bitty mortar ‘n’ pestle,
a present for the hard stuff
to get to the sweet stuff inside
things like a vanilla bean
and a cardamom pod
and a restless, tired mind,
which I crushed and added to a sexy Bosc pear
sauteing it all on low flame
with a splash of barrel-aged balsamic
to tease the sweetness out.

Won’t you join me please? You:
who just called yourself a name. And you:
who bit your tongue not to. And you:
who had a drink too many. And you:
who had a drink too few. And you:
dreaming at your desk job. And you:
making a go of it alone. And you:
paired with the love of your life. And you:
out there on your own. And you:
who just flipped your monster the finger,
then hugged him to make up. And you:
who got out of bed anyway. And you:
who couldn’t. And you:
with all the hats. And you:
who can’t find yours. And you:
with the mammogram to get to. And you:
who haven’t had one yet. And you:
cowering in the closet. And you:
cleaning yours out. And you:

that’s right, you:

Won’t you come dip your finger
into this essence of goodness that is you?

Heidi’s Table

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