to you

I don't generally write poetry "to people"--and it's generally not because I don't like them--a high honor is to get poetry dedicated to one, to be diaried or blogged about, or to get foisted with a lot of artwork. There are a few people who get all three. Teacher Sandy is one of them.

I Remember
I remember when you demonstrated the step,
It was the most graceful one I'd ever seen.
And your hair was pulled back like a professional dancer's.

I remember the steps.
I remember the pictures.
I remember the music.
I remember the stories.

I remember the goodbye.

I remember the rainy nights when rain was forgotten.
I remember when I brought the Andean music.

I remember all the barre excersises--
Tendus, rond de jambes, frappes--
I remember the preschool artwork.
I still have the one picture I found on the floor.

I remember the heat wave.
I remember the most terrible September.
I knew you all that time.

I remember the kicks.
I liked the one where you did a flourish first.
I think I was kicking higher when I ended than when I first began.

I remember the last day--
Not in the beloved cozy upstairs room,
But in the gym with watching parents.
I remember the tears
And the sadness.

I remember.

And there are others, too--the thing about this sort of poetry is that sometimes you don't even want the person it's dedicated to to read it. Wierd, I know. But that's the way I am.

A Phone Call Away
It was a sunny day when I picked up the phone
And dialed with trembling fingers.
And got an answering machine.

So I left a message and walked away.
Then I got a call.

The sun was still shining, the breezes still blowing
Through the open windows,
Ruffling my hair, as I hung on to every word.

Jotting down notes, sighing with relief,
Smiling,
Talking,
Listening.

And I had what I needed.
It was just a phone call away.

Length of poems doesn't mean a thing. My cinquain is probably the most important one--except, I'm not going to post it on this blog. Sorry. I did write another short poem that says a lot, I think.

Tsunami
"This is what I lost," she said,
Holding up a picture of a little boy.

What is poetry, anyhow? My uncle the American Bison says that: "Poetry could be all a bunch of thought trying to get out and if we don't write it down we would just burst." I like that. But I want a more scientific definition. I like scientific definitions when they involve me.

This is a very long post so I will quit. Have a good day!
Saro
P.S. please comment if you have a scientific definition or opinion about poetry or PLEASE comment on my poems!