a Jar of Buttons
by Leola Harlan Crosley
copyright 2013 LLCrosley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This anthology of poetry was written during my time
as an Adult Learner at Penn State University.
manipulate words
give them substance and flavor
reach out take a bite
Table of Contents
assumptions
Villanelle of US in Hell
Grains of Sand
Wounded Apples
Buttons
Exhibitionist
La Luna
Rhythm
Winter
A Christmas Sonnet
Great Aunt
The Nightbook
Five Haikus
Johnny Envy
Ode to Microwave Popcorn
Ode to my Snuggies
My Doll "Tickles"
Under Control
CAT
Stay
Men
One Day in Town
Sacrifice
What-ever
Wordplay
assumptions
dirty car
accumulating layers of dusty grime
coating flaking peeling purple paint
angry eyed smiley face
etched in clay colored bumper
shadowy back street junky
shooting up hiding scrunching down
on stained and torn stinking back seat
metal music vibrating hollowly
through dead and dying brain cells
devoid of oxygen and respect
dirty car
accumulating layers of dusty grime
coating flaking peeling purple paint
funny smeared smiley face
etched in clay colored bumper
dotted with fingerprints
pariah of the parking lot
busy Mother shopping
dropping kids at band and doctor
working driving home on
dry dirt roads dust flying coating
dirty car
Villanelle of US in Hell
I spoke to my son late last night
of problems and conflict that astound.
I told him things will be all right.
We spoke of greed and fear and blight
in nature and man unbound.
I spoke to my son late last night.
I wondered, is it worth the fight?
Are all of us Hell-bound?
I told him things will be all right.
Should all of us be filled with fright?
Is the World so going-down?
I spoke to my son late last night.
But still, there’s reason to delight
in life and love and thoughts profound.
I told him things will be all right.
We must press on and this in spite
of adversity that surrounds.
I spoke to my son late last night
I told him things will be all right.
Grains of Sand
inspired by poet Louis Simpson's "American Poetry"
poetry is texture, is tangent
abstract as a Dalí, essence of words stretched,
twisted, imbued with meaning, shining
poetry absorbs nutrients from life and
death, animal, vegetable, and mineral
animate and inanimate dancing words
pliable as rubber, bounce back
ancient, hard, polished as anthracite, or
bituminous imprints, echoes of eternity
poetic language, rare and lethal as uranium,
glowingly translucent as moonlight or
irresistibly elusive as an eclipse
poetry defies explanation
it consumes you, possesses your soul inciting
anguish of words, sifting through grains of sand
searching for just the right one
Wounded Apples
Would eating an apple in class be rude?
Wandering, distracted glances at me--
weird adult learner snubbing convention,
weary of late afternoon hunger pangs,
wishing solitude as juice dribbles down
wrinkles, apple-etched, as mandibles bite
within crisp sweet flesh of Adam’s demise,
willing prey of Eve’s serpent enticements.
Woman’s fruit, an apple--rounded, fleshy
when young, firm, luscious, irresistible.
Wounded easily by a careless touch.
Withered by time as ripeness brings decay,
wanted only for poisonous use by
wicked step-mothers who don’t eat apples.
Buttons
Her sewing machine was heavy. It took two hands to lift the old Singer out of the table it folded into. Grandma used it often. She made bonnets and aprons, dresses and pants. Each scrap of fabric put aside for use elsewhere. Every button saved, if not used immediately, placed in a large square glass jar for future use. Quilts stitched together from tiny pieces of colorful fabric. I could look at a quilt and see bits and pieces of a dress, a bonnet, a scarf, a rainbow of remnants together as one. Some quilts held together with careful stitching, others with colorful buttons sewn through the layers, blended into the pattern.
a jar of buttons
jewels, gold doubloons, tiddly winks
a child’s treasure trove
Bored retired Grandpa took the unusable fabric scraps and would sit at the blue and chrome kitchen table and carefully pull the material apart thread by thread, and placed the threads in an empty butter tub. I would open the jar of buttons and stack the various sizes into button towers until they tumbled, scattering a delta of buttons over the tabletop. In the front room, the clickity-clack of the sewing machine left tracks of neat seams. Stitches running in straight lines down pant legs. Zig-zag marks around heart-shaped patches on the pants knees and rows of buttons sewn by hand up the outside seams of my groovy ‘70s bellbottoms.
Exhibitionist
I have wondered this for quite a while now
as I view the campus computer screen—
the lion’s image on the log-in page
wearing only a shirt and sunglasses.
Did he leave his pants in his dresser drawer?
(Assuming it’s a male of the species
who doesn’t mind going out about town
seen by thousands of students every day
no-pants half-naked in a public place).
Is his state of being dressed distressing?
Do the sunglasses hide embarrassment,
with him not wanting to be recognized?
Perhaps he likes exhibitionism.
Is this a normal thing for screen lions,
or only this one in particular?
La Luna
la luna llena
miradas por las nubes
la luz de las estrellas son pálidas
en el cielo de noche
la luz de la luna
fluye por los árboles
y acaricia el campo
con rayos plateados de luz
en el cielo claro
estrellas bailen en la noche
mientras la cara de la luna
sonrisas en el mundo
The Moon
the full moon
peeks through the clouds
starlight becomes pale
in the night sky
the moonlight
flows through trees
and caresses the countryside
with silvery rays of light
in the clear sky
the stars dance in the night
while the face of the moon
smiles on the world
Rhythm
I stand before the fallen giant
life and death before my eyes
its skeleton crushing
others who gave their lives
to cushion its mighty fall
the parted river made room
for fallen branches diverting flow
creating safe harbor
for silver fingerlings
and tiny black tadpoles
above, bare roots and branches
arch skyward reaching for Heaven
as the rhythm of the river
continues steady and strong
while life pulses beneath my feet
Winter
During the night
winter came.
It broke over the hills
and swept through the valleys
adding a layer of frosted purity
to tired Autumn leaves.
During the night
a blanket of white velvet
draped branches and buildings
enveloping the world,
creating a moment
of childlike wonder.
Winter came.
Silent white ribbons
muffling reverent vehicles
passing through forests
of snow-laden timber.
During the night
nature was reborn
as drab worldliness gave way
to Celestial brilliance.
While we slept,
winter came.
A Christmas Sonnet
climb the stairs into the attic
boxes of decorations on the floor
black Friday’s chaos was quite frantic
guided or misguided by holiday allure
crowds and lines and traffic unending
with cookies to bake and gifts to buy
relatives to call and cards to be sending
waiting for the big day to draw nigh
amidst the clamor and frustration
a small seed of something occurs
reflecting a need for quiet contemplation
when a feeling of peace soon stirs
on a day long ago in a place far away
into a world forlorn
the promise of ages a most special gift
Jesus the Christ was born
Great Aunt
Vaguely familiar faces pass by
rheumy eyes clouded with memories
wheezing lungs rattle in protest as
machines time each labored breath
the odor of age hangs in the air
invisible curtains of lives past
a tentative smile as I reach out and
touch blue veined tissue paper skin
a sense of complex cycles
a taste of my probable future
The Nightbook
my mind is a steel trap set in a sieve
where sometimes ideas are caught tightly
or glide along the edge of consciousness
good lines captured in the dead of the night
that if not written are lost in the dark
searching for missing words in the daylight
but like night mist they are gone with the dawn
I try to remember to write them down
when my misty sleep bathed mind conjures them
too deeply down in the valley of dreams
to reach out and touch the reality
of the notebook, the nightbook in the hall,
there for the intention of catching thoughts
that glide elusively through my dream time
Five Haikus
blind television
lost the satellite signal
blame it on the wires
the voice pleads softly
my spirit patiently waits
and begs me listen
aromatic air
the dog looks at me and smiles
they blamed it on her
feline fur so soft
she graced me with her presence
sneezing would be rude
manipulate words
give them substance and flavor
reach out take a bite
Johnny Envy
I never had a Barbie doll
to live through her fanciful dreams of fashion and fantasy
the perfect hairdo the perfect gown for
shimmering Balls where Barbie jerkily hopped to silent music
stiff hair barely moving
lotus feet pressed into tiny high-heeled shoes or
legs twisted into go-go boots
head popped-off jammed onto a different body
to facilitate outfit change
from poofy pink gown to sporty short set
to Grandma-made homespun dresses
frozen smile in opposition to
fanciful dreams of freedom from fashion
I had a horse and rider
to live through them fanciful dreams of daring deeds
galloping across wind-swept prairie on faithful steed Comanche
adventurous Johnny West
rustic brown vest, chaps, and Stetson
shotgun hanging from Comanche’s saddle
pistol fit in molded plastic hand
Johnny the Knight on a white stallion rescuing from danger
blue plastic Tinkerbell with golden embroidery-floss ponytail
My sister’s Barbie is jealous.
Ode to Microwave Popcorn
I once popped corn
in a pan on the fiery stove-top burner
loose-fitting lid searing exposed arms
a labor of love, no other reason
for smoky kitchen air and
greasy burned popcorn
and greasy burned fingers
then poppers that stirred kernels in
butter flavored fat till popped, then
tip popper upside down and tah-dah!
a dripping oil serving bowl
Air poppers! noisy and great fun for
popping corn for Christmas tree strings
pour measured amount into pre-heated vortex
then watch popcorn explosion commence
the evolution of popcorn popping
resulted in the wonder of microwave popcorn!
no longer just an occasional treat,
popcorn at the touch of a button
portable three fold kraft bags available in
Light! Butter! Extra Butter! Kettle Corn!
Single Serving! Family Size! Gourmet!
life made easier for connoisseurs of
American born treat evolved from
iron age times of shaking sauce pans
now safe from molten magma grease
Microwave Popcorn changed the world!
Ode to my Snuggies
Ridiculed phenomenon
of rainbow warmth
in pink blue green burgundy
zebra stripes, leopard print
decorative and useful
soft and cuddly
one size fits all
in drafty farm houses
during howling winters with
belching faulty furnace
cat-attracter to fleecy laps
to tunnel in attached sleeves
purrfectly pleasant for
Sunday afternoon cat-naps
For human and feline
On deep cushioned recliner
My Doll “Tickles”
I had a doll when I was a kid
with the unlikely name of “Tickles”
she was a favorite of mine in a much younger time,
a time when I didn’t like pickles
for batteri
es there was a place
I suppose she once could speak
but the plate that covered the battery space
was missing, for it in vain I did seek
they told me she giggled when you pulled on a string
the string with a ring it went missing
her eyes opened and closed when she was upright or prone
her face I was constantly kissing
I loved her so long her hair was all gone
Grandma promised to make her a wig
materials were scarce so her hair it was sparse
and for a child’s doll, she was big
she slept with her head upon my little pillow
until Grandma bought a wooden doll’s bed
she shared it with some of my lesser loved dolls
under a colorful small quilt that was red
her arms and her legs they were jointed
and many times she had been anointed
by water, milk, juice or the puppy
her beauty was lost but still I felt I was lucky
I had her for years and carried her around
in my arms or dragged on the ground
in her honor mommy bought for me at the Mall
a little book titled “The Best Loved Doll”
CAT
it tore me away from my soft blanket
my warm hearth
my food bowl
it forced me into a cardboard carton
i didn’t like it
i scratched
i clawed
i bit
it howled with pain
i smiled satisfied
then, alone and scared
thrown from a moving car
box smashed through bush and briar
i howled from anger and pain and fright
i scratched
i clawed
i bit
the box defeated
i am free
i am alone
threatening sounds