Thursday, April 22, 2021

Sister Moon

 Thanks to The Wild Word for publishing my poem: Sister Moon on their wonderful site: 

Sister Moon

Born under the sign of the moon,
my face as pocked-marked,
as splotched and undefinable
In junior high school when
it mattered
I wanted to wear the veil
of the penitent

My sister, the actual moon,
is the pretty one
her pitted skin character-filled
mysterious
holding secrets
men can’t wait to breach

Mine just a red boiling mess
Boys take one look and don’t even
try to cover their snot-filled
snickers in the hallways,
nudging each other
and their smooth skinned
cheerleader girlfriends

No one ever says “pizza face”
But I heard their thoughts
on the celestial channel
My compensation for
not knowing the call letters
of the earthly frequency

My mother’s soothing words
and foul-smelling potions
can’t hide the truth
Ugly sister
Plain sister

But the moon and I commune
at night under the covers
the way sisters do
soothe each other, she worries
about disappearing every month,
fading away, what if she never returns?

We plot our escape together
the moon and I
When it is her time to hide and mine
to stay behind, tonight,
we will fly away,
past Saturn’s blingy rings
Jupiter’s big red lip
brighter than a thousand suns
swinging round the universe
streaming to pierce the veil
of Creation

our two halves
whole
and luminous
as a nebula.


Friday, April 2, 2021

Pan de mik Anthology on the Pandemic

 I was pleased and delighted to be included in the Oregon Poetry Associations new anthology pan de mik An Anthology of Pandemic Poems. Here are my two:


                                                    




Friday, March 5, 2021

Two Poems in a Woman's Voice

 I guess that's what I do, write in a woman's voice. So I am delighted that Beate Sigriddaughter published to of my poem in her lovely blog: Writing in a Women's Voice. 

One is a reprint, Six Feet, which was first in Headline Poetry and Press, and the other unpublished previously: Mrs. Sisyphus Sweeps Acorns.


Six Feet                                                         

 

The length of my dog’s leash. Meeting another,

twelve feet between wary humans,

            dogs sniff nose to nose.  

Longing.

 

How tall my father was, or so he said, but

            you couldn’t always trust

everything he said.

Ask mom.

 

The width of a cell in San Quentin Prison, 

            not counting men stacked in bunks

stale air, no phone call.          

No defense.

 

The distance between two not-yet-lovers, masked

            strangers, no touch but eyes

            no hands, no mouths.

Alone together.

 

The depth of the average grave, except in genocides,

war, and pandemics like this one

when you have to share.

Don’t die.

 

The width of my queen size mattress, enough 

            for two, most nights. Sometimes

            I want it all for myself.

Tonight you stay.


 

 

Mrs. Sisyphus Sweeps Acorns                                                        

 

There he goes, hands greased against the strain

pushing that rock up that hill again and again

my man, following unheard commands, good

for nothing

 

So I take up my broom, wired for work

for sweeping the fallen nuts

of end of summer harvest, acorns on the path

we trod morning and night

 

Tripping hazards, as the rock my man’s

invitation to disaster, a race

he can’t win, but might kill  him

in trying

 

Better he should tinker

under the hood of some old car

the neighbors say, tsking like

the old women of Chekov

 

a dead Triumph or maybe a Ford

Better to stall the old mower

on the tall crunch of weeds

or get acorns in the gears

 

No, he’s got to show the gods how tough

he is, rugged man who can muscle

a boulder over and over

to no purpose whatsoever

 

and me left here to sweep piles

satisfying anyway to fill the cans

with fruit to feed the birds

and crafty critters of the night

 

Women’s work, say the neighbors,

is useful, but why not plant a different

tree, one that bears apples

pears, or sticky black figs

 

Why not store up for coming winter

the slippery path, the boulder’s relentlessness

that bodes a mutual harvest

an inevitable ending of this myth

Because no matter how hard we try

there is no end of the path

no rainbow sign

no happy ending

 

Say what you will, consistency

has its rewards, acorns fall, rocks

roll on, entropy sustains us

in the ongoing saga of never.

Tuesday, March 2, 2021

New Poem - His Mother in the Bello Gardens

 

My prose poem His Mother in the Bello Gardens is up at Sheila-Na-Gig today: 
 
 

His Mother in the Bello Gardens

 
When he visits his mother in the Bello Gardens, she doesn’t know who he is; he doesn’t know who she is for that matter, but he pretends. It’s expected. “Look it’s your son” chirps the attendant whose name is Sheridan. What have they done with his mother? 
 
When he was a boy she gave him pet names, raspberries in his ears; he loved the wetness of them, the buzzing sound. His laughter could fill the outdoors. She named the birds for him. The trees. The blades of grass. He called her Mommy, then Mom. Later, she always wore whatever present he brought her, sweater from Filene’s upstairs, not the basement, not for his blessed Mommy/Mom; perfume he knew she didn’t really like, but he liked to smell it on her; it reminded him of the vastness of the backyard when he was young, Mommy searching for her lost boy hiding behind the large oak tree with the branch that held his swing, trying not to laugh. She wore his sweaters and perfume and one year a funny Easter bonnet, ears and all. 
 
The son is surprised every time he visits her just a random old lady; they all look alike, smell alike; all the sons look alike too, well fed, red-faced, confused in the atrium, and the attendants named Sheridan or Casper or Malachi, in the Bello Gardens on a sunny day in December.
 
 
Dotty LeMieux
sheilanagigblog.com
 

Dotty LeMieux’s work has appeared in Rise Up Review, Painted Bride, Writers Resist, Gyroscope, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Poetica Review, Poetry and Covid and other publications.

Thursday, February 25, 2021

Chapbooks Through the Years


 CHAPBOOKS THROUGH THE YEARS

Here is a picture of my four chapbooks through the years. Not in order. Five Angels, the smallest one, is the first, 1976, from Five Trees Press Then Let Us Not Blame Foolish Women, 1983, with cover by Donald Guravich, Tombouctou Books. Next The Land, Also cover by Donald Guravich, 1988, by Smithereens Press and last but not least Henceforth I Ask Not Good Fortune, 2021, cover art (but not design) also by Donald, just out and available from Finishing Line Press!


Tuesday, January 12, 2021

Piles of Books!

 First, I am humbled to have received such a wonderful tribute from a delightful writer, Christie Nelson, author of of Beautiful Illusion, a book that truly should be made into a full length feature film:

Dear Dotty,

First, congratulations on the most handsome and splendid publication of Henceforth/Ask not Good Fortune.  I was enthralled from the first poem to the last.  It would be remiss not to tell you I consumed all the poems in one gulp.  Of course, the night was black as pitch, silent as an empty church, and I was in need of a deep drink of humanity.  Your poems opened my soul and put me to rest.  

While prose writing is challenging, to be a poet takes an extraordinarily special lens.  Yours is that talent.  How many times have I sat in my car at a red light to watch a poor soul make her way across the street and shake my head in wonderment?  How many times have I marveled at unaccompanied minors dance along the sidewalk in my hometown and sorrowed at the children in cages on the border?  Kissing Toothbrushes?  Conversation snooping at San Rafael Joe’s?  These are only a few of my favorites.   

 Hometown Poet, I salute you!

 With respect and admiration,

Christie

 Next, here is the box of books, many promised but some still available and of course, always available for sale from Finishing Line Press.