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a Jar of Buttons

Leola Harlan Crosley


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

  hid dirty brown roads

  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

  heated oil splashed out from jostling

  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