by Nicole Barth [10/7/09]

A variation of blues hits me as I sit down on the hard, cold seat in the silver container. The screeching halts and persistent rocking are something I’ve gotten used to. The scent of an elderly woman who has bathed herself in perfume wafts through the air and strongly asserts its presence. It’s gross. A low hum of overlapping voices vary in pitch under the steady monotone of the train chugging along. We are momentarily brought out of obscurity while crossing the bridge into Manhattan and are thrown back into darkness. The lights-like little flashes of lightning- guide the way for this heavy metal limo. Grand street. Here, the cemented tiles on the wall are no longer smooth and polished like they once were. Cracks trickle through them like protruding veins as the dirt accumulates on them. Different colors are pushed out of the train: A red head, a brunette, a blond. The “Big Booty song” begins beside me in between fits of laughter.

Thirty more minutes until I’m home!

Nonno by Nicole Barth [7/15/10]

How do you expect the unexpected?
You and I both know the final page was coming.
The grandfather clock,
that timeless man in the corner,
has chimed for the last time.


But don't you cry for him,
his pale blue eyes had seen the skies
and known the love of famiglia,
he'd fought for years
and never let his one lung get the best of him.


She still remembers sitting at the dining room table
on the patio outside,
the perfectly groomed grass
caressing the tiles around them,
on a late Friday night in summer,


filled to the brim with Carla's lasagna
and endless melon with prosciutto,


mesmerized by his discussions on business
and the proper way to live.


Zoom the camera in,
and you'll see
—in the corner—

that girl in the obsidian dress,
the river of mascara
following the cracks in her skin
as her mouth sews itself shut
by using the thread of grief.


Funny how women
have taken the little black dress
from place to place...


The timeless piece of clothing, they say
—like the grandfather clock—
but that girl's dress has yet to live.


It's seen the flickering candles and the
sugary frosting of sweet sixteen cakes,
but it's never tasted the salty tears of a funeral.
A dress has never been worn until it's seen it all.


Biting her chapped lip
to keep the remorse from
gushing from her onto the wooden
church's pews,
her drowning eyes search for a distraction,
a momentary pause
from the distilled silence.


It doesn't matter that her her shins are aching
because of her heels
which force her to survey
the morose catastrophe
from a greater distance,

as she dries her eyes with her fists,
further smudging the ink
that has clearly written her emotions on her face.


She will not
—she cannot—
bring herself to run her fingers
along the varnish of his maple box...


for that is what she tells herself.
Merely a box,
merely a resting place for something that is no longer there.
Someone? That is no longer there....


But it's not just a box, to her.
And it's not just someone.


A shaky breath,
a chorus of sniffles.
she feels the air catch and rattle in her chest
as she sighs,
trying to alleviate the sinking
feeling that courses through her,
bringing her in an out of focus.


The whispered,
“Era un uomo incredibile,”
back to the feeling of nausea
that threatens to bubble over
within her.


She's shaking like a leaf
as the room moves in sluggish circles around her,
she can hardly breathe,
as she silently screams,


her eyes clawing for a distraction
as they skitter from the overly colorful,
fuchsia, burgundy and scarlet,
overly cheery bouquets
in the porcelain vases


by its..
no...
his
coffin


back down to her own
exposed
toes.


The flowers on her summertime heels
make her want to vomit.


They told her heels would
be the proper attire for such a serious occasion as this.


But tell me... how are
flowered peep-toes appropriate for an occasion like this?


And tell me....
How do you expect the unexpected?

Charlie by Nicole Barth [10/4/09]

You have three ebony buttons tightly sewn into your cotton-ball face.

cow patterned pink & black pebbles cushion your steps as

you discover trouble.

The sound of the bell laced around your neck is fair warning to all.

The hyperactive monkey is coming their way.

You are the devious demon with

saws for teeth,

the terrible tyke disguised in perfectly deceiving packaging.

You are the velcro-attached ball of lint that bites

MY ankles.

You would be just another snowball in the midst of a storm.

You are the rabbi, cloud and plush toy jumble that I

Love so dearly

….Most of the time.

What is Laughter? by Nicole Barth [10/4/09]

To me, it’s always been relatively simple to explain.

It’s the scintillating, reoccurring rush of warm tea

suddenly lining the inside of your heart.

It can strike as quickly as a flash of lightning

and be gone in an instant…

It is a contest of who can show their chicklets the longest.

For some, it is the sound of wind chimes emanating from their soul.

For others, it is an eager yet welcomed roar from within.

Either way, there’s no denying the sound of it bounces off walls,

into your mouth and becomes contagious.

" I am" by Nicole Barth [10/13/09]

Twisted tangles resemble tumble weeds
that are also known as my hair. Ugh. Six o’clock:
Do I have to get out of bed? Pants are completely
overrated; and I’d rather wear my plush pajama pants that
are comfy, seriously. Comfy.

THE MEANING OF 10 (and estimating) by Nicole Barth [2/8/10]

Your cannibalistic voice devours

the root of my courage

as I stand before you like a crumbling tower.

The numerical interrogation

has now been ensnared in my mind –

my befuddled brain dripping

like a leaking faucet

with hysteria.

“This is no trigonometric function”,

your platonic countenance spits...

“...merely a manageable integer...”

Jaw clenches like a steel trap

while anxiety short - circuits

the connection between common sense

and my lips.

“Somewhere around 80,00?....Or eight million?”

You silently berate me.

The beauty painted onto my face cracks –

a broken vase.

Obsidian ink streams

out of every aperture,

creating a patchwork of smut.

You apologize

but

my transparent eyes have already shattered.

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY by Nicole Barth [1/5/10]

If you're reading this poem, I think it's safe to say my life needs saving.

Let's start off with the basics:

If the world is crashing down on my shoulders,

turn to page 54 in the handbook and proceed to hug me tightly...

If I complain, hug me tighter.

I passed out?

You must have tied a ribbon around a horse and promised me

it was mine.

Page 75 says you should have known better...

Tell me my hair is on fire and I'll snap out of it.

Apparently I'm starving to death-

chocolate revives anyone, don't you know that?

In case I wish I were actually dead,

proceed to pull inflatable object from under your seat

and inflate my ego with the pump provided.

But if it really is too late-

and I've predictably failed to solve the geometric

proof as to why Dumbledore and Oompa Loompas would be best friends

while being held at gunpoint-

then I suppose there are a few things you should know...

I should have snuck out of the house at least once...

I've tried to be the best person I could be,

fix my tattered and rather complex relationship with my mother,

be there for my brother when he needs me the most,

act responsibly for my father,

work hard to achieve my goals-

but most of all to always help the people I love.

And if I've failed to brighten your day,

then -

please-

take every last piece of my smile,

every wind chime from my laughter

until there is nothing left of me.

ODE TO THE FAMILIAR MARE by Nicole Barth [1/3/10]

Most women would appreciate having their face described

before anything else,

so why should a mare be any different?

Her velvet-like maw has been dipped

in obsidian ink

as it remains silent;

clandestinely waiting

to spill all the frantically uttered secrets

that have been whispered into

her apostrophe-like ears,

reminding us all with those

grammatically correct

audio parts that

they have heard

and know all of our deepest

musings.

Moving back down now,

along the dished slope

of her elegantly chiseled face

-you could swear she was sculpted out of granite-

a sea of azure and captivating emerald

coils around you

luring you in like sirens

on the shore.

Those eyes of hers

are as symmetrical

and poetically simple

as an almond

sitting on your

well-worn, oak

dining room table.

She seems to have taken

the standard of femininity

to a whole new level....

Her eye lashes are

four times longer than

any super-model's on the runway,

and yet she basks in her

luck; all the while oblivious

to her good fortune.

You see,

she does not flaunt

her grace like

all the proper and prim

women strutting their stilletoed

boots down the East side.

No,

her elegance lies within

the sleek curve extending

from the end of her withers to

the top of her rump like

one perfectly singular wave

in the midst of an otherwise

calm ocean,

in the champagne flutes

that are her slender legs -

more muscled than a marathoner

and more effective than a waif in VOGUE.

Their starved -

or nauseatingly thin frames,

if we want to be even more

politically correct-

skeleton-like bodies

could never hold

1,300 pounds of sheer muscle

like hers,

now could they?

Each muscle ripples and coils

like an agitated spring as

she catapults herself over

wooden trucks, boats,

miniature houses

-oh yeah!-

and logs

that are in her path.

Her mahogany pelt

is dappled and lustrous

as a smooth sheen is evident

beneath her rope-like tresses

after a not so lazy Sunday afternoon.

Most would claim she is merely a horse,

an emotionless and rather unintelligent

beast.

Nothing more

Nothing less...

But I beg to differ.