Sample Poems by Kelley Jean White
1900-1993
I am not in the picture, but it was I who suggested
the pose as Joy Luck Club, and so there is Betty,
alive with her three daughters, and Mary with Happy
and Joy, and Kathleen with Ruth, and Grace with Gladys
and the cousin whose name I never knew; black hair,
black eyes, black silk, black satin, black brocade;
a hand on a shoulder, a hand on the back of a chair,
red upholstery, Chinese women in America, with
the red lacquered imitation Well of Heaven overhead,
mouths held not in smiling or in pain, faces with
the calm, the peace, the dignity, the pride of Yang
Thieu Sieu-Yoeh, daughters and granddaughters;
my children and I, in red and black, brown-headed,
faces uncomposed, just outside the camera’s range.
2/22/2000
The stepping stone
has reappeared.
Snow melt makes a
perfect lake with
walls of sheer cut
gray. Happy the
small white stones, three,
islands now; still
world ringed by bright
green; grass, tiny
leaves dividing
bricks, a bitten
root. Fierce the face
of evergreen,
dandelion, thyme.
Green stays, is, lives.
Acceptance
like snow, flakes falling
in not quite frozen air,
lush silent blossoms
piling on mud and excrement
like a cool lake
salt clean shimmer
over limbs now smooth
muscles unburdened, ready,
awake but dreaming
like sweet water perfection
to ivory calm breath
ice melt cascade memory
clear awakened
like a cadenced whisper
a blessing kissed
against my ear sharp
as pine speaking
true rest
After the Second Arrest
“The dirigible,
oh see the dirigible,
it is pulled by swallows
with brightly colored ribbons,
all the little animals are waving. . .”
his hands come up to his chest
slow slow drumsticks
plucking at tubes and leads. . .
“so beautiful, it floats
so gently, do you hear
the music, do you know
the name of that song?”
not much left of his heart. . .
“and the cheering
of the people, faces
on the clouds,
babies, smiling,
they hold flowers. . .”
skin varnished, alarm yellow,
eyes black, lips dry, dry white hair,
blood in the urine bag. . .
“you can read about it here:
‘the priests and principles
have proclaimed a festival,’
see, flags and offerings. . .”
feet shifting
the green foam slippers
off and on. . .
“Look, a biplane pulling a banner.
The pilot is my brother.
It is landing on the window sill,
a carpet of roses, unrolling. . .”
too often we get to write this poem.
Afterall
I asked for darkness and got too much
light it blurs your faces and the faces flow
one into another water is a miracle and
stone has the most amazingly architecture
ladders and arrows running into my heart
the light drowns out your voices remember
I could never hear what you said without
my glasses on and everything tastes of bright
sugar hard as your father’s thumbnail and twice
as sharp there might be music if I could tune
out the blazing cold there might be a tree
beyond the ice fields birds I see them beaks
curved and dazzling stringing my hair into
the stars if you look up you can trace the
outline of my teeth my jaw bone the old scar
of my cheek rising just below Cassiopeia
seated broken-backed unbedded Queen.
Album
There is no picture
of the butcher’s daughter,
just her three girls, 1930,
on the back stoop,
identical squints beneath
cloche hats, rich people’s castoffs,
hair cut squat behind their ears
status post-mastoidectomy,
here the human cannonballs
pose for a picture,
in streetclothes, 1941, heads
with thrown back laughter
before my mother
makes her last try
to run with the carnival,
now skinny death comes into
the hospital room, 1963,
behind Aunt Blanche’s
straight black seamed stockings,
and leaves The Watchtower
under the waterglass,
and the sisters line up
on the boardwalk, 1990, festive
headscarves tied tight
faces bleached white,
status post cardiac by-pass cracked chests,
status post-mastectomy.