Diane Elayne Dees

Diane Elayne Dees Poems

Chopping raisins is punishment called a chore.
The sticky blade will not cut.
Chop, run water, wipe.
...

It doesn't seem like seven years have passed
since we first saw the smoke and heard the blast.
When traumatized, a slowing down is needed,
...

The truth is like ink that leaks from a pen
no matter how careful you are filling the nib.
The truth is like the gel you place under
...

A twelve-year-old boy, kidnapped in Iraq
and held for ransom. The family paid-
his sexually abused body then found
...

This is not the tennis you learned in school
in New York, California or Wisconsin.
This is dirty. Socks turn red, feet slide
like sandpaper on the smoothest pine
...

My father stands behind my mother;
he guides her hands on his favorite rifle.
Behind them is a weathered shed;
...

Tar balls appear thirty miles
from my from my front door.
In the early morning and near dusk, the perfume
...

Arctic ice melts,
white bear starves.
White House speaks:
...

The image we will always remember:
You, swirling and spinning
throught the streets of New York,
...

Daughter of hunters,
Atalanta knows survival.
Daughter of bears,
...

You danced on the patio, bending to shadows
sprawled on the lawn by apple trees
gleaming gold in the New England dusk.
...

Endless Contract Negotiations Wearing Thin on Drew Brees
Front page headline, New Orleans Times-Picayune
...

Diane Elayne Dees Biography

writes, gardens and practices psychotherapy in Louisiana. Two of her poems were nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2006, and she has poetry recently published or forthcoming in Moondance, The Raintown Review, Out of Line, Mobius, and the Syracuse Cultural Workers’Women Artists Datebook.)

The Best Poem Of Diane Elayne Dees

Making Scones

Chopping raisins is punishment called a chore.
The sticky blade will not cut.
Chop, run water, wipe.
Chop, run water, wipe.
Not small enough, my mother says.
Not fast enough.
The tiny kitchen is hot like a prison,
and there is no back on the stool.
She stirs the dough and waits
for me to master the blade.
Not fast enough.
Not good enough.
More and more raisins appear on the board,
and I am cut to shreds by her impatient looks,
her running commentary of criticism.
Her hands shake as she holds the wooden spoon.
She wants the scones to eat with her cheap tea.
She wants them because my father hates them.
She should have stayed in London where she belonged.
Instead, she watches me chop tinier and tinier slivers
until the blade is dull and the heat reduces me
to a neglected compote that will harden, untouched,
while the deceptive smell of baking dough
wafts through the neighborhood.

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