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Judith Partin-Nielsen
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He Came Up All Flirty

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

He came up all flirty, said:

Hey, I was going to call you—

thought maybe we could

    talk over old times

thought maybe you had forgotten

    what a rude, fucking asshole I was

thought maybe I could—

    charm you, chat you all up

    seduce you, maybe buy

    some nice wine with dinner

    tell you old, sad stories and

    new ones too about how

    women divorced me, cursed me

    spit in my face, set my

    house on fire, spent all my money

    and just couldn’t get enough of me.

thought maybe we could

    talk on the phone, send some

    sexy emails, tell some deep dark

    secrets or smoke something

    maybe listen to Miles or Eric,

    Coldplay, North Mississippi All-Stars

    or anything at all just don’t

    torture me with “twang”

thought maybe we could be

    like old times or new times

    or anytime at all, like

    I could be making time

    with you Babe or I

    could call you later or

    you could call me, but

    hey, not that stuff you

    called me before—which was

    mostly true, but why women

    like to focus on that shit I

    don’t know

thought maybe we could just

    get over the past, our past

    make a new past which

    isn’t really over anyway

___, but, yeah okay

    I guess we’re done

 

 

 

 


70000birds.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

70,000 birds

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

70,000 birds intentionally killed

graceful geese, wrens, sparrows,

sparrows in their fluttering beauty

so that we unholy humans

can fly on fire-breathing

dragon wings in

their pristine shies

our only worries,

lost luggage



Migrations #1

 

In Memoriam

 

José Angel Alfano Solana

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

 

We crossed over the border

I won’t say how

and what can I say of

freezing desert nights

black sky blazing stars

then searing, burning sun

tearing into flesh

relentless, relentless

the walking, and fear

then- - - - - - -running, running

as sand clouds appear

against the far sky

running, running- - -and then

I lost you and Juan and

the girl running, running

and falling face down

breathing sand and

dreaming, dreaming of naranjas and

water, rain falling and

phantoms unfurling like giant

sails across the desert floor

and the pounding, pounding of

ocean waves in my ears

and then - - - - -the face, the face

of El Senőr



 

 

 

Jack

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

He stole my poem,

then tried to seduce me

Other than that,

he was a pretty good guy.

singlesad.jpeg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

singles ad

Westword Magazine

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

professional musician

seeks woman to

spend all my money

wreck my truck

and brake my heart

 

dude, you’ve found her

 

 

 


somethinghappened.jpg
Art by W, Jack Savage © 2018

Something Has Happened

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

sitting in that space

between the worlds

in a morning pool

of winter sunlight

favorite teacup

in hand, the white

one with delicate pink

and yellow flowers in

a tangle of pale green

vines — slowly, slowly

drinking, then breathing,

in the warmth of

waiting, waiting until

“something has happened”

becomes a soft voice saying,

“your mother is dead”

 


hopeofit.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

The Hope of It

 

by Judith Partin-Nielsen

 

 

Where is the beauty, the Hope

in the horror of it, you ask.

Underneath a hard, bitter

casement of seed is there

an invisible bloom, a bud

not yet conceived—  

a fragrance only in

the mind’s eye.

Are we the Hope of it?

 

 







Endings #2


 


by Judith Partin-Nielsen


 


folded flag from the casket


pressed against my heart


even now feeling your arms


tightly around me




 

 


onmylist.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2019





It’s on My List


 


by Judith Partin-Nielsen


 


 


it’s on my list


of things to do that


I actually do


do because it will just


live again on


another action item agenda


or another text or report


that needs attention but


no information is


available to accomplish it,


i.e., the system is currently


unavailable to our great sorrow


or all the representatives are


busy helping other customers


who are essentially much more


needy and deserving of


undivided attention than you


so why don’t you invent


an app to help with that


and stop bothering us with


your repeated requests


with inane demands for our


time because you are


not paying us to be helpful


so just keep paying the


money and shut the fuck up.





 

 

 


poetryeverywhere.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2019





Poetry Everywhere


 


by Judith Partin-Nielsen


 


for Courtney Love


 


“I wrote poetry everywhere


on the walls, on his shirt


I wrote poetry everywhere”                            


I couldn’t stop                                        


at night on the sheets in our bed


in my sleep in my dreams


I wrote poetry everywhere


on my face the war paint


(stirring up all kinds of trouble)


I wrote poetry on the tablecloth


in Jax’s Fish House


a haiku surrounded by wine


glasses, white napkins, red brick


walls, green fish—tiny dots of


blue light hanging from the 


ceiling—Nick Forrester eating sushi


at the next table


I wrote poetry everywhere


I wrote poetry in books


that didn’t belong to me, past due,


checked in, checked out,


on posters at the coffee 


house, poetry notes on golden 


peeling bathroom mirrors


surprise tanka on the


toilet seat


I wrote poetry everywhere


I wrote poetry on the stairs


seven steps to the landing


turn left. Six more to your room.


Listening to the blues, Muddy Waters


wailing, sitting on the floor


eating dates, drinking white wine.


I wrote poetry everywhere.


You made a pass, I didn’t notice


better to keep writing poetry


everywhere


Flat on my face, flat on my


ass, flat on my back


just keep writing 


poetry everywhere


 


 


Sunset Bridge


 


by Judith Partin-Nielsen


 


Standing beneath the city bridge


in a storm’s sudden deluge


Above— black clouds and lightning strikes


jigsaw the sky a vicious yellow


heavy trucks rumble by in pounding


rain and hail, drenched runner slams


the pavement, grits his teeth, keeps going


Below— the magic of small birds fluttering by


sheltering under the arches,


returning to hidden mud nests


on concrete walls and girders—


a flock of graceful geese


float by on the now-swift current,


then finally homing into the green


grasses at river’s edge


Lovers holding hands watching


the black sky, waiting






 

 

 






The Hope of It


 


by Judith Partin-Nielsen


 


 


Where is the beauty, the Hope


in the horror of it, you ask.


Underneath a hard, bitter


casement of seed is there


an invisible bloom, a bud


not yet conceived — 


a fragrance only in


the mind’s eye.


Are we the Hope of it?




 

 

Following a trail of words, mountains, spirit and tears, this writer, mother, wife, and eventually psychoanalyst left Texas for Colorado in 1985. The land of the Arapahoe welcomed Judith Partin-Nielsen and called her by name. The love of poetry, poet and high mountain valleys has warmed her heart and made her home. Freud said, “Everywhere I go, the poet has been there before me.” May we keep following those footsteps on our paths through the worlds. This contributor has taught contemplative psychotherapy at Naropa University, practices psychoanalysis, and writes poetry. 

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