Tag: Pat West

Dark chocolate with black sea salt and caramel
A cold rain quiet as a mirror
Slow cooked eggs
Sundays
Shanghai silk merlot
Deep yellow heirloom tomatoes
Driving over the Tehachapi Mountains,
down the Grapevine, that serpentine road
The old gray sweater,
that feels like a hug from my mom
Seattle’s lavender sky
Ferries—slow moving castles
across the Sound
People watching
at Pike Place Market
Sunlight cathedraling through
tall fir trees
Muddy Waters playing
bottleneck guitar
Cowboys—the reason they invented jeans
Nana’s sweet relish
Slow kisses
Cold pizza for breakfast
October’s marmalade moon
How in Kansas the earth flattens,
the road straightens
and there’s nothing but amber wheat
all the way to the horizon
rippling on the breeze,
that dry rustling sound

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream, and some have earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

One day he just shows up,
sweet and quiet at first
with a poem.  An electric charge
builds like a coming storm
vibrating up my spine.
I gulp mouthfuls,
While you slept,
I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
Night after night
I devour Billy Collins,
a chocolate truffle
on my tongue.

Next one holds me close.
We float down afternoons
on slow rivers of margaritas
and conversations.  I become
a descarada woman
with Jimmy Santiago Baca.
Flick my ruffled skirt, flash
the butterfly tattoo on my ankle,
challenge him to Flamenco.
Later, slurp the last bits
of Immigrants in Our Own Land
from my plate with red-chili lips.

Each time with Sherman Alexie,
a hollow sensation hovers
low in my stomach
like on a carnival ride
beside people on the Rez,
not depressed victims,
but the most joyous Indians
in the world.  I rise and fall
with his metaphors
sweet as cotton candy,
caress his long mane of hair
fanned across red satin sheets.

Lemons, artichokes, eels, love
and despair.  Another all-nighter
with Neruda.  Odes to objects,
foods I pass in life without any  (No stanza break)
attention.  Tonight the onion
and tears I don’t even know
wait inside, seep from my eyes.
Then Pablo starts in about socks.

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream, and some have earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

You receive three rejection notices
in one week. Or perhaps you fought
with your lover. And there are still
things to say. Forget the reason.
Toast a baguette, rub with garlic,
grate a tomato, spoon onto bread and eat.
You feel funky covered with crumbs
and sound like a noisy squirrel chewing
his snack, but feel the buzz in your mouth.

Riff off of something like the article
in The New York Times
about Buenos Aires giving pensions
to published writers. Improvise:
roll the idea of moving to Argentina
over your tongue like the R’s
in Spanish class. Imagine the smell
of parrilla in the afternoon, tenderloin
and strip steak, sausages, rows
of vegetables over fresh wood.

Amp things up a notch. Catch a flight to L.A.,
celebrate an unbirthday at the Hollywood Bowl.
Order the Verano picnic basket from Patina:
lemon poached salmon in dill sauce.
After a few sips of merlot, full of piss
and vinegar, tap the guy on the shoulder
next blanket over, ask to sample his potato salad.

Lean back, close your eyes.
When Diana Krall’s smoky voice reaches
the edge of the sky, you will taste
the sweet man and salty tears in her song.

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream, and some have earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.