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Patricia Carragon is an ad executive who
moonlights as a poet at night. Her poetry
was first featured at Poet-to-Poet's Series at the Book Value
Discount Bookstore
in Astoria, Queens in March 2004. After 3 years on the circuit,
she has featured
at several venues including the Telephone Bar, the Galapagos Art
Space, The Carrozini
von Buhler Gallery, the Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center, the
Cornelia Street
Cafe, the Bowery Poetry Club, the Spoken Words Café, the
Moroccan Star, the Nightingale
Lounge, A Gathering of the Tribes and the Back Fence.
Patricia's poetry can be found on Poetz.com, Rogue Scholar's,
Poets Wear
Prada, Flutter and Soul to Soul's website as well in some of the
following poetry
journals: Nomad's Choir, Erato, Medicinal Purposes, Stained
Sheets, Mobius and
Clwn Wr #41. Rogue Scholars Press published her first book,
"Journey to the Center
of My Mind."
She co-hosts and curates the Brownstone Poets with Evie Ivy in
Brooklyn and is the
editor of the Brownstone Poets 2007 Anthology. Patricia is one
of the hosts for
ABC NO RIO in New York.
Fit
for a Child
One night I entered a dream,
Past the music, to a room fit for a child,
A female haven for pretending -
A little table stands at attention,
A chair in its designated spot,
A napkin folded in a perfect triangle,
A teapot to pour make-believe into delicate cups,
A cake layered in pink sweetness
Regally placed before a plate, knife and fork
For the guest to be served.
I took my reserved seat at the place of honor
To partake of this ritual set before me.
Across from my view, a miniature kitchen set -
A sink flowed fantasy from its faucet,
A refrigerator preserved milk and eggs for play,
An oven and stove pulled magic tricks
From tiny pots and pans.
I was amazed at what I saw and forgot who I was -
My joy expanded like a party balloon,
Seeing a little image of love
Seated in a highchair in the corner -
A baby doll with a perfect smile
Sealed with plastic promise of the ever-after.
I walked over to pick her up,
Just as I would have done
When I was in proportion with this room,
But the dream vanished into my pockets.
The room aged in years -
The table was barren, except for dust,
Crumbs have gone into the mouths of disgust,
China and flatware, pots and pans lay broken and bent
In a sink where the faucet has gone dry.
Milk was missing from the refrigerator shelf
While a few eggs sit in limbo,
A stove and oven too weak to perform magic.
The doll matured with the room -
Her smile faded,
Her face, no longer smooth, but wrinkled.
The highchair, her first seat in life,
Was ready to take her to the exit.
I tried to comfort my loss,
Listening to the walls of silence -
A silence too real, too honest and too much.
Secrets A woman
sleeps alone
On a bed that provides no rest or comfort,
While a sleeping child is at peace
Inside her subconscious.
Adjacent to her bed is an empty vase
Stained with the image of hope.
Nearby, lies an unopened book
Bonded by her lifetime in words.
A window is open
For the wind to sneak in.
The telephone rings out of persistence,
Still, she hears nothing and remains incognito
Behind closed eyes sworn to secrecy,
Protecting her treasured yet troubled thoughts
From intruders who come to rob her intimacy.
She abruptly turns over on her singular bed -
The vase and book jump off the nightstand,
The telephone stops ringing and the wind exits.
The fallen book breaks its vow
And speaks for the first time,
Using tears shed from glass
To bookmark secrets on pages that cry
Like the child in her subconscious. The Pixie
Your unusual eyes
Pull me beneath covers of imagination.
You make your bed in a new world
Situated on the shoulders of your small frame.
Call me your beautiful sad-eyed friend,
A woman lost in time and space.
I am learning, moving in a trance, hearing your story,
Not meant to be read to children at night
But to an adult who needs to feel words
Best described when the lights go to sleep.
This secret ceremony seeks consummation -
Nocturnal rhythms walk together
Along a path paved with stars,
Guiding us into happiness' light,
Moving faster and faster,
Until my fear of losing you throws me off course.
Please hold me tight,
I am falling from this height of pleasure,
Afraid that I am destined to land
In some nameless place where my worst fears
Will seize me, take me back to a former life -
Forever lost, never to see the gentle waterways
Flow from your unusual eyes,
Forever lost from the magical touch
Revealed by your storyteller's heart.
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