jillypoet: mom trying to write

Each day I wish I had invented waterproof sticky notes (for shower inspiration) or pen-friendly diapers to get down all my quirky thoughts that I am sure are relevant and publishable. And so God (actually another writer-mommy) sent me The Blog.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

In a Strange Turn of Events, June Cleaver Shreds Her Apron

I want to be Captain America for awhile.
I’ll kiss my ship.
I love ships.
I haven’t been Captain America
in a long time
I can’t remember if I have a ship.

(Meanwhile, the children roost in my limbs)

Looking really closely
I see it is my heart.
Not my ship, but my heart.

I don’t need a screwdriver
to fix my ship
steady vessel.
My heart rides on the edge
of my sleeve, call it my cape.

(Meanwhile, the children toe the dirt for clues)

My ship doesn’t fly.
(I don’t have a ship.)
My heart hides beneath the folds
of my cape, cowers from crabs
from cats
from bats on the wing.

Flying is overrated.
Perhaps I should take a train.
(The children are grounded)

Am I there yet?

My heart can’t take it.
Captain America,
take your vacation.

Wish you were

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Monday, July 21, 2008

June Cleaver and the Soccer Moms Release Their First Single

No one heard us sing
so now we fly.

We drift through suburbia
flaunt our floating (it’s all we’ve got)
in front of the birds.

Why not?
The beautiful and drab sparrows
eat our food
dirty our walks
defy daily our call to silence.

We hold our babies to our breasts
hold our breasts
for better viewing
former rosebuds
now drying blooms
in our hands.

We fly
and boast
and dream
of being held like this
baby or breast
caught in an updraft
or cosseted in cotton.

we drift without cords.
we are a silent song.

So long
as we flock together
someone is bound to hear.


Inspired, in part, by Rick Mobbs' gorgeous painting and this week's prompt at Read. Write. Poem.
Not to mention my obsession with June Cleaver.

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Thursday, July 17, 2008

Supergirl Loses Her Cape

Ever lost
something special?
where the hell are you?
to the clasp on your bra?

Left your underwear
under there?

Life as a paper doll
is more paper cut
than paper play.

Ever tried getting dressed
with your head ripped off?
Without a shoulder
to lie on
blouses slip off
scarves recoil

capes nosedive.
(Maybe that's where it went.
on some guy's nose.)

Don't blame the other guy.

When the wooly caterpillar
goes black,
you know the bookworms
can't be far behind.

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Wednesday, July 16, 2008

The Further Adventures of Superhero Girl

It is not all glory.
Despite brief sightings
of white doves and their tail feathers,
peace is not at hand

and no one loves a good girl.
All criminals can not be identified
by their striped uniforms.
Mischief may arrive
in the form of apples,
black cats
or broken mirrors,

more often, though, evil smiles.
Beware the doppelganger
in the broken mirror. Four lips
is not the prelude to a kiss.

There are not enough girl superheroes.
Not enough long legs
in tights, not enough flesh protected
by swirling capes.

When a lover tells you, I’d steal
the stars from the sky for you
give thanks.

Hold up your cape
(never, never trip on it)
Shout POW! in all capital letters
Shout BAM!
Put the stars right here!

People will try to steal
all that you love. Disappear
in a cloud of dry ice
before they can pin anything on you.


Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Superhero Candy Cane Girl

Superhero Candy Cane Girl
Originally uploaded by snbagley
It's not all glory. Stay tuned for further adventures of Supergirl--Pickpocket Avenger. Don't let people steal your stuff!

Monday, July 14, 2008

Am I Going to Hell Now?

You are The High Priestess

Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.

The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

I couldn't resist. Even though all my Spidey, or maybe my Jesus, senses were tingling. I can't shake the pastor telling us, "This is consorting with the Devil!" However, sometimes, I'm sure when I'm with my husband I'm consorting with the bad guy himself, so, hey, risk is good for creativity.

And I couldn't resist finding out who I really am. The high priestess. Ha! I'm putting that in my pipe and smoking it. And saving it for a poem.

You're Not Getting Paid To Love

She doesn’t believe the man in the black robe and top hat when he springs the news. You just don’t find men like that anymore, at least not men brave enough to wear black and grey on a hot spring day. If he had given her the news at midnight, she would have been inclined to sock him, right in the kisser. As it is, it’s broad daylight. The pews are filled with broad-brim hatted women, waving paper fans in front of shiny jowls. That’s an awful lot of hot broads for a May-December wedding. Her lilies of the valley are sweating. Leaving bite-sized beads on her satin pumps. She’ll kiss the other man in black, the man with a tail. Or is it the man in tails? Maybe, maybe he’s the guy with a forked tail her mother warned her about. Either way, she’s not going to bed tonight without a whole lot of cake on her fork. You couldn’t pay her enough to go to bed hungry.

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Saturday, July 12, 2008

Some editors are just too cool for words

River Typewriter, No. 2
Originally uploaded by f/1.4
Brilliant, illustrious, diligent poet that I am, I sent off a submission the other night WITHOUT THE POEMS!

Can you imagine?

I received the nicest email today from the editor, telling me that they received my submission with no poems attached. And they asked me to re-send them.

Can you imagine?

They didn't even write me off as a crazy loony-bin who doesn't deserve to be published.

I love them!

Friday, July 11, 2008

Off to Playland!

Lucky for me (or lucky for my kids...) the Playland is right next door to my hair dresser! Get beautiful. Get dizzy!

And check out the irony...coincidence? My son said, when I got home from teaching this morning, "Hey mommy, I was thinking we could go to Hoffman's!" And I, ever the thoughtful mommy, the mommy who just made a hair appointment, said, "Hey! So was I!" Two birds. One stone. But, hey. Who wants to kill a bird? I think I'll change that expression to catch two birds with one seed.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Gone creek-walkin'

This way
Originally uploaded by Oliveark
Heading out with the family to tramp about in a local creek. Here's hoping the tadpoles and turtles and lizards are ready for us!

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Shed Your Skin Only When You See the Light of Her Eyes

I would eat the cat
if her calico fur would coat
my insides. Soft white cream
tea with whole milk
bitter black melted chocolate.

Swallowing a living thing.
Will this bring me closer
to God or death?

Bringing the beauty in.
Like carrying your unborn child
forever. Never giving in,
pushing out, releasing perfection.

I would swap yellow slanted eyes
for useless blue
if only the borrowed light might reflect danger.

Caught in the act
I will apologize to the children
Yes. I love kitty.

Forgive me, husband.
The crow you cooked
burnt my tongue. Take the tongs
you used to turn the bird.
Leave the crusted feathers.
They line my throat
while you retrieve the cat.

I have done this before.

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Tuesday, July 08, 2008

What the Rain Does Not Wash Away

Old terrycloth robes
matted and flecked with cat hair.

Last night's sharp words
cutting wet grass
that sticks to our ankles.

A rusted scythe, each blade
tinged with old blood.

Smallest cat's paw blood
draining in a winding path
through cracks in new sidewalk.

Hours-old, week-long
melted by one wrong move.

Melted popsicle juice,
leftover lemonaid,
hot puddles teeming
with mosquito larvae.

Hopes and dreams of raising tadpoles
even if the wiggling paisley spots
turn out to be frogs after all.

The last kiss
of the last frog prince.

Dark wet leaves
heavy with daytime dusk.

One hundred green maple leaves
wrapped around your body
in one last attempt
at staying warm in a cold summer.

radiating from wayward firemen,
black suited policemen,
men armed with mail,
men with bulging arms.

Rain washes nothing away.
Even dead bodies remain
anchored in the ground.

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Summer is supposed to be fun

Just sent my son off to summer school (which we cleverly disguised as "summer camp") this morning. He is no dummy. He cried last night when we told him, and again this morning. He said, "It's going to be filled with dummies. I'm not stupid." Poor guy. He is 6, going into 2nd grade, and has a "non-verbal learning disorder," whatever that means.

What that means is, he has a hard time learning the traditional way. What it means is, he is always going ot be a little different. And now, at 6, that's not cool. Later on, when he's an artist or a forensic pathologist, slicing into dead bodies to find out what happened (his dream job !), different will serve him well.

I have 45 minutes to get ready for art camp. I love, love my art studio, but I wish I could spend the summer with my kids, lounging in our pajamas or hanging out at the lake. Ah well. Passion drives you. I want to have a successful business. I want to make art. I want to teach. But more than that, I want to write poetry.

Then there's the copycats. Two studios in my own town, offering similar stuff. And now one in the next city. It's great to be admired, and it is a free society, but, man, I hate capitalism! I can't figure out if it's pride in what I created (there were no teaching children's art studios when I started) or if it's jealousy, or fear of someone doing better.

Sometimes I even feel this way about poetry. Sometimes. Not often. But sometimes I look at all the books on store shelves and all the great poems in journals, and I think--why bother.

Perhaps this is a creative dilemma faced by all artists. Who knows?

All I know is, it feels good to let it all out. Maybe know I can get back to the business of poetry. And art. It's been too long.

Silver lining. Glass half-full. I've only not been writing for about two weeks. And even then, I've written two or three poems. I just haven't edited or sent anything out. I have been reading though!

Goal for the week: 2 new art lessons; type 3 new poems from old journals; send out poems to 1 pub; make an artist trading card.

Maybe I'll use the blog as my artist way/morning pages. Lose the funk. Get the art party crunk.

Anyone else having summer doldrums?

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