jillypoet: mom trying to write

A New Poem, but Not Here

2009-02-02T11:13:00.007-05:00

Sigh. I don't know if I want to do this. I have started a new blog, one where I can password protect my poetry. The reason why is here. If you would like the password, email me at jillypoet@verizon.net and I will give it to you, free of charge!

My latest poem is here.

My new blog address is jillypoet.wordpress.com

I don't know if I'll be staying, or figuring out some other way of making sure my poems don't get pilfered (like my friends' poems, poor dears).

My pal Deb needs a picture of me

2009-01-28T12:12:00.003-05:00

for my avatar on read. write. poem. She needs a good one, not the circa 1988 pic she borrowed from my facebook page! Egads! So I'm uploading these for her to pilfer. I like the one above of my daughter. She's way cuter! Here ya go, Deb!

Fire Alone Can Not Burn: a marriage

2009-01-26T11:14:00.002-05:00

will spontaneously combust
similar to the lone man on a mattress
discovered in ashes one bright afternoon, after eating
(apparently) leftovers packed by the skinny waitress

Sunless Morning

2009-01-23T10:40:00.001-05:00

The snow is white enough
to convince grand sun to take
the day off. Thin green needles
protest. They are not loud enough.
See the clouds? It’s not their fault.
Slick soled sneakers slap
cold pavement. We are not warm.
At school, teenagers drag wool scarves
through black slush. Someone wipes
a runny nose with stiff polar fleece.
Somewhere war continues
in bright sunlight. A picnic kind of day,
a day to write home about.

In An Effort to be More Spiritual While the Children Watch Disney

2009-01-19T11:34:00.003-05:00

She Prays Like Wonder Woman

This is what I would like strangers
to say about me. She is a prayer

How To Soften Your Hands

2009-01-02T09:43:00.005-05:00

I would wash dishes until my skin peeled off in ragged rinds
if only my plates and bowls would squeak,
you are happily married.

..........The husband shovels tunnels around
..........the shuttered house
..........waiting to be rid of the hungry horde.

*************************************************

I wrote this in response to Carolee's poem which she wrote after we played with Anne Sexton's poem Her Kind. It's sort of a letter poem.

Process note: I wrote it first without the snow and the husband, and ended with the pretty bowl. The husband wormed his way in. Should he stay?

I forgot how much I love Anne Sexton

2008-12-31T19:59:00.005-05:00

My last post of 2008. No sniffs. No sighs. I'm looking forward to a new year, a fresh start. All those blank calendar pages, blank journal pages, poetry books waiting to be read...

I had a very productive last day of the year. Sent in two submissions (in by the skin of my neck!), and collaborative ones with Carolee at that. Hooray for us!

To top it off, we were both inspired by a rare video of Anne Sexton reading (see it here), so we started a new collaborative piece, using five phrases from Sexton's Her Kind. Next, we each wrote five sentences using those phrases, then wrote a poem blending the phrases. Mine follows...

The Eskimo Word for Woman is Abnaq

Too many people think they know
what is and what is not a woman.

Lonely thing (that woman)
walking with a blanket round her head.

My grandmother (that woman) fixed the suppers
--no one helped her clean up.

Jesus fixed the suppers while the women
(that woman) washed the dishes.

Pummeled by flakes, she is not a woman
but another word for snow.

At night, dreaming, she is a cat
with no kittens, teats full and glossy.

If you still bite after all these years,
consider yourself happily married.

I sweat sometimes at night, dreaming of a new body
(that woman) to wrap my skin around.

Do you still bite your lip when you think about me (that woman)?

June Cleaver Sends Best Wishes and a Casserole

2008-12-16T17:19:00.001-05:00

A Poem for Carolee's Mother on the Eve of Surgery

May your apron wrap round your waist
snug as the man of your dreams at your thighs.

May your flour be content to hide its purity
in the darkened circle of a porcelain rooster,
never dusting your cheeks with traces
of another self, another pale incarnation.

May your cookies rise like hips
in heat, hold their softness on your tongue
even after the oven has cooled.

May the man in white deliver the milk
of compassion, seasonal nog and spirits
well before you prowl the morning
floorboards, a rested angel in flannel robes.

With this dish, may your gut fill
with what it needs. May you find
each ingredient at your fingertips.

How to Be a Turtle

2008-12-09T13:23:00.000-05:00

Wind yourself up in the world’s smallest flower
snore like a stubbly old man, slowly, slowly

slowly. Follow a crusty shelled amphibian
home for dinner. Admire the swamp, breathe

deep from its gasses. Pencil your new habitat
on the map under your hat. Pull in your head

dive deep below the muck and old tires

careful not to swallow the algae. Show
the minnows who’s boss. Wrap a slick snake
skin around your stick neck for warmth.

Paddle your way
to the surface.
Breathe.
Breathe.

If this has taken a long time,
slow down.

You’re in the shell.
You’re in the tank.
The ride is never over.

This is Not a Love Poem, or: So, Jill Says to Jack

2008-12-08T23:08:00.003-05:00

When you told me
take this pail
I drank the water
carried myself up the hill.

When you demanded glue
I roiled my insides
pieced your crown
together with bits of sticky flesh.

I am not afraid to fall,
even without you beneath me.
The higher the hill, the more
sky to swallow on the way down.

When we are mostly water
what is there to do but swim?

********************************************************************

This is a letter poem in response to Carolee's Systole. Thank you Carolee, for inspiring me to finally write a poem.

A Poem from My Husband, Away at School--Obviously, He Rocks (Today...)

2008-12-08T10:10:00.004-05:00

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your hair is awesome
and so are you.

Peel Your Label

2008-11-20T22:38:00.005-05:00

My son exhibits
symptoms, tell-tale

deficits
............of attention.

When to Call a House a Home

2008-11-19T21:51:00.007-05:00

A Letter Poem, Responding to Nathan's Security

By day it poses as a subtle ranch
shuttered, mellow, a perfect child

tucked in a church pew.

You should read Nathan's poem. It's language is sparse, concise, not a word out of place. You will not want to move in, however.

I don't know what it is with "the house" as extended metpahor, but it has been making its wretched way into my poetry lately. And I love my little house. Good rule of thumb in poetry: always follow where the muse takes you. Don't ask questions.

When Arriving For Battle, Straighten Your Spine, Bring Reinforcements

2008-11-18T22:35:00.004-05:00

If the rain made itself visible
as the bold white snow
would we mourn the arrival
of black clouds, the pause of the sun?

Chin up.
Spine straight.
Advice for a tall girl
from her father, a tall man.
Walk with your eyes on the tops
of telephone poles.

Gold leaves fall in clusters
storm frosted grass
quiet as a regiment on maneuvers.

Such a wild move,
dropping out of school,
lying about his age, joining
the Merchant Marine at sixteen
to fight alongside the older boys.

Even the least avengers yield purpose.
When we stop, listen to the rain
give snow and leaves our full attention
will we be surprised by their stories?

*************************************************************************

This is definitely a first draft. Some poems arrive pretty much finished. This poem needs stuff: detail, information... It is like a sandwich with thick bread, partially made. There's pleasing thinck fluff on the outside, but nothing in the middle.

Carolee and I saw a poet/memoirist last night who read an interesting piece about her father. We discussed the fact later that neither of us have written much about the men in our lives. It must have stuck with me, because when I sat down to write today, I had no intention of writing about my dad. Writing with out intention--sounds lazy, rule breaking. That's free-writing for you.

Santa's Secret Sale

2008-11-16T21:10:00.004-05:00

It wasn’t supposed to go beyond the first iceberg.
It was a secret whispered in a snowball,
tossed around the workshop
until it melted in the wrong hands.

Refusing to be used—the doormat
principle. Who among us hasn’t balked
at being the heavy, the shark, the bad guy.
Distill it down like vein-warming whiskey:

the key to life is kindness. Kindness
is Santa’s bag. Dolls in frilly dresses,
princess vanities (all is vanity—the giver, the taker).
gleaming bicycles, footballs fat from the calf.

In ancient times, kind was the word
used to describe food. Dear, your meat
is most kind this evening—a compliment
to the sacrificial lamb and it's butcher.

Porcupines, prickly beasts, are not loveable.
Give up your prickly ways, we tell our children
as daylight fades a little more each day,
until we are in darkness, dumb to their deeds.

Santa can not take it one day more. Good
is not an option. The North Pole is up
for sale. Parents, prepare your naughty
chairs, hang your stockings over your eyes.

The bidding starts at midnight.

*************************************************************************

Many thanks to the subject of a toysale email for this poem. Does it make sense? I played with words, with the notion of kindness. Probably not one I would share with my kids.

Since I Never Finishd Sewing the Alligator in Home Ec

2008-11-15T21:54:00.004-05:00

There was really no point in getting married.
I should have left my pricked
fingers at the altar, tying knots
*****************************************************************************

Carolee and I had gong withdrawal. I pestered her until we came up with the 12 Days of Poetry, a modified gong. Then, I fell asleep after kids' movie night last night. My gong will last until Thanksgiving. Carolee's until the night before. We're both on a quest.

Note to self, or any interested critics: should this poem be in stanzas?

Color Theory, Poetry Goals, Gong Replaced by Castanet

2008-11-13T22:15:00.007-05:00

When Mixing Colors, Take Care Not to Let Compliments Mingle

Orange mixed with light blue day,
dark early November air thickened
like the steak some neighbor is cooking
outside, probably wearing a parka--

****************************************************************************

I have been teaching about comlimentary colors a lot lately. There's just something about orange and blue next to each other in a painting. I have one student who prefers to mix them always. Somedays, to a startling, surprising effect.

Since the gong is done, at least for now, I have promised to write 5 poems a week: a mini-gong, a tiny gong, a cymbal, let's say. Or a castanet.

Submitting to four journals in November. Writing 5 poems a week. Editing 2. Reading a poem a day, three times. Once to read, once to listen, once to pick apart with a poet's aplumb. Is that a word?

I need sleep.

My Poetry Pals Are The Best!

2008-11-11T16:56:00.003-05:00

My amazing poet friends at The Poetry Collaborative wrote a poem for my birthday! They rock! The poem is below, but it's not finished. I am so lucky!

Birds calculate seasons wending to soft palates
savoring intricate dust shadows that swerve
apologetically away from northern evergreens.
How divided flocks move in spite of hunger,
how restricted airways steer without meaning
toward vast and truant winds, near ponds.

Other birds look up, look up from frosting ponds,
cluck their dry, bony tongues against hard palates.
The sounds seem like signals, mimicking meaning,
code amplified through their hollow bodies. They swerve
then dive. Alighting on the ground they mock hunger
like food stored eternally in the veins of evergreens.

Poetry Gong - Poem 30

2008-11-10T22:03:00.004-05:00

After Hosing the Last of the Dead Rabbit From the End of Her Driveway, June Cleaver Writes God a Letter

Here’s what I think—
you created reflection
for your own amusement.
********************************************************************************

This should be a happy occassion: the last poem of poetry gong. 30 poems in 30 days! But, it is with sadness that I post this last poem. I have really enjoyed the discipline of the gong. And the surprises of what poems may arise when I force myself to sit down and write--no matter what.

My plan is to continue a 5 day gong. Or maybe...60? Nah! Hmmm................

Poetry Gong - Poem 29

2008-11-09T22:53:00.006-05:00

Without My Glasses

The supermodel fallen to the floor
on the All Things Glamorous
sampler card looks like Jesus.
I wonder whose funeral
I have been to recently.

My mother keeps mass cards
in her bible. Tiny prayers bearing
dead people's names, dates on earth.
Even though she is a Methodist,
the Catholic cards fall to the floor--
death will speak to anyone--
each time she opens the book.

The blond bombshell has no name
scrawled on her four-by-six,
just her label, Mary Kay, wound
through her wind-blown hair.
When she dies, some near-sighted
everywoman will remember her elegance,
say a prayer for her gold sequined gloss,
losing its luster in the papery folds.

****************************************************************

Here's Something You Might Not Know About The King

Elvis loves Santana. That Latin guitar. That soul sacrifice, each time the Spanish man lays hands on his Brazilian rosewood. Like glass. Timbalas. Congas. Words to roll on the floor with, to roll in your mouth and tremble with. Two sides to each of us. In each of us, a king. Steel drum, sex between the bass beats king. Knitting wool underwear with Jesus king. It doesn’t matter what side of the bed. Just that you sleep. Just that you wake.

(a prose poem I am not sure of...)

We Love Our Veterans!

2008-11-09T11:23:00.006-05:00

Happy Veterans Day!

Thank you...

Papa (WWII)

Uncle Sid (WWII)

Cousin Eric (Iraq)

Uncle Bill (Vietnam)

Fireman Steve (Iraq)

Karate Dad Steve (Iraq)

Fireman Smokie (Vietnam)

Robert Smith (Vietnam)

Poetry Gong - Poem 28

2008-11-08T22:45:00.002-05:00

What Are You Afraid Of?

Socks with no mates
Belts that uncoil like snakes
Hats with strands of hair hanging inside
Underwear on the sidewalk
Wet sidewalks on otherwise dry days
Days that end before the sun goes down
Going down dark stairs
Staring for too long--
making a deal with your eyes for them to move
Moving too fast
Moving too slow
Never moving
Treading water in a bed of milfoil
Losing your socks in bed
Socks with no mates, rising up
walking down the aisle
together.

Poetry Gong - Poem 27

2008-11-07T21:29:00.003-05:00

Miss Manners Cannot Think of a More Succinct Definition of a Lady Than “Someone Who Wants To Punch Another Person in the Nose, But Doesn’t,” or: Taking Your Clothes Off While Hanging Laundry Will Not Get You Invited to the Neighborhood Party - A Found Poem From Miss Manners' Guide to Rearing Perfect Children

Consider instead, the likely results
of your acting like a lady.
You see her in the neighborhood
you give her a friendly wave.
See how easy it is.
You have made her feel terrible
and remorseful—and all by behaving
like a perfect lady.

Now Miss Manners asks you
to listen to a small lecture on the rights
and obligations of friendship.
Even the closest of married couples
have social engagements
in which they see people separately—
one cannot always have the same guest list,
and your friend cannot be expected
to hire another house
to spare your feelings. A lady finds
as she sails through life,
that she can spare herself
a great deal of anguish by not taking
notice of unpleasant occurrences
that were not
intended for her notice.

********************************************************************************

I know it's a terribly long title. I kind of like it.

Poetry Gong - Poem 26

2008-11-06T21:24:00.004-05:00

Sometimes, Nothing At All Happens

Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.” Isaiah 55.1-2.

Jesus delivered the milk today.
I was expecting the mailman,
tromping through the fallen

******************************************************************************

Alternative title:

June Cleaver Considers an Affair, Decides, Instead, to Whip Up a Devil's Food Cake With Cream Cheese Frosting

Alternative endings: Must be written...

A question: The first three lines each have a "the" I could take out the fallen, and leave it as "fallen leaves" but I like the idea of "the fallen" as in us, the people Jesus is supposed to save. What to do?

Poetry Gong - Poem 25

2008-11-05T17:47:00.007-05:00

Origin of the Marriage (The Origin of Marriage) *Someone help me pick a title!

(After Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s Origin of the Mango)

Of course my parents have never agreed.

Poetry Gong - Poem 24

2008-11-04T21:06:00.003-05:00

Let’s Be Blood Sisters

No sweeter words
will ever pour
from the porcelain cup
of third grades’ most popular girl.
In her perfectly pleated plaid pants
and J.C. Penney sweater vest
she is a tea party with tiny cakes,
the slight hole in the piñata,
the first lick
up the cold side
of an Eskimo pie.

You have no fear
of knives,
..........(Friends for life.)
scissors,
..........(Just you and me.)
needles
or pins.
..........(Our secret club.)
You do not cry
..........(Do you want to?)
when you scrape your knee,
when the bike skids
out from under you,
when the swing kicks
you flat on your back.
..........(Yes or no?)

You’d never be caught
dead in a plaid skirt.
Your sweaters wrap
round you like a blanket,
hang past your knobby wrists.
You can’t remember today
if she spoke your name yesterday.
Has she ever breathed
your whole name through
lips thin as spun sugar?

You love the pouch of her cheeks
the gaze of her too-wide eyes
more than the sting of hot lunch
alone at the empty lunch table,
more than the weight of
a whisper on your flaming ears.

There is blood enough for everyone,
pour yours in a tea cup,
toast your good fortune.

Poetry Gong - Poem 23

2008-11-03T21:16:00.005-05:00

What Will You Be Wearing While the World Around You Grows Old
- After Winter Trees Cough Like Old Men by Eugenio Montejo

Birch trees in late fall are naked
like pale old women in bathing suits
sunning on a canvas covered dock.

*****************************************************************************

I know I was supposed to type up my pantoum from yesterday, but the purpose of this particular gong is to write a NEW poem every day, so I had to write something new!

I turned to Poetry Daily, read the daily poem, and this poem came to me!

Poetry Gong - Poem 22

2008-11-02T22:33:00.004-05:00

My Son Considers a Fallen Tree

I wrote this poem today. With my Poetry Gong partner, Carolee, on our weekly/semi-weekly writing date. Stay tuned for the next (read without a magnifying glass) version!

Halloween Haiku: Poetry Gong 20

2008-10-31T22:58:00.002-04:00

Zen in loud darkness
filling an empty pumpkin
with stranger’s candy.

Standing on the stoop
quick glimpse into stranger’s lives
smell their dryer sheets.

It is not chocolate
not the pleasure of disguise
door-to-door is treat.

Pray for lone pumpkins
run through chill autumn shadows
be open to ghosts.

*****************************************************************************

It's all I've got. Well, four haiku and a chocolate high. I'm trick-or-treated out! Happy Halloween!

Poetry Gong - Poem 19: A Found Poem

2008-10-30T21:57:00.003-04:00

June Cleaver Explains Sex to a Group of Future Homemakers: A Found Poem from Adventures in Good Cooking and the Art of Carving in the Home

An empty stomach is not conducive to beauty.

When long, slow cooking
is required
it is often
best to use a double

boiler. The dishes
most popular are not those complicated
with a vast number
of ingredients. Instead, those remembered
with pleasure and desired
often are the simple,
easily prepared
recipes. Put solid

fresh whole
tomatoes
in boiling water for just a minute—
then into cold
water to have them
peel easily—then
chill
in refrigerator.

Poetry Gong - Poem 18

2008-10-29T22:52:00.004-04:00

Halloween Costume

Days later I am still at her thighs
black satin
ragged edges
******************************************************************************

Another one of those nights wherein I fell asleep after reading with my son, then stumbled to the computer, vowing to just find a half-poem already written, one I could post to keep the gong going. But my new-found poet heart wouldn't let me.

I chose a poem at random to read for inspiration (Elizabeth Spires, "Nightgown"), then began to imagine what would happen if a Halloween costume turned evil.

Note to self: the last two stanzas need work.

Poetry Gong - Poem 17

2008-10-28T21:57:00.006-04:00

Still Life: Umbrella Blown Inside Out

At night, the Perfect Rain becomes Rain that Lets the Farmer Sleep Deeply, knowing that the good work is done, and that tomorrow brings rest because the fields will be drinking deeply.
..............................- - - Chris Blanchard, Rock Spring Farm, Iowa

The wind whistles through chinks
in our armor. Not one of us can carry

********************************************************************************

Every once in a while a poem arrives with no return address, no note from weary relatives saying, "Please take this poem in and give it a home," no luggage, no name tag. Nothing. It just shows up. And I guess it is to me to make sense of it.

Number 16: Scary Poetry Gong

2008-10-27T11:45:00.001-04:00

The House Begs to Speak

Soffits grant permission,
gutters open the floor
pitched roof provides a platform.

Draped in black towels
days after Halloween
the children tumble
from heaving orange pumpkins
treats and wrappers caught
in their teeth, a low crackle
creeping between stained lips.

An empty apron slides
out the open front door
boney skeleton close behind.

Broom handle pokes,
prods words refusing to stand
at attention. No crowd
gathers under the chimney’s
panicked smoke. Neighbors
char dinner in backyards
knee-deep in soft root
vegetables and dripping leaves.

Glinting silver spatula curled
in long-stemmed hand—
a wicked knuckle microphone
shoved through cob-webbed window--
when will someone speak?
Bats hang right-side up
in anticipation. Witches
dressed as church-ladies
drop from the sky.
Snow begins to fall.

If the mailman leaves
a match, flames will lick
our faces, draw our tongues
out in the haunted open.

A Sad Poem to Match the Weather: Poetry Gong #14

2008-10-25T20:49:00.002-04:00

Some of Us Are Lucky Enough to Fly

I thought of birds and
their luck, how they rise…
- Karen Chase

When you said I was sad
I didn’t speak. The voice
I had been using all these years
had flown
out of the room.

Behind the feathers
I was a bird.
You didn’t see
because you were speaking
setting down in syllables
that which I know
that which I see
that which has eluded
me all along.

The sad girl is flying
now, winged, not free
enough to build a nest
but catching enough air
to call out.

*******************************************************************************

I could write more, but really, I hate sad poems. Maybe after the gong, I will revisit this. Think more about birds, becoming a bird, flying like a bird, dreaming of flying, growing feathers, replacing my heavy bones with tiny, hollow bones, choosing what kind of bird I want to be, researching what type of birds do not mate for life.

Happy 7th Birthday, Crab Catcher!

2008-10-24T22:14:00.000-04:00

Lucky #13: Poetry Gong Bangs On

2008-10-24T22:03:00.003-04:00

All Good War Stories Start With a Little Something Landing on the Ground

Leaves are falling in the backyard
yellow maples, green oaks,
sailing down like miniature paratroopers
storming our home.
Surrender! they cry, shaking off
limp parachutes, untangling themselves
from crossed lines. There are no patriots here.
Soon, the house is surrounded
one by one we file out
a legion of wrongdoers toting our sins
in backpacks and ruck sacks,
plush poodle purses and bulging messenger bags
heads lowered, princess pajama tops
and Spongebob sweatshirts pulled over
guilty faces. Father hides beneath the label
of last night’s microbrew. Mother wishes she had sprung

for the full length apron, settles
on a women’s rake--
tiny, preposterous.
Acorns pummel our heads,
brittle leaves crackle in the crisp autumn air.
Where is the hero throwing clichéd body
over the rest of us, taking one for the team?
Who will save the day? Let the history books show
it was not a fine wind blew the leaves away
but a firm slender hand, a rake, a dozen
tan lawn bags, purchased as an afterthought
while shopping for bowties, bread and beer.

Channeling My Inner Plath: Poetry Gong #12

2008-10-23T22:54:00.005-04:00

Boarding Up the Bees

"If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have only four years of life left. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man.”
- Einstein

The bees fill our chimney,
send their dead to the hearth
as a warning: such atonement
could be your reward, dried husks.

The Queen and her minions gaze
on our frail buzzing from papery cells
constructed among cracks
in the smokestack’s entrails.
Tossed Hell-ward, purified
by the absence of smoke
simple drones believe
there is no fire waiting below,
no barbed flames waiting
to lick lazy flight muscles.

Numb as honey-plundering moths
the sacrificial bees can not sting
the enemy within, the soot, ash,
bits of birds’ nest falling, crushing.

Blackened angels, forgive me
this plywood barricade, this dark
tarp blocking your exit. Your sweet
freedom follows the children’s breath.

*********************************************************************************

Responding to a statement I made, my friend Fred asked me if I was channeling my inner Plath. Fred is funny. He should have a blog. He used to. But he's big-time and can not reveal his wit without sacrificing his career. Not everyone gets Fred.

Thanks to him, I had this great line running through my head. I thought of Plath's bee poems. Then I thought of the time hundreds of half-dead bees were in our house, coming, it finally turned out, from the chimney. Even though I knew it was for the best, I felt bad when my husband boarded up the chimney flue. We don't use the fireplace, but the bees were. They had found a home, and we took it away. I know it was for the best.

Researching bees and sacrifice and cultures that sacrifice others was rife with poetic possibility. This poem, along with many others, does not have the oomph I want it to. Even I don't know exactly what I mean to say. And that is the problem.

Against Desiccation - Poetry Gong #11

2008-10-22T22:42:00.002-04:00

Exoskeletons contain rigid and resistant components that fulfil a set of functional roles including protection, excretion, sensing, support, feeding and (for terrestrial organisms) acting as a barrier against desiccation. Exoskeletons have a role in defence from predators, support, and in providing a framework which musculature can attach to.

Skin turned inside out
eyeballs hanging from bloody wire
too gruesome for pancakes, too soft-bodied

to complete even a simple morning routine
though she is flat
as gluten thinned on a griddle.

Like an earthworm ravenous with rain
mothers step from kitchens
hands blistered and peeling

holding out casseroles to ghosts.
Find (dig) the family in the (a) hole
lost in the folds

of an incomplete exoskeleton
pliant, shriveling, gathering in upon
itself—an apron, an artifact, a defense

against burnt offerings, faulty cocoons
entrails refusing to exit. To join,
to crawl under, live among the tissue,

fossilize before the soft parts rot
requires a desire to change, a meeting
of cells, a declaration of kinship.

Enter in your own mouth, see skin
and eyes, hands and hollow bones
molt the unnecessary, feed on what remains.

I Love You - Poetry Gong #10

2008-10-21T22:02:00.003-04:00

I love you.
I start small,
speak to the peaches.

No flowers
hiding my face
roses leading

for me. Just three
short syllables, grapes
rolling down a throat

choking the owner,
a girl or a man shopping
for fresh fruit, Sam the Butcher’s

best meat. Grilling
the enemy burns
bridges. Say I love

you to pieces
of beef, veal cutlets.
Chicken kabobs kick

start conversations
daily here at the market.
Aisle of ewe. Olive

juice. Circle an onion
uncover the sweetest
avocado. I love you.

When the fruits,
the meat and the vegetables,
are thrashing in your basket

mating in exotic
combinations, look away.
When the bag boy asks

paper or plastic, say
I love you.
Leave him watching the orgy.

**********************************************************************

This poem is in response to this: http://mygorgeoussomewhere.org/2008/10/20/i-love-you-poets-getting-over-themselves/#comment-4311

Note to self: it may be stronger with a "you" instead of an "I." Actually, it kind of shifts perspective. Hmm...

Poetry Gong #9

2008-10-20T21:47:00.001-04:00

Hunting Party Line: The Deer Need to Be Killed

First day of hunting
season. I trail a hunter
through the backlit woods,
yellow leaves fall like snow.
I shoot them straight through
to vein, golden blood flowing
like honey through the chill.

I might have brought the (man nor) beast
who pushed me to these limits,
shooting leaves, fashioning quilts
of their skin, but he is a buck now
and I don’t want to share his rotten
meat with anyone, not even a man
smeared with green black bruises,
disguised as a savior with a rifle.

robed like a savior with a rifle.

*************************************************************************

I can't decide on the last line. Disguised or robed...

Even With Clorox, June Cleaver Has a Tough Time Cleaning the Skeletons From Her Closet: Poetry Gong #8

2008-10-19T21:50:00.008-04:00

When mother shook the broom
wrenched that wooden handle

......................................consider dancing with a ragdoll
round and round, sending dust
up into sunbeams pouring down
even the dust bunnies stopped mating.

I mean even the big, hairy Jesus’
crown of thorns, all wrapped up
.......................................like a robe without fabric softener
in a tangled mess dust bunnies.
Second cousin to the brittle balls
of rolling hay weed lumbering

*******************************************************************************

The indented lines, some, came later. I can't decide if they work, but I kind of like how they add another dimension to the poem. Ya think? Yes? No?

When Your Father is a Fireman, You Can't Avoid the Ashes: Poetry Gong #7

2008-10-18T23:36:00.005-04:00

Once there was a fire and I walked
into it, head first, feet following

my eyes, skimming the white
hot coals, looking for a way

in. Once, despite her burning
weight my father carried

a screaming girl into a hot building.
Those inside hushed, removed their eyes

out of respect for the embalmed.
Only one man asked if the chicken
barbecue was any good that afternoon.

**********************************************************************

Whew! Under the wire! And here is what is so good about poetry gong: if I didn't have an invisible deadline, I would have never written this poem. Now, I'm not saying it's a great poem. But it is a poem. And this string of words would have never had the pleasure (!) of being introduced if I didn't have a little pressure.

Oh sure, I wrote two other poems today. One in the morning in the course of my write-five-minutes-before-I-get-out-of-bed-writing, and one while the kids and hubby played after lunch (I can barely bring myself to admit we were at McDonalds...) In fact, I considered going straight to bed tonight without posting.

Yes, dear reader, I was going to blow the whole thing off. Write a witty piece tomorrow about how I wrote two poems so, technically, I haven't failed, don't have to go back to the beginning of the gong. Make a bunch of excuses about being out all day, falling asleep with my son after reading to him... But, I didn't. I picked a poem out of Mark Strand's Man and Camel, I read for inspiration, and I wrote a poem. And I'm glad.

A Twist on the The Emperor's New Clothes - Poetry Gong #6

2008-10-17T13:28:00.002-04:00

Explaining the Wedding

The Wife decided, finally, that clothes are useless,
her body remembers how to lace.
Let her fingers slide into position.
The beast can cover itself.

Her body remembers lace
recalls darning everyday gaps.
The beast can cover itself.
The bedroom is so cold.

Recall darning everyday gaps
the husband, the wall, the cracked mirror.
The bedroom is so cold,
the ice princess paid the rent.

The husband, the wall, the cracked mirror--
it was not the white knight’s proposal.
The ice princess never dreamed of paying rent.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.

It was not the white knight’s proposal,
let her fingers slide into position.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.
The Wife decided, finally, clothes are useless.

*****************************************************************************

A pantoum, after Carolee's running poem.

The End of the Rainbow in the Tip of a Cigarette: Poetry Gong #5

2008-10-16T14:10:00.008-04:00

Christine over at Balanced on the Edge just wrote a letter poem in response to Jo's (Florescence) poem on poverty. From these two poems, I was inspired to write the piece below, about my fascination with a neighbor family in my hometown. They were a loud house, a full house, a messy, smelly house. I loved them.

****************************************************************************
Dear Christine,

When old Unk lit his hand-rolled
cigarette on the sagging wood porch,
the whole clan pulled up a step.
This was the family with the kids who ate
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bread flopping
in time with shoe-less feet up and down the sidewalk.

Up and down the sidewalk my mother cried,
apron flying behind her one summer afternoon.
I’ve lost my daughter. I’ve got her bologna
with the crust cut off waiting on a plate
in our kitchen. Have you seen her? She never thought
to stop at the neighbor’s where the children took meals to go.

Whiskered stump of a man, Unk rarely spoke.
A smoking Buddha, wrapped in paper-thin plaid
and tattered polyester slacks. Uncle, grandfather,
brother, father all jammed into one man, into one house.
His tobacco stink wrapped its brown arms around
you, pulled you in like moth to flame.

My mother once told me how she and her sister
were the only kids who smelled like a barn.
Now she relishes her daily showers, bastes her body
in Jean Nate, dusts herself in Love’s Babysoft.
She is a garden, the fistful of dandelions on the neighbor’s table
next to my half-eaten bowl of cold Spaghettios.

Poetry Gong - Poem 4

2008-10-15T10:22:00.005-04:00

Advice from a Caterpillar While Washing Breakfast Dishes

The caterpillar questioned me
hanging from the spider plant
in my kitchen window,
a wretched height for dangling.

I shrink from his glassy gaze,
grow bold with my strangled admission:

I do not know who I am.

My son strolls in with a pigeon
behind him, his sister with a snake.
Chicken and spaghetti?
they suggest the usual supper fare.
Clearly culture is in order.
I drop the mop

(am I still the same person as before?)

leave the pancakes on the plate
crusting in sugar-free syrup,
surrey to the Indian restaurant.

Welcome little family
to the hookah patio.
Inhale the cumin wind
relax in a bowl of pad thai
swim through the noodles.
Climb onto our spicy shores
nap on a cushion of naan.

Hand to mouth
food as divine. Fingertips
only, if you please.
The task at hand,
how to get dry again.
We must never speak of spoons
or forks. Clean fingers only.

Avoid the roots and subterranean
vegetables. Spare the cattle,
enjoy the dancing sheep.

Mommy wants you to have fun

.

You can impress your friends
with our secret language:
chana, atta, toor, ghee.

I pray you’re small enough to think

this is an adventure

.

We are saffron warriors.
Off with heads of lettuce.
it is rough being a child
of a poet, forced to eat foreign
cuisine. Through a cloud
of smoke we exit, hop a bus to McDonalds,
mash French fries between greasy lips.

Poetry Gong - Poem 3

2008-10-14T22:06:00.004-04:00

Waves tease deep sleeping fish with promises of jetting flies. Flies give nothing away. Across the lake, a man in orange sends messages in calloused sign language. To receive a word, stick your nose in the west wind, smell fish intestines. Cock an ear, listen for the baby that is not a baby whining in the wind. Fence hinge, hindered owl, all alone silence carries its own weapon. Is the child drowning? Someone throw the child a rope. Ring it round the neck, reel it in. Fishing’s great here in the summer.

Tourists hug blind curves.
Country road bends like trout fin,
cars swim with fishes.

***************************************************************************

Trying a haibun--a Japanese form of travel poem comprised of a prose poem and haiku.

Poetry Gong - Poem 2

2008-10-13T23:11:00.004-04:00

Still stuck on the impression the armless, legless evangelist made on me. Can't get to the "meat" of it...

Bible as Playbook

"I'm not living on my own strength. I'm basically walking on water.”
- Nick Vujicic

It was a sunny Sunday in October,
warmer than it should be, not hot
as hell or the equator, but stifling
still. Why worry, the pastor preached.
Trust
in the Lord
Delight
in the Lord
Commit
everything to the Lord.
Three loaded verbs.

I was contemplating action
words when I should have been singing.
Bowing to the muse
when I should have been lowing
like the rest of the flock.

Ever Sunday he throws us a challenge.
Fevered coach, former all-star posing as pator,
passing pigskin to folding chair quarterbacks.
Few plays are made. Little touches
down. The game goes on.

Busier than a one-armed paper-hanger, my father used to say.
I always pictured my mother, ash blonde held back
in a red bandana, wrestling with angels
and rainbows on the sloped ceilings of my bedroom.

We all suffer. It’s hot in church.
There’s no I in pray,
or is it team?
And who is meant to suffer more,
tell me preacher, when you toss
the limbless evangelist up on the wide screen.
This man is happy,
you scream, but it wasn’t always so.

Preacher, throw the final pass.
Tell us the man with no arms and legs
trusted no-one, delighted in trying to commit
suicide at age eight. I am the sheep slipped astray,
singing, not wow, but how?

Poetry Gong - Poem 1

2008-10-12T22:59:00.003-04:00

All Around Me, People Had Chills

i.

High above our heads, an incomplete angel.
A modern messiah in wide screen
offered for our edification.
Born without the usual wings
the legs and arms all parents expect,
this young man is spreading the love
of God without waving a single Bible.

It was not always so,
the preacher tells us.
Sorrow mocked him with her able grasp.
At the age of eight, the young man tried to commit suicide.

In the cavernous sanctuary,
a shift. Arms cross, feet shuffle,
the woman next to me rubs away chills.

Am I the only one wondering, how?

ii.

And, by the way, she stuck her head in an oven.
The muse and I are having a conversation.
We read that Sylvia Plath, brilliant poet,
tormented herself with self-doubt.
And, by the way, she stuck her head in an oven.

Am I the only one wondering, how?

iii.

When the oven fails to warm you
when hand-me-down genetics betray you,
how do you pick yourself up?
How do you get back on your horse
(provided you have a horse)?
What sky do you believe in
that might throw you a bone,
not hit you on the head?

******************************************************************************

Carolee and I have had another brilliant idea in our quest for poetry nirvana. We are going to write a poem a day for 30 days. Make it a habit. Carolee, much more spiritual and in tune with such things than I, described a "gong" her yoga instructor created for her. A chart with 30 squares. Each day she did a certain yoga exercise, she got a smiley face. If she missed a day, she had to start ALL OVER AGAIN.

I like to consider myself an idea-maker. I come up with ideas. Naturally, this yoga gong gave me the idea for a poetry gong! The poem above is my first smiley face. Feel free to send me a beer a day, a poetry book a day, a cat a day, in lieu of a smiley face.

Things You Should Put on a Dress For

2008-10-09T12:52:00.005-04:00

Your first
date. Your first death.

Clandestine liasons at dusk.
Upon meeting a bear.
Upon meeting a bear
in wolf’s clothing. When you are naked.
When you are hungry. The first time.
The last time. Once upon a morning
when you wake
to find you are a skeleton.

When you don’t know
what to say. To the pastor’s
house for tea and cakes.
Pull a tight one over your head
in the car on the way to the hospital
while you are in labor.

Do not work too hard.

While your bare feet trundle
the sewing machine pedal.
Mind the silk it is fragile.

Hunting the midday woods
with a bow and arrow. Fishing
for the one that got away. Rise
to the surface in black satin.

Learning to fly.
Learning to speak
another language
while standing
in a dark alley.
When you learn
the awful truth, the cleaner
shrunk your superhero cape.

When there is nothing left
for you to do but stand
up and dress yourself
ask someone else to pull the zipper.

**************************************************************************

My poetry pal Carolee and I are trying to motivate each other. Crack the whip. So we are reading The Poet's Companion (Kim Addonizio & Dorianne Laux) and doing every single exercise. Yup. Every one. If we weren't best friends with our hair dressers, we might go gray attempting this task.

The first exercise, in a nutshell: Make a list of the most memorable events in your life...start a poem about one of the events.

I cheated. I didn't make a list. I looked on the floor and saw the red leather bible I got at my confirmation when I was about 10. I thought, hmmm..., that is an event. And I started to write. Actually, I looked at another spot on the floor (my bedroom is a mess) and saw Girl Meets God, a book in my to-read pile. From there, a poem began to emerge. That's as far as I got. A poem not quite out of the oven. So, I resorted to a list poem.

It is like my poem-er, my muse, my creativity, is on vacation.

I will persevere. I will.

Kiss Me, Monk, Again Before the Silence Kills Us Both: A Love Poem Written During One Of Those Mythical Long Walks On the Beach

2008-10-02T13:23:00.005-04:00

In the wind, the floating bridge is no more
than a fat tightrope. Quite remarkable:
fish jumping out of the water onto the beach.

In the ballet studio, she sat in the center
a dozen reflections of herself crying.
In the ballet studio, the boy was safe.

When caught kissing the tree, he refused
to pull the bark from his lips.
A monk would never swing a sword. Never
say "I'll kill you." I saw the two of them kissing,
and I did not turn away. Send a thousand white balloons
floating. Bridge the time until wishes come true.

To the remarkable fish, a thousand kisses,
each wet as his scales.

*************************************************************************

Last week's prompt at Read Write Poem was to take five lines from a favorite poem, or five lines from five different poets, then use them in a poem. Well, I took five phrases from David Shumate, prose poet extraordinaire, and shared them with my pal Carolee. We each wrote five lines with the five phrases, then worked them into a poem. And this is what I got.

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

2008-07-22T14:03:00.006-04:00

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

here.

June Cleaver and the Soccer Moms Release Their First Single

2008-07-21T15:06:00.003-04:00

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
coddled
cradled
caressed
caught in an updraft
or cosseted in cotton.

Winged
wanton
we drift without cords.
Chordless,
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.

Supergirl Loses Her Cape

2008-07-17T14:14:00.003-04:00

Ever lost
something special?
Whispered
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.
Hung
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.

The Further Adventures of Superhero Girl

2008-07-16T09:24:00.003-04:00

Golden age Bat Woman and Bat Girl
Originally uploaded by I wish i was the Royal Trux

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.

Superhero Candy Cane Girl

2008-07-15T23:23:00.001-04:00

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!

Am I Going to Hell Now?

2008-07-14T17:05:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-14T08:48:00.001-04:00

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.

Some editors are just too cool for words

2008-07-12T16:39:00.001-04:00

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!

Off to Playland!

2008-07-11T12:49:00.002-04:00

Ferris Wheel Seats
Originally uploaded by Nihihiro & Shihiro

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.

Gone creek-walkin'

2008-07-10T16:45:00.001-04:00

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!

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

2008-07-09T13:20:00.001-04:00

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.

What the Rain Does Not Wash Away

2008-07-08T15:08:00.002-04:00

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.

Trust.
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.

Heat,
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.

Summer is supposed to be fun

2008-07-08T09:11:00.005-04:00

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?

Mother as Avian

2008-06-30T08:53:00.003-04:00

Brilliant feathered kite
sweet aerie seed finch.

Try and try
to mimic home.
Wind stale blue plumage
about your straw bed.

Hover
follow

sing,
signal
for wing mate.

Nest beneath owl talon,

preen for dark raptor

night
after night.

Beautiful thing
swing fast.
Wait on bright flock.

**************************************************************************

That Dana. She is such a good influence for thinking out of the box. The prompt this week at RWP is to use a random word generator or a list of random words. I finally, finally put to ue my new box of magnetic poetry--bird themed.

And, hey, why is it just when I sit down to write, my lovely adorable children all of a sudden need me to look at them and answer their questions and help them put a belt on? Why, when one minute previous, they were content to build a Lego ship and watch Pinky Dinky Do?

Can you make our pancakes?

A Brief Lesson From the Wife of Jesus (Surprise!)

2008-06-16T15:52:00.002-04:00

I am not a nun.

Bless me for I have hidden
in plain sight
all these years.

Every picture ever taken
of me by the curious
the seekers
the pilgrims of fate
and unlucky circumstance
(except the ones smoking
Lucky Strikes…
except for them)
develops into one pulsing red eye.

Giant hulking bull’s eye
on glossy vellum.

You know why,
don’t you?
It’s the blood.
(Always the blood
never clotting,
flowing freely,
an iron river gone mad).

The flash opens my eye,
dilates my cornea.

I see the light

and the light reaches
black fingers in,
stretches the ring wide
wide

pushing back memory
pushing back truth,
scholars,
rough-robed men,

claiming with their pens
to know everything.

The little black spot opens
and all you see is
my blood.
Not spilling
but pooling.

Gelled.
An arc of a broken covenant.

Amen.

**********************************************************************************

So, one morning, watching my daughter fill up her giant plastic tug boat with water, I imagined a story told by the wife of Jesus. I read about half of the Brown novel that put forth the notion that Jesus' wife was in the Last Supper painting. I never get into reading "popular" novels (I seriously can't remember the name of that book...). But the notion of Jesus having a wife, aside from the nuns who vow to be the bride of Jesus (don't they? I'm not Catholic, so I'm unsure), stayed with me.

So, here it is. Me, the poet, removed from the telling of the tale.

I Touched Him

2008-06-08T11:12:00.004-04:00

because I couldn't see his back
rising and falling
like the length of his skinny body
in and out of the pool
all sticky
day long.

(Spotlight on the little-known
phenomenon--
dry-drowning.)

They’re never more angelic
than when they’re sleeping,
or so I’ve heard.

(Warning signs every parent
should be aware
of.)

You will not find the kind of mother
here, checking on her children
in the middle of the night.

In the middle of the night
I sleep.
Like a normal person.

(easily overlooked
or misinterpreted.)

I am no insomniac.
I know my children,
the span of their small
hands, the breadth of their
chests, the width of their feet
their lips, the measure of one eye
between their beautiful blue and hazels—
the third eye.

It’s just the media.
Blame it on the media.
Measuring the depth of my love
on the frequency of my obsession.

At one end,
the pool was twelve feet deep.
That’s three times
the size of my boy.
What is the direct route to his lungs?
How much could he inhale
in an instant?

Under pressure
we can all supply
what is needed.

*********************************************************************

I had used some indentations in this poem, for effect, but they didn't all show up when I cut and pasted. Can't seem to figure that out in Blogger. This indenting is something new I am trying...

WriPoMo anyone?

2008-06-02T10:26:00.004-04:00

I so enjoyed writing every day for a month back in April that I've decided to try it again. We shall see. I missed June 1, but that's ok. If you want to join me, let me know in the comments! I'll make a sidebar list!

A Hiccup in the Long, Long Trail

You stumbled
(literally, a tree branch under foot)
on your husband

sharing a laugh
with another baritone
comrade. Laughing in the woods

on a family hike. Kids ahead
wives behind
husbands bringing up the rear

checking it all out
bracing for the bear attack
or the random unleashed
dog racing the trail.

Do you wonder what the joke is?

Do you shake your Devil's Walking Stick
at him, thorns upside the head?

Do you throw your hands
full of treasure
acorns, leaves, twigs
over your head
in a praise be salute
because your man finally
has a friend?
Do you hide
your fears, your extra pounds
circling the middle,
your latest adult
pimple and laugh along?

What would Jesus do?

That’s what the man said
at church this morning,
tucked in the corner
next to the holy water
trying to give you a drink.

What did you do?

After the Surgery

2008-05-28T10:14:00.003-04:00

He has traveled from New York to Vermont and back again and the only map he has is the one on his belly. A new route carved over the old one. First surgery, second surgery. He lifts his shirt to show my son. See this road? Follow it all the way to here, take a left and you’ll be in Pennsylvania. We intend to head north when we leave the hospital, head for the hills and the work that must be done to open the lake house for summer. Instead we head east, back to Vermont. This is not home. My husband knows I need to travel, even when I do not. We drive onto the ferry, cross the lake. Should we have paid the ferryman? In the time it takes one cloud to traverse the day’s blue sky, green mountain to green mountain, we are lost. Windows down, each deep breath replaces hospital bleach with spring manure. Refresh, renew. Each cow we see wears one too many black You are here spots. I let my daughter-body drift out of the car, straddle a cow. If we move slowly, I can get home. My father has given me a map I can not read. Tom-tom, tom-tom. If I had an internal positioning system, I would know what to do with the lines, the ones on the road, the ones cutting across his body. Let’s rip the map. You take half. I’ll take half. One of us will know where to go. South, north. East, west. Orwell. Brandon. Vergennes. Middlebury. I drag my finger across the map’s wrinkled remains. Ferry to New York. I have never been sure of the plan. Lost or found?

Like an Old Bowl of Soup - A Prose Poem in Three Steps

2008-05-21T10:18:00.004-04:00

Roller coasters are boring. All you do is go round and round and round like an old bowl of soup.
- Rudy the cartoon mouse on Maggie and the Ferocious Beast

I. Gather Ingredients

Great googly-moogly, mouse. There are worse things than being caught in the downward spiral of day-old chicken noodle. A gazpacho carousel might be nice on a hot sunny day. Would that be a pool filled with blood, or are we talking metaphors? Mouse, aren’t you hungry? I’ll bet dollars to donuts (and wouldn’t you love some of those?), your second cousin, once removed, would have traded her first born to give birth in peace, rather than in pieces, gray baby hanging out of her hindquarters when the local garbage man opened the door of the dumpster. Delivery might well be left a private matter don’t you think?

II. Empty Into Pot

Sometimes even refuse can serve as refuge, and even then, there is no safety in an empty garbage bin. Everything needs to be filled. A bowl of tomato was nothing until someone planted a seed, someone shook a vine, someone cut and diced, delivered the soup to the bowl. The empty woman. The filled virgin. The empty world. The masses filled, with something like soup, hearty, nourishing, the body of a savior, a filler. And then the empty tomb. There’s the mystery. Always the mystery.

III. Name Your Soup

After sixty gallons of funky fish water flooded our floors, we needed a man to deliver salvation to our home, one great rusting heap of nothing. Barren. A wretched womb waiting to be filled. The mouse was just trying to have a baby. Fulfill her obligation to society. And what is it that mice do, exactly? Ruin soup. Some wombs are meant to be filled. Take the dumpster, for instance. Scrape the remnants from someone else’s garbage and you might have soup for a swine. Reuse, recycle. It’s a rollercoaster. Round and round. Stir the soup.

************************************************************************************

This poem has vexed me for days. It started out as a free verse poem. Then it stalled. Then, just this morning it begged for the prose poem form. And it grew. I just listened to the muse. Not sure if it works in this form. I'm pretty sure it needs editing. Comments/critique welcome!

PS: My 200th post! Wahoo!

Check these out!

2008-05-16T13:13:00.002-04:00

I don't often post anything but poetry anymore. But, I just found this and it is so cool. Blackout poems.

You take a newspaper, black out all the words you don't like or need, and the rest become the poem. Let's try them! I may choose a hot pink Sharpie though.

Happy Birthday, Soph!

2008-05-14T11:07:00.003-04:00

On the Wing Greetings

The hornet wishes you happy birthday, sends flakes of pinched skin in an envelope. He just doesn’t understand the customs. Do not be afraid of bugs, child. The bees, the honey. The mosquitoes, the bats. Honestly, the world would be a better place without invisible flying pain, small black avengers. I know. But it is my place to distract you from that which you should not be afraid of. My mother taught me. Do not fear. Do not cry over cancer, no-see-um. Say why not me? Say I will take the fish hook in the arm. Just untie the fly, would you, please. Read your fortune in the raised welts scrawling your tender arm. Pink salve will heal the bite. It’s pink, after all. Daddy Longlegs is just mommy’s wayward spouse. Bumble bees are cute. Roly-poly. Someone coined the phrase just for them. Clever, college educated folks designed spectacular beetles, bumbles bees, and lady bugs for your brother’s nursery. Flowers were good enough for you. And here is where I went wrong. Ay. There’s the rub. Flesh-colored roses for the boy. Sensitive. Sultry smiling bugs for the girl. Toughen her up. Sugar and spice. That’s what the bees suck, anyway. The next child will be called Ava. Winged beauty eating bugs. Best wishes without sting.

Things My Mother Taught Me, or: Self-Portrait Not My Own

2008-05-12T21:52:00.003-04:00

Ironing is good for wrinkled curtains.
Wrinkled curtains are a sign
of a bad woman.
A bad woman
throws butcher knives,
not at a carnival,
but at her blondest daughter.
Go blond for most of your life.
Go back to your roots
at fifty.
At fifty
get your ears pierced.
If your husband says no
to piercing your child’s ears,
wait until he says yes.
Do not wait until he says yes
to go out and get a job.
Go out and get a job if you want
your own money.
Give your own money
to whomever you please.
The door-to-door
Catholic school kids,
the hitchhiker on the mountain,
the single mother stranded
in her attic by a hurricane.
Pray for hurricane victims.
Pray for your grandparents.
Pray every night.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
Never wait at the window
for your mother to come home.
If the neighbors sent her away
because she was loose
go out and find her.
Do not cry.
Put on an apron,
tighten the strings.

******************************************************************************

I haven't written much about my mother. She is awesome. Maybe that's why. No pain, no angst. I'm a lucky girl.

We are alot alike. Maybe I've written about her the whole time. Hmmm...

We spent a lot of time together while my dad was in the hospital. She told me many, many stories. I hope I get them all into poems.

Maybe I'll move on to the Mother Diaries.

My dad is on the mend. Hooray! Thank you everyone, for all of your prayers and good thoughts!

I feel kind of at a loss now for poetry fodder. I had never written about my dad, save maybe once or twice, before this. He sure did provide inspiration. Who knew? Too bad he'll never read any of these. Nope. He just wouldn't get it. And that is fine by me.

Hospital Diaries - Verse 3

2008-05-08T08:19:00.003-04:00

Destruction in Myanmar, Attack in Plattsburgh, Mother's Day is Coming

And the world goes on around you. Your nurse has an earring in her nose. She is so nice. Good hair, too. You're still sharing space with the drug runner. Badges shining up and down the slick halls. We left the baby's milk in the refrigerator. You left your memories back in some other decade. Who are you signaling to? you ask your wife. I know, you answer your own question. Put that in the chart. You're signaling to the engineer. (Get us off this train). Who is that man that walks the tracks? Who is he? Who is he? God damn it, who is he? Nurse. My wife and I would like to know. Who is that man that walks the tracks? Picking up garbage. We look good together, you tell your wife. When my hair is combed. All the while the girl sat by your bed, she knew what you were thinking. It is no surpirse now. Walking. Standing. Eating. Getting out of here. No surprise. If it were only this easy to heal. She might have walked the tracks and picked up a stethoscope long ago. Get well soon. Walk out into the ether of the parking garage. Wonder, who is he?

*******************************************************************************

Seriously. Can this ever be poetry?

The Hospital Diaries - Verse 2

2008-05-07T10:50:00.001-04:00

News From the Home Front

How about this for exciting? You’re sharing your intensive care with a drug runner. Imagine, if you will, you are not lying in state, an eighty-year-old man who elected to have a nasty aneurysm repaired, but a twenty-five-year old man, shot in the back while fleeing border patrol agents on an ATV. Now, I know you have walked the straight and narrow. But, drug running is lucrative. Meet a guy in a parked car, a gin joint, maybe on a park bench. Hold the newspaper in front of your face while slipping into your pocket the directions to the abandoned barn where the drugs are bound and packed for shipping. You won’t be walking into the bar guns slinging. You won’t be sitting in a beige surgeon’s office discussing renal failure, nursing homes, living wills, survival rates. You’ll be free-wheeling across farmer’s fields, three hockey duffle bags strapped to the back of your machine, counting up in your head the ways you’ll spend your booty. Pirate. Mule. Bandito. Beats counting sheep. Counting the days, how many is it now? Where am I? Untie my hands. There’s one thing you have in common. You and the fleeing drug suspect. Caught by surgeon’s hands. Wrists bound in soft white wraps. Hey! How about this for exciting? The nurse just untied your restraints. John Wayne, can you hear me?

The Hospital Diaries - Verse 1

2008-05-05T09:21:00.003-04:00

Waiting for the Doctor to Call

A cat’s growl is a fearsome affair. It is so unexpected. It is as if a dog, in a moment of great stress, meowed. And Lama’s growl was like a rolling crescendo of bass drums.
- Derek Tangye

My father does the Jumble every morning. EPKOD. Can you get that one? It’s POKED. That’s the way he sits right now. Poked in at least seven different places, and I’m sure I chose that number, completely on the soft end (soft is a term nurses use for low blood pressure, as a matter of fact) in a respectful nod to Jesus and God, a sort of biblical reference in the hope springs eternal vein. Seven deadly sins. Seven signs heralding the end of the world. Speaking of veins. I understand you repaired the aneurism hassling his kidney veins. What, exactly is the difference between veins and arteries. Major and minor? If you major in surgery, do you minor in humanity? In all fairness, the surgery was a success. If you were playing the lottery, you would have all the numbers, plus the bonus ball. Speaking of lucky numbers, try these for today: 9 -32-37-45-52. Just found these in my father’s pen-scratch on an April 24 square of cat calendar. Bonus number 41. So, you may have heard, a cat’s growl is fearsome. Unexpected. As if a dog, a pug or a Great Dane, in a moment of great stress, meowed. Just a bit of trivia. Do you recall if my father may have growled? I suppose not, what with enough morphine to knock out an elephant. Interesting choice of metaphor, doc. FISHTE. VEALE. They may appear as misspelled items on a fancy menu. Not at all. Not everything is at it appears. Hope springs eternal. Leave me a message. I’ll be waiting for your call. I have the lucky numbers tucked in my pocket.

*********************************************************************************

All is not going as hoped. Today is another day. There is only one thing to do--hope for the best. Believe.

NaPoWriMo #30 - Oh Yeah!

2008-04-30T20:25:00.002-04:00

Spreading Like Wildfire: Notes From a Fireman’s Daughter

Fire is nature’s housekeeper. Smokey the Bear says so, and he is one of the most honest men in my life, so I believe him. I invite fire into my home. The whole family is in need of some serious keeping. Dear neighbor, Hello! We will be conducting a controlled burn here at our place. Mind the drapes. Mind the children. Mind your business or we’ll scorch you, too. Hot head. Hot spot. Is that any relation to the G-spot? What is it with all these children now-a-days (mind the children, I tell you), playing with matches, setting fires when they should be setting goals, setting the table, keeping house, gosh darn it. Fire is nature’s housekeeper. Maybe the children know something we don’t.

**************************************************************************

Not one of my strongest poems this month, but it has potential. And it's fitting that it's about fire, as my dad, having surgery tomorrow, is a 60-some year veteran fireman.

I have thoroughly enjoyed NaPoWriMo. I plan to try and keep it up, maybe for a year. We'll see. Who knows what tomorrow may bring.

NaPoWriMo #29 - Almost there!

2008-04-29T23:16:00.001-04:00

Truth or Dare

Truth. Each morning I buck
the mirror, try fixing
my Barbie face by (false) memory.

Truth lies like an antique
quilt, hanging by loosened stitches
lonely on a hand-made coat rack.
False wedding bands disintegrate
on yellowed cotton. Marriage bed.
False. False. I dare you to lie down.

Confess. Your legs bend only
at the knee. Where and when
you dare to bow
and scrape is a matter of taste,
a falsehood that wives make
their own casseroles, their own
decisions. We all hold recipes.

I dare you
to kiss
another man.
The truth is
I would love a kiss
from any man
if only I dared
turn the other cheek.

Truth or dare.
What is your weapon
of choice?
How do you live
your one warm and cozy life?

NaPoWriMo #28 - And the prose poem makes a return...

2008-04-28T21:28:00.005-04:00

I Took a Wild Walk in Nature, and This Is What I Found

The remains of the dead deer, the shrunken head, the mottled fur. Animals had picked it clean; its hooves were still attached. Like dying with your socks on and lying there until someone kicks your ankle to see if the socks stay up. The first time my father almost died he was tied by his wrists in the post-op room. They do that to patients who try to take their IVs out, even the strong silent types. Where are my shorts?, he bellowed. Get me my shorts. This big strapping man, vein blown out by a giant air bubble, three feet from meeting Jesus, and his first waking thoughts wander past boxer shorts. I like to recall this moment and say he grabbed my wrist. When I found the deer, I kicked a leg to see if it would crumble. To see what death felt like from the outside, see what it moved like. And when I heard on the news tonight that a man had kept his daughter hidden, a sex-slave for twenty-four years, I knew. This is the dead deer. This is why a greater aneurysm came to take the place of the first. A son came to take the place of a father. There is bad karma wafting into the air all around us. Daily toxins from bad men, bad medicine, bad blood. When I tripped over the white-washed bones of the dead deer, a piece of back bone sprung up, a final hand waving (not drowning). I walked with it, swinging it like a staff. I took a wild walk in nature, and this is what I found.

**************************************************************************

I didn't think I had a poem in me tonight. Actually, I started two or three today, and a few more the past few days, but none of the starts have moved me to finish. They are like half started paintings, languishing in my journal, poor things.

Tonight, I was going to enlist my husband's help. I was feeling that desperate. Help me write a poem. We can share lines. It ounded like fun. Then, I pulled a couple lines from a piece I've been working on for 10 years. Holy moly. 10 years. And I went with it. It helped that the first few lines grossed my tough, black-belt husband out. And he the hiker, nature guy. Ha! City kid. I told him I didn't need him and off I went.

Question--should this be divided into two parts? Maybe at "...my wrist./ When I found the dead deer..."

NaPoWriMo #27

2008-04-27T23:10:00.000-04:00

You Can’t Have Everything, Where Would You Put It?

Well, I would put the bouncing squirrel
in my hallway where he has room to hop.
I will also bring in the fluorescent green moss
and November’s shriveled leaves
so he feels right at home.
I will put the standing dead wood
bent at odd angles like Degas’ dancers
in my living room.
I will have to cut a hole in my ceiling
so the pretty things can reach for Jesus
all day and night
joyous in their grotesque gyrations.
Of course I will have to wrap
their brittle trunks in tin foil
to keep the cats from climbing
up and out
into the free world.
The cats have been here forever.
I put them under my feet,
each step a fur-lined treat.
As for the sky
and the stars
the moon
and the sun
the fallen tulip petals,
the broken glass in the shape of a heart
the turtle half crushed
the man crying by the side of the road
because he almost killed a turtle,
these things will have to wait
until I break down the walls
of my house
so we can all live together.

NaPoWriMo #26

2008-04-26T21:23:00.001-04:00

Nose to the Ground

When she had a dog
he would lead her to the dead.
Now she tromps in search of rot alone.
She does not tell her husband.
She does not bring the children.
She goes alone in search
of what winter left behind.
Dried bones put a skip in her step,
walking trail
head on a swivel
lifting stones with boot toe
kicking rotten limbs with heel
both feet hoping
for a tuft of fur
and beneath that
bits of flesh.

When I was a child,
hikers found a dead body
in the woods near my summer home.
A sad man, killed by his lover, hauled
up from the city to the country.
I wanted to be the one
to find the next big news story.
My greatest wish,
to find a decaying body
missing hands,
feet and head.
Remnant of a homicide maybe.

Do not think less of us.
We do not wish for death,
do not wish for people to die.
But people die,
people kill,
and we have but to look
and remember.

I have not found
the woman. I have seen
her. She looks just like me.
You might remember us both.

NaPoWriMo #25

2008-04-25T22:33:00.002-04:00

On Reading the Poems of a Popular Asian-American Poet, the Northern New York Poet Laments Her Roots

I did not have an exotic
childhood. It was not spicy.
It was not saucy, raw,
or sensual. In many ways
it was a soft and white slice
of American bread,
the flour and water kind
sheet and blanketing bologna.
Holly Hobbie sheets were pulled
up and nylon threaded bed spreads flicked
mid-air every morning after cereal
white with skim milk, pale
canned pears sliced into moons.
Long yellow buses swallowed
wan cotton children whole,
belched them back
up the cement walkways
of lonesome schools named for ghosts.
What did I know
of foreign or domestic?
Spice was deadly salt,
sprinkled over ears of white kernel sweet corn.
Sauce was sallow gravy
poured over potatoes piled high as snow drifts.
It was not an exotic childhood
unless you were from Africa
or India, China or the equator.
Then all that virgin
white might frighten you.
You might choke
on the blinding blandness.
Wish you knew
at least one word for snow.

****************************************************************************

From the time I first read Ana Castillo and Sandra Cisneros, I have wanted to be anything but a German/Scottish/English/American girl from the semi-frozen northeast New York. I worried that I had no crazy Tias, no fortune-telling abuela, nothing exotic or even remotely spicy in my past. NOw that I'm older, I still lament my mostly boring family history, but I have learned to dig a little deeper, and to make up stuff.

Come to think of it, before all this, when I was about seven, I used to tell people I was really adopted and my real parents were gypsies. Hmmm....

NaPoWriMo #24

2008-04-24T22:17:00.005-04:00

A (Spring) Prayer To Cover All My Bases, Against Impending Doom, Against Greed

Oh my God, the glory of these trees.
I have been obsessed with baby doll tees
their fine scent, their exquisite curving arms.
I would spend every green bill,
throwing leafy hallelujahs heaven's way,
if I did not have to feed my children.
Apple blossom, cherry blossom, I do not know their names.
If I wrap myself in cotton, I can not feel the thorns.
Anonymous ghosts, bless you for lighting my way.

***********************************************************************

I tried the flip-flop opposite method of writing a poem again. See read.write.poem. for more info.

NaPoWriMo #23 - Thank you muse, for sticking with me

2008-04-23T09:42:00.001-04:00

Did You Know

If you pick up one tiny ant
from his home hole
and drop the little black innocent
into a neighboring hole
the guard ants will take him down?
The oldest boy
at the bus stop
lets loose this bit of harsh
animal truth, sure and swift,
an elementary hand dangling
insect justice like sugar on a string.
The younger boys lap it up,
swallow it whole,
dive to their knees
in search of a (victim) subject.

In the name of science and investigation
the ruthless backpack gang
trowels the driveway
spades the lawn
scurrying to prove their leader’s genius
before the bus comes.

This is power
in motion.
High on proofs and theories,
tiny giants
hunger for crucifixion.
Help us, help us.
Give us the ant.

Even the little sister denies
the mother three times.
No, mommy.
The ant will not
ask for a play date.
He can not live.
He can not live.
He can not live.
Let us show you.

NaPoWriMo #22 - just yukky

2008-04-22T22:15:00.004-04:00

Ugly Things That Might, If Smoothed, Ironed, or Flattened, Fit Well In a Frame

Your first failing grade.

Your first failed romance,
complete with sticky tears,
sticky notes,
sticky thighs.

Your first image, burned
into adolescent memory
of an enormous tom cat
conquering a slight kitten.

The shine of the wax
make-up on your grandfather’s
funeral face.

Labored breath.
Anyone’s.

A barking dog alone
outside in the middle of the neighborhood
in the middle of the night.
His two short barks,
his one shrill whine.
The slamming door.

The mother who walks so fast,
hand-to-hand with her children,
their feet seem to fly
beside her varicose legs.

The mother who snarls.

The mother who draws
the water too hot.

The iron after-taste on your tongue
because you drank the scalding water.
Because you did not want to be burned.

********************************************

I really likd the title of this poem. I like the concept. I'm not crazy about the content. Here is a fine example of writing even whe you don't feel like it, when you think you have nothing in you, when your muse all but says, screw you.

Who knows? Maybe I'll come back to this one day and do something good with it.

To add to my foul mood, I got a rejection from Big Ugly Review today. Bah. Humbug. Hey! That's ironic! I had the idea for this poem, the title, at least, in my mind but decided to check my e-mail before I wrote (naughty, naughty...such a time waster!). So my ugly poem was not inspired by my rejection from the ugly review, but it is another ugly thing to add to my list.

So tired. So cranky. Must spare readers...

NaPoWriMo #21 - for read write poem

2008-04-21T10:44:00.005-04:00

One For the Record Books

A record-breaking eighty degrees in April.
Seventy-nine years of anger have turned on you.
Sun and shine have children swimming in icy mountain streams.
Four months shy of eighty and your veins are bulging time bombs.
The fish are deep asleep.
To operate could end your life.
The young boy casts his worm into an empty lake.
To rise up and wait could end your life.
He does not know the life is deep below.
Daily, you wrap your age speckled arms in fury’s barbed wool.
Hot flat rocks bask naked in the sun.
Even as the sun shines, a miracle of eighty in April,
you sleep in your rotting chair, inside, alone.
Even the water snakes have forgotten,
how to slither into the warmth of spring’s first soiree.
You are an old bear, trapped in your handmade cave.

**********************************************************************************

What an amazing prompt. Write five (or more) lines about a happy time. Write five (or more) lines of a sad time. Then, weave them together. Thank you, read write poem!

Below are my original lines. As I crafted the final poem, I kept coming back to the two separate originals, adding lines. I still think this could be even better. The irony of eighty degrees and the question of reaching eighty years old bears examining. As does the metaphor of hibernating, even as joyous life goes on around you. Maybe a freewrite is in order...

Eighty degrees in April.
Sun and shine for the record books.
The fish are deep asleep.
The young boy casts his hook into an empty lake.
He does not know the life is deep below.
Hot rocks bask naked in the sun.
Even the water snakes have forgetten
to come to the early-spring soiree.

Seventy-nine years of anger have turned on you,
blown your veins into bulging time bombs.
To operate could end your life,
to rise up and wait could end your life.
Daily, you wrap your gray-haired arms in fury’s scratchy wool.
Even as the sun shines, a miracle of eighty in April,
you sleep in your chair, inside, alone.
You are an old bear trapped in your handmade cave.

NaPoWriMo #20 - Just Can't Get Enough of Those Prose Poems!

2008-04-20T16:52:00.002-04:00

The Greatest Show in the World, or: The Wife Shares Her Deepest Fears

The truth is, I know you are the ringmaster. When the children and I pack up the wagon and head north for vacation, I know you pull the other family out of your hat. Dark-haired magician, you swing your red cape around that swarthy neck, doff your top hat, pull a rainbow bouquet of carnations out of thin air and take your rightful place under their big top. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it. See the other woman’s bedroom set. Feel the real silk of her negligee. Mysterious. Surprising. I’m glad you’re all here. Let’s hear it for the amazing and talented mistress and her truly spectacular children. I know it’s hard to believe. Difficult, but not impossible. You’ve all heard of the man with another family. Difficult, but not impossible. Not as tricky as sawing the pretty assistant in half. Give me that saw. Is that a hand saw or a hack? Never mind the incredible disappearing family. They will return soon enough. Pay no attention to those 2.5 children behind the curtain. Keep your eyes on the other woman. Feast your eyes on the severed arms, waving hello. Waving hello, not dying. Step right up. You wouldn’t want to miss it.

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I have crossed to the other side--the prose poem side. It just feels right. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right, or if the form suits the subject, but it just feels right. This poem started to come in "regular" poem form, but then it seemed to morph into a prose poem. I welcome thoughts/comments/critique.

NaPoWriMo #19 - Keep the Prose Poems Coming!

2008-04-19T20:43:00.003-04:00

Thirteen Frames, and We’re Not Bowling

There is a wall of me in the house I grew up in. Thirteen frames from birth to death. Well, from three to high school, but what, really, is the difference? There’s the day I posed for the slick young photographer who got his jollies arranging the leotarded legs of preschool tap-dancers. There’s the smart-ass not-quite-teenager who just had sex last summer. There’s the white jade frog my half-brother gave me for Christmas. He bought it from a traveling Catholic school kid selling trinkets out of a cardboard suitcase. Lucky we have that one on film. The middle school girl-bully threatened my cat and my mother if I didn’t let her wear that for her seventh grade school picture. Wait. That’s her necklace. I never owned a frog in my life. I did, however, lie still on the twin bed at the lake one summer, counting frog croaks and mourning the passing of my twelve-year-old youth. The summer before the fall I turned teenager. Thank god for family photographs. Everyone should have a wall of me.

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This was inspired by Christine at This Is All Your Fault. She has a great prose poem with framed things. Go. Read it. You'll be glad you did.

NaPoWriMo #18

2008-04-18T11:19:00.000-04:00

Back In the Day, You Could Learn a Thing or Two from Your Spread

Everything’s better with Blue Bonnet on it.
Or, so they say. Maybe that’s the problem.

My children have run amok
from birth to now without their bonnets.
Hatless. Exposed. Bare and naked,
little boy head and girl head uncovered

in rain, in snow, day and night
without their bonnets. Stranded
like hapless cartoon animals
in a leaky raft, cursed to live out their
days never quite reaching the island
where the pirates have hidden the gold.

There’s another problem. Cartoons.
Not the traditional violence,
but the nouveau brutality. In the old days
the mouse beat the cat,
and that was that.
Today, the mouse in slicked back hair,
Sean John couture would have a witty
retort for the slung back cat in phat
nylon and gold chains. This is how it is,
or as they say today, it is
what it is. Is it, now? Is it.

And what if, I, a poet, just repeated
these lines? It is. What it is.
It is.
It is.
It is.
We still wouldn’t be caught dead
wearing bonnets,
blue, indigo, or down
in the dumps.
And whose fault is that?

NaPoWriMo #17 - oh so rough!

2008-04-17T21:10:00.004-04:00

Beloved Mother (an exhausted title, written by a mother on vacation with two young children who never tire)

Is there a name for a mother
who takes her children cemetary

hopping on vacation?
Mother-who-courts-ghosts,

maybe? She is a family woman
earthed in tradition and roots.

This is a family reunion
no-one need bring a casserole.

Mother-born-old? Brought up
herself among the stones,

spending holidays delivering
flowers to the dearly departed,

listening quietly to old stories
of older people, strangers, really.

Her people, his people, born, married
died. Where is their plot?

Is there a plot to this tale?
I know this much, my place

will rest with my mother
who rests with her mother.

We will be the-mothers-who
rest together. Come visit.

NaPoWriMo #16 - Another Prose Poem

2008-04-16T19:47:00.003-04:00

Following the LaChute

The water is louder than our words, more powerful than a pillow on a face. We can not hear ourselves breathe, can not feel the steady rhythm of our footsteps on the nature trail. Our eyes roam, light up when we find an unscuffed sneaker bottom side up in a tide pool. My son rushes to the other side of the foot bridge, spies the equally white mate, and the mother load—black pants and a wet pair of wool socks. I wonder if this is a phase, this obsession with death. Guns fashioned from Legos, sticks, digits, limbs. Constant talk of bad guys, blood, jail, death and dying. A phase, I wonder, or a premonition. Does he know when we are all going to die? Does he know we are all going to die? Has he, in his six years on earth, been granted vision? I drive him to the cemetery. If we cannot find a dead body in the river, we will certainly have more luck among the stones. We find long-lost uncles, three of them. He adds their dates. Figures before I can that his great-grandmother was just seventeen when she gave birth. Just seventeen when she had a funeral for her first child. Just what is it, again, we can learn from children?

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Here's the thing. I'm not crazy about this first draft, but as first drafts go, I;m pretty pleased. Does that make sense? I considered, again, posting a poem written in late March. But, I really feel like if I miss a day of writing a new poem, I will miss something valuable. So, while this may not be the best poem I've ever written, it is a start. And I can go from here. And I will always remember this day.

Here's a question...what to do with all these drafts? Is anyone interested in starting a blog post-April to work on drafts? We can come up with a clever title and post the poems we liked from NaPo, the ones we would like more help shaping, forming, editing. Hmmm....? Anyone?

NaPoWriMo #15 - A Prose Poem

2008-04-15T20:25:00.003-04:00

Mourning Glory Days

They say you can't go home again. Someone tell my brain, fledgling memory, all wet wings and flutter. Flashback. Each time I sail down the highway, winging curves like a fortune teller tracing love lines with a crooked finger, here come the boyfriends, flying back. Seasonal flightline. A whole flock roosting, making nests. Delivering writhing worms and stiff beetles to feed my starving memory. Once, I covered pine cones in peanut butter, rolled them in seed. Hung them by thick red strands of yarn from an overgrown lilac tree. Lover's string. Lovesick breakfast. The birds never came. It is never like that with the boys from home.

NaPoWriMo #14

2008-04-14T18:12:00.000-04:00

The Woman Who Rolled Back the Boulder to Discover the Empty Tomb Must Have Been Surprised

For an instant I am convinced
a squirrel is attacking a blue jay,
tussling for life
or hidden nuts
behind the old canoe
in the back of the backyard.
Gray head bobbing
furred tail fluttering
blue wings waving
(not drowning)
for help.
Then flies in a second bird.
For a longer instant
I am convinced
the pair,
matched or mixed,
I can’t be sure,
are having sex in front
of the old canoe.
Tangling in the brittle branches
of last year’s Christmas tree.
How fresh.
I open my back door.
Invite them to get a room.
A single shriveled leaf flutters
just past the door frame.
Thin dead branches dance
over the old canoe.
The door blows shut.
I am convinced.

NaPoWriMo #13

2008-04-13T17:45:00.002-04:00

Mangy Looking Fake Fur Boa

It’s not as funny as I thought it would be
strutting through town
in a mangy-looking fake fur boa.
Jesus had better luck
walking the palm carpet.
It’s not as if we weren’t both scouting
for a miracle, holding our breath
praying for an award-winning
lease on a new life, fully carpeted.
In whose house can you bow
and scrape the feathers off your eggs?
On whose cross can you bear
to wake up dead each morning,
start all over again?
This particular dawn I rose
alone, determined to win your love.
Love making, the slogging of ingredients
my day’s dogma.
I vowed to be the son
jerking his hook to the right
so his father can hoist the prize
perch, mount it on his mantle.
I pledged to be the girl less pretty
the blond with roots
letting the handsome man
take her mother’s hand.
But you were just a lover.
Feather boas, even skinned
from a holy goose
have no power over your bleeding
heart. Your bleeding heart
a metaphor for a mangy-looking
fake fur boa. The kind I just threw off.
I can’t function in a messy world.

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Lucky number thirteen. A truly bizarre poem, begun with the phrase "a mangy feather boa," overheard while litening to my mother read Captain Underpants (I am so ashamed) to my son. I had the intention of a sort of love poem to my husband who just left on the train, who I was kind of grumpy to all day. We are on vacation visiting my parents and he had to go back to work. How would you feel if someone wrote you this sort-of love poem? I'm not sure it would be all wine and roses...

In other news, somehow my posting has gone awry. Friday I went to the coffee shop and posted the patchwork poem (NaPo #11). Yesterday, I posted the white sweater poem (NaPo #12). Somehow it's not showing up correctly. I have not missed a day. Nope. Not one!

Clayton Harrington has read the bible three times. Another snippet of conversation from my mother's house. That's a poem, eh?

NaPoWriMo #12

2008-04-12T20:08:00.003-04:00

Excuse Me, When Will My White Sweater Be Clean?

The white haired woman asks little
of the white haired man. Nothing more
than dry cleaning,
first name,
drink temperature.
I know they are together.
They ambled in together
the dapper man in the pinstripe shirt and loafers
chose their seats,
delivered her latte.
They are seated in adjoining chairs
a newspaper,
a library novel
between them.

Like a red cardinal and his bland mate,
they are feeding together.
Here together,
leaving me to believe
she is faraway
even as she is here.
(I have heard of this place
a city where you are all alone
even as the crowds gather.)

Each to their own branch.
He is her caretaker.
First the boy next door
then her lover
(maybe)
(because they are of a certain generation),
after all
then her husband.
Perhaps her lucky enemy
for a time,
and now her nursemaid.
He has brought her out for coffee,
keeping her part of the real world.
(There is little chance the white haired man
will drink it down, spit it up
for his addled bird).

Of course this could be the fairytale.
Maybe he has been keeping her holed up
in their attic,
rolling around in mothballs
strung out on moldy cheese
and homemade wine.

Maybe the pair have been coupling
like mad rabbits
fiery agile sex
the next generation would kill for.

We just never know where our neighbors have been,
where our neighbors are going,
what part of their body has been kissed last.

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A very rough draft. Rougher than I've ever posted. That's what you get on a short break between art classes. But, I sort of enjoy the rushed writing, trying to get it all down without too much reflection.

NaPoWriMo #11 - A Patchwork Poem

2008-04-10T15:11:00.005-04:00

She Had Fended Off Their Suasion

How do I outrun
ancient urges to procreate?
When you are eighteen, you think like this.
Surprisingly, you are a goat.
Revolution,
revolution.
Crowds smother the sidewalks,
tearing through barbed wire.
Is there a difference
as I walk the streets,
flesh sold for a pittance
of cola cans, candy wrappers, plastic garbage?
You never knew it,
me
a single, freckled sylph
covering the hemisphere.
I cursed both God and man,
in every pore and every nerve.
And why do I bathe
the bellowing beasts?
When you are eighteen, you think like this.
Is there a difference?

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The lines for this piece came from poems by paisley, mariacristina, Lirone, writerwoman, Lissa & Gautami. Stop by Patchwork Poetry for more cool poems!

NaPoWriMo #10

2008-04-10T10:42:00.001-04:00

Pre-Planning My Funeral

Have the party in my backyard
on a day with a slight breeze,
no, make that a stiff breeze,
the grass not green but crisp, yellow,
with just a hint of renewal.
I would like my daughter to troll the crowd
with her pink plastic microphone, shouting
three minutes to bedtime!
A little alarm is good for a funeral,
lighten the mood. I will want a good band.
A trio of high-stepping, fiddle playing girls,
wailing melodious about the man they should have married,
the cowboy who dropped his Stetson to earth
on his way to heaven. Be sure to send Jesus an invitation.
He doesn’t have to show up in costume.
Maybe He could stand in the crowd,
dressed as my only long-haired boyfriend,
the one with a motorcycle and a passion
for kittens, Chinese take-out and sightless women.
There will be food.
Casseroles.
I’d like the dinners-in-a-dish served
by a cluster of June Cleavers,
decked out in pearls and plaid aprons.
At the end,
as the chanteuse reaches her high note
a murder of crows can carry the amens
to the clouds,
along with plaster casts of my arms and hands,
silver rings and bangle bracelets blinding the mourners below.

NaPoWriMo #9: A Companion Piece to NaPo #8 (see below)

2008-04-09T11:48:00.004-04:00

This Morning

All the fish I have flushed
came burbling up the drain.
Fancy goldfish, feeder fish,
tetras, mollies, a rainbow of betas.
The bathroom is awash in toilet water
and resurrected fish. I called
out to Jesus, asked if this was a sign.
Something told me to turn on the shower.
I duck out of my pajamas
slip on my fins
spend the day chasing errant scales,
swallowing transparent bubbles.
If this is my death
I am ready to swim.

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Pretty sure these two poems are connected. Do you see it?

NaPoWriMo #8

2008-04-08T21:36:00.001-04:00

On a Recent Visit to Church, A Hot Young Preacher Tells Me Something I Didn’t Know

Jesus had three angels to cover him.
One for his holy feet (two wings),
one for his holy middle (two wings),
and one to cover his blessed face (two wings).
Jesus did not need a robe,
he did not need a wife.
Jesus did not need conversation
or a pet
or sunglasses.
Jesus had angels.
Jesus had wings.
Jesus never wore a suit
or a fireman’s coat.
Jesus couldn’t pick up his daughter
if he had one
because those darn wings were in the way.
Jesus never ate
without feathers
clogging his mouth,
never spoke
without a mouthful of down.
Never trust a man in a wrinkled white shirt.
He has no room for wings.

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Not meant in the least to be blasphemous. Saw a man in a rumpled white shirt today. As my grandmother used to say, "I didn't like his looks." Just a vibe. St down hours later to write a poem beginning with, "I have never trusted men in wrinkled white dress shirts..." See where I ended up.

NaPoWriMo #7

2008-04-07T21:09:00.003-04:00

Beautiful Objects, Out of Reach

The chandelier you can not draw without erasing
a hole in the center of lightbulb number two.

The tiniest frog in the bay.
Small is not always easy.

The glossy black water snake
slipping between thick strands of milfoil.

Heaven.

The memory of your first fish,
the simple quick tug. Then nothing.

The top of the mountain. There is always further
to go. The top of the last pine, for instance.

Heaven.
Even the gate.

The glorious heft of your father's shoulder
when you were three and he, half of now.

If you are lost, the key. If found,
the map with a red line leading away from home.

Heaven.
I hear it is beautiful.

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Today was a tough day, poetry-wise. I had many starts in my head, all tossed aside. Even a couple starts in the journal. Also tossed. Thought about posting something I wrote a coulpe weeks ago, still rough, but decided against it. Went for new. Glad I did. My mental muscles thank me.

Tomorrow my dad goes to the dr. to discuss possibilty of surgery for aneuryism. Talking to my mother last night, I had a brief moment of clarity--this is serious. The man has to decide his fate. I know our fate is ultimately in God's hands. I know. But they will be asking him to make a decision. It was all so clear for a moment, as if my mother was sending me a message. Then, just as quickly as the fog lifted, it settled back in. My make-it-all-better cloud settled in and I resumed thinking, well, he will just say no thanks. Don't cut me open and I will go on living. As if the time-bomb couldn't go off at any moment. And it could. But I csn't think of it.

Why mention all this? Well, for one thing, it's my blog! Ha. And for another, I think this is why I am having trouble writing today. I have never been one to write during times of crisis or unrest. I write for the beauty of words and the images and to create a word picture. For all that I write, not for catharsis or for meaning or for answers. So when I have this "thing" looming that is heavy and awful and demands answers, my muse says, sorry, dude. Not my problem. Thus, the list poem.

NaPoWriMo #6: Moving Right Along!

2008-04-06T11:39:00.004-04:00

After the Race: Every Superhero Runs Fast

The boy will run like Flash Gordon.
He has been told to visualize
the long hall
he races up and down every morning.
He has been told to imagine chasing droids.
Be the Death Star.
Be the Millennium Falcon.
Don’t chew on your shoes.
Pull your tongues out.
Yank your Velcro tighter.
The boy has lined up,
stood with the fleet-footed herd.
He has waited,
watched the grown men
chase their rabbits.
He has jogged in place,
done the hockey player stretch,
the soccer switchback,
the marathoner lunges.
The boy has been told stories
of star runners
spitting over their shoulders
chasing off the competition.
The boy has been told
not to spit, even as a big boy
barrels by dripping white foam.
Does Superman lean into a running leap
before he takes flight?
Does Spiderman shake it out
before he slings a web?
The boy has been told
to do his best,
run for his life,
pretend he is racing to save someone.
At the finish line he breaks
through the rainbow ribbons,
chest ripped open,
pulsing red muscle held in front of him.
The boy has run his heart out.

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Since this is NaPoWriMo, and these are supposed to be drafts, let me ask a question... should the first line read:

The boy has run like Flash Gordon
The boy can run like Flash Gordon
The boy will run like Flash Gordon
The boy runs like Flash Gordon
The boy runs and he is Flash Gordon

I just can't decide. I had "has run" but then I thought it didn't flow. The last line reads "The boy has run his heart out," so maybe "The boy has run like Flash Gordon" works.