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

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.

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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.

After the Surgery

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?

Hospital Diaries - Verse 3

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?

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Seriously. Can this ever be poetry?

The Hospital Diaries - Verse 2

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

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.

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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!

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.

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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 #21 - for read write poem

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.

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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 #8

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.