How to Be a Turtle

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.

When Arriving For Battle, Straighten Your Spine, Bring Reinforcements

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?

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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.

Poetry Gong - Poem 23

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.

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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

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!

Lucky #13: Poetry Gong Bangs On

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.

Poetry Gong - Poem 3

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.

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

WriPoMo anyone?

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?

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

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.

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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 #23 - Thank you muse, for sticking with me

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 #16 - Another Prose Poem

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 #14

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.

Here's to the underdog

Some things make my heart hurt. A lame deer, nudged along by his pack, until they just can't bring him along, so they leave him, camoflaged in the woods, while they carry on. A five-year-old, made fun of for having a fruit roll-up that is different. There is no accounting for what can pull at my heartstrings, just a guarantee that I always root for the underdog.

Tonight I decided I needed to write a poem. I pulled out a Sharon Olds' book, determined to try and write a poem like one of hers. The first two lines of "The Untangling" read, "Detritus, in uncorrected/nature, in streambeds or on wood floors..." I didn't read any further. I was just reminded of the mess that is my backyard as the Spring thaw begins, which reminded me of the deer, which, for whatever reason, reminded me of the story my son told me while we were grocery shopping for this week's snacks.

This is a first draft, a rough draft. Comments & critiques welcome!


Tracking a Lame Deer, My Son Speaks of Snack Time

Limb by limb, limp by limp, the broken deer hobbles
into our backyard and through an invisible mirror
into maimed animal heaven. The only sign, a mat of white
hair floating in a snow puddle. On three good legs
he has vanished into the February trees. Tracing his hoof prints

we see eternity. “The kids made fun of my snack,” my son tells me.
“They said my fruit roll-up was old.” It was, in fact, organic.
The best flattened fruit to be had, healthy, full of vitamins
and squashed love. Ostracized for healthy living. A small slight,
but still, the sugar-eaters and the red dye # 40-mongers have pushed

my son from the kindergarten fold. Mud sucks our boots,
pries our knees loose from our legs. There is no sign
of the deer we have called Luke, after the Star Wars hero
who turns to the dark side and back again. We’ve no choice
but to pass through the invisible mirror. Green fields swallow us.

Here our deer is gold, his leg has agreed to bend and steady,
his family of six has taken him back. He is once again lucky seven,
part of the crowd, welcomed on all the fence leaping, tree nuzzling romps.
It is what I wish for my son, to go back in time, to fill out his skeletal belly
with leaves not fallen, berries not rotten. At his last supper there will be no betrayal.