Comma
Life’s paragraphs
build up
one after another
with the constant
patter of computer
keys typing
word after word
until pages
fill up and turn
and we never
stop to catch
our breath.
Then you called
with the news
of a second grandchild
on the way,
just a comma,
now, but enough
to make us pause
and think about
the future
and smile.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Dare
It's crazy hectic this week with holidays, travel plans, and school (We have to go through Wed.!) so I'm reposting a poem from two years ago that I wrote for 3WW.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was Kathy’s idea.
I was two years younger
so she was the thinker
and I was the doer.
On our way home
from grammar school
one day
she challenged me
to run
right in front
of a moving train.
It was a warm
September afternoon
and the sun
was a shawl
on our shoulders
as we waited
for the St. Lawrence
and Atlantic Railroad
to make it’s
slice through
our neighborhood.
We competed
like tightrope walkers
to see who could walk
the farthest
on the rails
until
vibration
shimmied
through our feet
alerting us to the arrival
of the train.
I waited
waited
waited
until that engine
grew bigger
and bigger
then I dashed
across
the ties
and tracks.
Oil
coal
sweat
black
An extra moment’s
pause
and I would have met
icy death.
Afterwards, we continued
home, our shadows
walking ahead of us
and I wondered
when had mine grown
longer than hers?
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was Kathy’s idea.
I was two years younger
so she was the thinker
and I was the doer.
On our way home
from grammar school
one day
she challenged me
to run
right in front
of a moving train.
It was a warm
September afternoon
and the sun
was a shawl
on our shoulders
as we waited
for the St. Lawrence
and Atlantic Railroad
to make it’s
slice through
our neighborhood.
We competed
like tightrope walkers
to see who could walk
the farthest
on the rails
until
vibration
shimmied
through our feet
alerting us to the arrival
of the train.
I waited
waited
waited
until that engine
grew bigger
and bigger
then I dashed
across
the ties
and tracks.
Oil
coal
sweat
black
An extra moment’s
pause
and I would have met
icy death.
Afterwards, we continued
home, our shadows
walking ahead of us
and I wondered
when had mine grown
longer than hers?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Lithe, Grave, Offend for 3WW
The lithe snowflakes twirl
in the sad, offending wind~
I fall on his grave.
in the sad, offending wind~
I fall on his grave.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Weird for Sunday Scribblings
I walked out
onto the snow-covered
porch this morning
in my slippers
and PJs
to take a picture
of the moon
just before it slipped
behind the elephant
shape of Mt. Forist.
During the summer
I bike to the beach
and sit among
all the sunbathers
with my clothes
on and a book
or pencil
in my hands.
When I read
the poem-of-the-day
to my students,
I wait until
everyone is still
and they all have
a copy of the poem
on their desks
to follow along with.
If even one kid
reaches into her purse
or closes his notebook,
I stop reading
and wait…
while the other kids
shift their eyes
but not their heads
to see the offending
student.
I walk
in the black silkiness
of night
when the stars
form a map
for my thoughts
and the moon
is a nugget of poetry
that feels like a heart
beating…beating.
onto the snow-covered
porch this morning
in my slippers
and PJs
to take a picture
of the moon
just before it slipped
behind the elephant
shape of Mt. Forist.
During the summer
I bike to the beach
and sit among
all the sunbathers
with my clothes
on and a book
or pencil
in my hands.
When I read
the poem-of-the-day
to my students,
I wait until
everyone is still
and they all have
a copy of the poem
on their desks
to follow along with.
If even one kid
reaches into her purse
or closes his notebook,
I stop reading
and wait…
while the other kids
shift their eyes
but not their heads
to see the offending
student.
I walk
in the black silkiness
of night
when the stars
form a map
for my thoughts
and the moon
is a nugget of poetry
that feels like a heart
beating…beating.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Beauty for Sunday Scribblings
Beauty
It’s early Sunday morning
and every window
I look out of
is filled with golden
sunshine.
The forehead
of the house across
the street
is shiny and creased
by the shadow
of tree limbs.
The white birches
on Mt. Forist
are lifting their arms
like they’re taking
a shower in the spray
of the sun.
My off-white curtains
form a triangular
frame for the blue sky
peeking in through
the cedar branches.
And I’m sitting here,
in my navy blue
flannel pajamas,
the ones with stars
and crescent moons,
like the one I saw
last night,
sipping these bits
of beauty
one window
at a time.
It’s early Sunday morning
and every window
I look out of
is filled with golden
sunshine.
The forehead
of the house across
the street
is shiny and creased
by the shadow
of tree limbs.
The white birches
on Mt. Forist
are lifting their arms
like they’re taking
a shower in the spray
of the sun.
My off-white curtains
form a triangular
frame for the blue sky
peeking in through
the cedar branches.
And I’m sitting here,
in my navy blue
flannel pajamas,
the ones with stars
and crescent moons,
like the one I saw
last night,
sipping these bits
of beauty
one window
at a time.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Poetry Train: Homecooked Poems
A couple weeks ago, ReadWritePoem challenged us to write 5 poems about one subject so I remembered back to when I was a kid and the comforting foods my mom would make so I wrote five poems about memories of eating those foods.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
1) Chinese Pie
We grew up eating this about once a month but, when my son was going to school in Florida, a friend of his had never heard of it so it might not be as well known as I thought.
1. Peel, dice, and cook about 5 potatoes. When they are soft, mash them with butter and milk.
2. Saute about a quarter cup of onions in olive oil then add a pound of hamburg and saute them together.
3. Open a can of creamed corn.
4. In a casserole dish, layer the meat/onion mixture, the creamed corn, and top with the mashed potatoes.
5. Bake for a half hour or so or until bubbly.
Chinese Pie
My mother is mashed potatoes,
the cotton batting
of our family,
covering us
like a blanket.
So, on this night
when Nancy
starts laughing
when my brother
is getting hell
our father sends
her outdoors
until she can
control herself.
I face the window
and can see Nancy’s
face as she looks
in at us. She opens
her mouth
filled with corn
and hamburg
and lets it overflow
out onto her chin.
I try to ignore her
but can feel
myself beginning
to laugh. I pick
up my milk
and clamp my mouth
on the rim
but there is Nancy
making faces
in the window. I
guffaw and milk
splatters everywhere.
My dad throws down
his napkin
and retreats
to the living room
and the news.
My mom opens the door
for Nancy. We clean
up the mess. My mom
gives each of us
a hug.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2) Graham Cracker Cake
1. Whip a pint of whipping cream until it starts getting thick.
2. Add about a ½ cup of sugar and keep whipping
3. Add about 2 tablespoons of powdered chocolate and keep whipping.
4. Then put a graham cracker on a dish and spread some of the whipped cream on it.
5. Continue layering the crackers with the cream until it’s about 3 inches high.
6. Use the rest of the whipped cream to frost the sides and pile it on top.
Graham Cracker Cake
The building
of children
is like erecting
a Graham Cracker cake
one careful layer
at a time.
Our kitchen table
was round
and I sat
next to my dad
the perfect place
for the first born
the one with his blue
eyes and curls.
Conversation twisted
in and around
like the scents
of the food
we were rapidly
devouring.
As a fifth-grader
I was the expert
on all things
and if I didn’t know
the answer,
my dad did.
Then Timmy asked
a question
and I opened my mouth
to show off
that I knew
the simple
answer
but my dad
answered first
and he was wrong.
I closed my mouth
and sat quietly
my heart
a crippled bird.
My mom brought
the dessert
to the table
and I noticed
that it was lopsided
and crooked.
I ate my piece
slowly
and wondered why
the whipped cream
tasted a bit sour.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
3) Whoopie Pies
Filling
1 cup milk
5 tbls. flour
1 cup sugar
1 tbls. vanilla
1 cup shortening
1. Cook milk and flour over medium heat until it forms a ball and then cool.
2. In a bowl put sugar, vanilla, and shortening. Mix
3. Add to cooked mixture. Cool.
Pies
½ cup cocoa
½ cup hot water
½ cup sour milk
2 eggs
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup shortening
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
2 ¾ cups flour
¼ tsp. salt
1. Mix cocoa and hot water together.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients, mixing well.
3. Spoon onto a greased baking sheet in desired size.
4. Cook for 12 minutes at 350˚.
5. Cool before filling
Whoopie Pies
Nancy was our middle child
always second best,
bursting at the seams and wild.
Late for supper, full of guile,
feeling like a guest
even though she was our middle child.
My father’d sit at the table, riled,
“Do you have to be such a pest?
Why are you so wild?”
Nancy just sat there and smiled.
“Why can’t you be like the rest?”
She replied, “Because I’m the middle child.”
And there sat the whoopie pies piled
on a plate with the filling pressed
between the layers, bursting and wild.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
4) Sauce
Growing up in a Catholic family meant no meat on Fridays. It seems that about eighty percent of our meals on that night consisted of a sauce my mom would make with some kind of fish. It was sort of like Tuna Wiggle but my mom didn't put peas in and she used a variety of canned seafood. It was pretty simple and we just called it Sauce.
2 cups milk
1 tblsp. butter
salt and pepper
2 tblsp. corn starch
2 cans of tuna, and/or shrimp, and/or crabmeat, and/or salmon
1. Pour milk into a sauce pan.
2. Add the butter and salt and pepper
3. Bring to almost a boil.
4. In the mean time, mix the corn starch with ¼ cup of water
5. When the milk is almost boiling, stir in the corn starch mixture
6. Cook and stir until thick and bubbly
7. Add seafood
Sauce
Family love
pours over us
filling in
our nooks
and crannies
sometimes whether
we want it to or not.
Our only telephone
perched on the wall
barely two feet
from my dad’s
place at the table.
When it rang
that Friday night
during supper,
I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, listen” said
my date for that night.
“I’m up at Flint’s
blowing my mind.
You want to meet
me at the dance?”
“If I’m there, I’m there.
If I’m not, I’m not.”
I responded and hung up.
All eyes stared,
all ears perked up.
I hadn’t even been out
with this guy, yet,
and, already, I’d have
to lie to my parents?
They sat there
expecting an explanation.
The phone rang again,
a slight reprieve.
“Hey, listen, you
want to go to the movies
instead? I’ll pick
you up.”
Acceptable.
I relayed that
and heads nodded,
eating resumed,
normal banter
flew back and forth
again.
He met my parents
as they were on their way
out to go bowling,
played a game of cribbage
with my brother,
then we walked
to the theater,
watched The Taming
of the Shrew,then returned home
to have hot
chocolate with my folks
and sister.
Conversation and smiles
drifted around
like the steam
wisping from our cups.
It was just another
Friday night,
another connection
of family,
another meal
of sauce
spreading it’s comfort.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
5) Soup
1 chicken, turkey, or partridge carcass
onions
carrots
celery
basil
salt
pepper
spaghetti broken into thirds
1 can of stewed tomatoes
1. Throw a leftover chicken, turkey, or partridge (my father and brother were avid hunters) in a large pot.
2. Cover with water.
3. Dice the veggies and throw them in, too.
4. Bring to a boil and let simmer an hour or so until everything is tender.
5. Remove the carcass taking care to leave the veggies in the pot.
6. Take all the meat off and throw the rest away.
7. Return the meat to the water.
8. Bring back to a boil
9. Add dried basil, salt, and pepper to taste.
10. Add the spaghetti and boil until soft
11. Add the tomatoes.
Soup
On Sundays
we’d have our big
meal at noon
so supper
was a light affair.
On this Sunday
after Thanksgiving
we are having
my mom’s soup
and leftover rolls.
It’s a delicious soup
with onions,
(Hey Saltines,
do you wear a bra yet?”
Timmy asks Sally,
the youngest
and most sensitive.
A tear plops
into her soup.)
and sweet carrots
(“It’s okay, Sal.”
My mom puts
her arm around her.)
and meat
(My father bangs
the end of his fork
on the table,
fist around it.
“Why do you have
to make her cry
all the time?”
he says to Tim.)
and stewed tomatoes
to add a little color
(“Dad, can I use
the car to go to CCD?”
Little does he know
I’m really going
to pick up my boyfriend
for an hour of parking.
“Sure,” he says.
I smile,
that little bit of wild
red showing in my
personality.)
and salt and pepper and basil
for spiciness
(Nancy pipes up.
“I’ve kissed eight
different boys.”
My father shakes
his head.
Tim high-fives her.
My mom scowls.)
and strings of spaghetti
twirling around,
(“Whose turn
is it to wash
this week?”
“Pass the butter,
please.”
“Mom, can I go
to Rosie’s after school
tomorrow?"
“Hockey practice
starts this week
so I’ll be late.”
“Can you get
some more milk out?”
"Tim, Wanna
armwrestle?”
“I’ll clean up, now,
but dry the dishes
when I get back, okay?”)
and around
in the flavorful,
soup.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
1) Chinese Pie
We grew up eating this about once a month but, when my son was going to school in Florida, a friend of his had never heard of it so it might not be as well known as I thought.
1. Peel, dice, and cook about 5 potatoes. When they are soft, mash them with butter and milk.
2. Saute about a quarter cup of onions in olive oil then add a pound of hamburg and saute them together.
3. Open a can of creamed corn.
4. In a casserole dish, layer the meat/onion mixture, the creamed corn, and top with the mashed potatoes.
5. Bake for a half hour or so or until bubbly.
Chinese Pie
My mother is mashed potatoes,
the cotton batting
of our family,
covering us
like a blanket.
So, on this night
when Nancy
starts laughing
when my brother
is getting hell
our father sends
her outdoors
until she can
control herself.
I face the window
and can see Nancy’s
face as she looks
in at us. She opens
her mouth
filled with corn
and hamburg
and lets it overflow
out onto her chin.
I try to ignore her
but can feel
myself beginning
to laugh. I pick
up my milk
and clamp my mouth
on the rim
but there is Nancy
making faces
in the window. I
guffaw and milk
splatters everywhere.
My dad throws down
his napkin
and retreats
to the living room
and the news.
My mom opens the door
for Nancy. We clean
up the mess. My mom
gives each of us
a hug.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2) Graham Cracker Cake
1. Whip a pint of whipping cream until it starts getting thick.
2. Add about a ½ cup of sugar and keep whipping
3. Add about 2 tablespoons of powdered chocolate and keep whipping.
4. Then put a graham cracker on a dish and spread some of the whipped cream on it.
5. Continue layering the crackers with the cream until it’s about 3 inches high.
6. Use the rest of the whipped cream to frost the sides and pile it on top.
Graham Cracker Cake
The building
of children
is like erecting
a Graham Cracker cake
one careful layer
at a time.
Our kitchen table
was round
and I sat
next to my dad
the perfect place
for the first born
the one with his blue
eyes and curls.
Conversation twisted
in and around
like the scents
of the food
we were rapidly
devouring.
As a fifth-grader
I was the expert
on all things
and if I didn’t know
the answer,
my dad did.
Then Timmy asked
a question
and I opened my mouth
to show off
that I knew
the simple
answer
but my dad
answered first
and he was wrong.
I closed my mouth
and sat quietly
my heart
a crippled bird.
My mom brought
the dessert
to the table
and I noticed
that it was lopsided
and crooked.
I ate my piece
slowly
and wondered why
the whipped cream
tasted a bit sour.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
3) Whoopie Pies
Filling
1 cup milk
5 tbls. flour
1 cup sugar
1 tbls. vanilla
1 cup shortening
1. Cook milk and flour over medium heat until it forms a ball and then cool.
2. In a bowl put sugar, vanilla, and shortening. Mix
3. Add to cooked mixture. Cool.
Pies
½ cup cocoa
½ cup hot water
½ cup sour milk
2 eggs
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup shortening
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
2 ¾ cups flour
¼ tsp. salt
1. Mix cocoa and hot water together.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients, mixing well.
3. Spoon onto a greased baking sheet in desired size.
4. Cook for 12 minutes at 350˚.
5. Cool before filling
Whoopie Pies
Nancy was our middle child
always second best,
bursting at the seams and wild.
Late for supper, full of guile,
feeling like a guest
even though she was our middle child.
My father’d sit at the table, riled,
“Do you have to be such a pest?
Why are you so wild?”
Nancy just sat there and smiled.
“Why can’t you be like the rest?”
She replied, “Because I’m the middle child.”
And there sat the whoopie pies piled
on a plate with the filling pressed
between the layers, bursting and wild.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
4) Sauce
Growing up in a Catholic family meant no meat on Fridays. It seems that about eighty percent of our meals on that night consisted of a sauce my mom would make with some kind of fish. It was sort of like Tuna Wiggle but my mom didn't put peas in and she used a variety of canned seafood. It was pretty simple and we just called it Sauce.
2 cups milk
1 tblsp. butter
salt and pepper
2 tblsp. corn starch
2 cans of tuna, and/or shrimp, and/or crabmeat, and/or salmon
1. Pour milk into a sauce pan.
2. Add the butter and salt and pepper
3. Bring to almost a boil.
4. In the mean time, mix the corn starch with ¼ cup of water
5. When the milk is almost boiling, stir in the corn starch mixture
6. Cook and stir until thick and bubbly
7. Add seafood
Sauce
Family love
pours over us
filling in
our nooks
and crannies
sometimes whether
we want it to or not.
Our only telephone
perched on the wall
barely two feet
from my dad’s
place at the table.
When it rang
that Friday night
during supper,
I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, listen” said
my date for that night.
“I’m up at Flint’s
blowing my mind.
You want to meet
me at the dance?”
“If I’m there, I’m there.
If I’m not, I’m not.”
I responded and hung up.
All eyes stared,
all ears perked up.
I hadn’t even been out
with this guy, yet,
and, already, I’d have
to lie to my parents?
They sat there
expecting an explanation.
The phone rang again,
a slight reprieve.
“Hey, listen, you
want to go to the movies
instead? I’ll pick
you up.”
Acceptable.
I relayed that
and heads nodded,
eating resumed,
normal banter
flew back and forth
again.
He met my parents
as they were on their way
out to go bowling,
played a game of cribbage
with my brother,
then we walked
to the theater,
watched The Taming
of the Shrew,then returned home
to have hot
chocolate with my folks
and sister.
Conversation and smiles
drifted around
like the steam
wisping from our cups.
It was just another
Friday night,
another connection
of family,
another meal
of sauce
spreading it’s comfort.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
5) Soup
1 chicken, turkey, or partridge carcass
onions
carrots
celery
basil
salt
pepper
spaghetti broken into thirds
1 can of stewed tomatoes
1. Throw a leftover chicken, turkey, or partridge (my father and brother were avid hunters) in a large pot.
2. Cover with water.
3. Dice the veggies and throw them in, too.
4. Bring to a boil and let simmer an hour or so until everything is tender.
5. Remove the carcass taking care to leave the veggies in the pot.
6. Take all the meat off and throw the rest away.
7. Return the meat to the water.
8. Bring back to a boil
9. Add dried basil, salt, and pepper to taste.
10. Add the spaghetti and boil until soft
11. Add the tomatoes.
Soup
On Sundays
we’d have our big
meal at noon
so supper
was a light affair.
On this Sunday
after Thanksgiving
we are having
my mom’s soup
and leftover rolls.
It’s a delicious soup
with onions,
(Hey Saltines,
do you wear a bra yet?”
Timmy asks Sally,
the youngest
and most sensitive.
A tear plops
into her soup.)
and sweet carrots
(“It’s okay, Sal.”
My mom puts
her arm around her.)
and meat
(My father bangs
the end of his fork
on the table,
fist around it.
“Why do you have
to make her cry
all the time?”
he says to Tim.)
and stewed tomatoes
to add a little color
(“Dad, can I use
the car to go to CCD?”
Little does he know
I’m really going
to pick up my boyfriend
for an hour of parking.
“Sure,” he says.
I smile,
that little bit of wild
red showing in my
personality.)
and salt and pepper and basil
for spiciness
(Nancy pipes up.
“I’ve kissed eight
different boys.”
My father shakes
his head.
Tim high-fives her.
My mom scowls.)
and strings of spaghetti
twirling around,
(“Whose turn
is it to wash
this week?”
“Pass the butter,
please.”
“Mom, can I go
to Rosie’s after school
tomorrow?"
“Hockey practice
starts this week
so I’ll be late.”
“Can you get
some more milk out?”
"Tim, Wanna
armwrestle?”
“I’ll clean up, now,
but dry the dishes
when I get back, okay?”)
and around
in the flavorful,
soup.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Oracle
My classroom
had no windows
so knowledge
waltzed around
the space
mingling with our
breath and settling
in the kids’ brains
since it had nowhere
else to go.
We were reading
Antigone and I was
explaining how Danae’s
father had been to an oracle
and discovered
that if she ever had
a son, he would grow
up to kill his grandfather.
To prevent that,
he locked his daughter
in a tower so no man
could get to her.
But he forgot about Zeus
who disguised
himself as a golden
rain and impregnated her.
The kids just stared
at me, thinking,
trying to imagine
that happening.
Finally, one girl asked,
“How?” and before
I could formulate
an answer,
a boy piped up,
“I guess Zeus
forgot his Trojan.”
Laugher
and giggles
somersaulted
and did jumping jacks
all around the room.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Question: Does anyone know how to insert those two little dots above the "e" in Danae? I tried inserting them as a symbol in Word but that just erased the e and added the dots. Thanks!
had no windows
so knowledge
waltzed around
the space
mingling with our
breath and settling
in the kids’ brains
since it had nowhere
else to go.
We were reading
Antigone and I was
explaining how Danae’s
father had been to an oracle
and discovered
that if she ever had
a son, he would grow
up to kill his grandfather.
To prevent that,
he locked his daughter
in a tower so no man
could get to her.
But he forgot about Zeus
who disguised
himself as a golden
rain and impregnated her.
The kids just stared
at me, thinking,
trying to imagine
that happening.
Finally, one girl asked,
“How?” and before
I could formulate
an answer,
a boy piped up,
“I guess Zeus
forgot his Trojan.”
Laugher
and giggles
somersaulted
and did jumping jacks
all around the room.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Question: Does anyone know how to insert those two little dots above the "e" in Danae? I tried inserting them as a symbol in Word but that just erased the e and added the dots. Thanks!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
ReadWritePoem Monthly Challenge: 5 on 1: Day 5
Soup
1 chicken, turkey, or partridge carcass
onions
carrots
celery
basil
salt
pepper
spaghetti broken into thirds
1 can of stewed tomatoes
1. Throw a leftover chicken, turkey, or partridge (my father and brother were avid hunters) in a large pot.
2. Cover with water.
3. Dice the veggies and throw them in, too.
4. Bring to a boil and let simmer an hour or so until everything is tender.
5. Remove the carcass taking care to leave the veggies in the pot.
6. Take all the meat off and throw the rest away.
7. Return the meat to the water.
8. Bring back to a boil
9. Add dried basil, salt, and pepper to taste.
10. Add the spaghetti and boil until soft
11. Add the tomatoes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Soup
On Sundays
we’d have our big
meal at noon
so supper
was a light affair.
On this Sunday
after Thanksgiving
we are having
my mom’s soup
and leftover rolls.
It’s a delicious soup
with onions,
(Hey Saltines,
do you wear a bra yet?”
Timmy asks Sally,
the youngest
and most sensitive.
A tear plops
into her soup.)
and sweet carrots
(“It’s okay, Sal.”
My mom puts
her arm around her.)
and meat
(My father bangs
the end of his fork
on the table,
fist around it.
“Why do you have
to make her cry
all the time?”
he says to Tim.)
and stewed tomatoes
to add a little color
(“Dad, can I use
the car to go to CCD?”
Little does he know
I’m really going
to pick up my boyfriend
for an hour of parking.
“Sure,” he says.
I smile,
that little bit of wild
red showing in my
personality.)
and salt and pepper and basil
for spiciness
(Nancy pipes up.
“I’ve kissed eight
different boys.”
My father shakes
his head.
Tim high-fives her.
My mom scowls.)
and strings of spaghetti
twirling around,
(“Whose turn
is it to wash
this week?”
“Pass the butter,
please.”
“Mom, can I go
to Rosie’s after school
tomorrow?
“Hockey practice
starts this week
so I’ll be late.”
“Can you get
some more milk out?”
Tim, Wanna
armwrestle?”
“I’ll clean up
but dry the dishes
when I get back, okay?”)
and around
in the flavorful
soup.
1 chicken, turkey, or partridge carcass
onions
carrots
celery
basil
salt
pepper
spaghetti broken into thirds
1 can of stewed tomatoes
1. Throw a leftover chicken, turkey, or partridge (my father and brother were avid hunters) in a large pot.
2. Cover with water.
3. Dice the veggies and throw them in, too.
4. Bring to a boil and let simmer an hour or so until everything is tender.
5. Remove the carcass taking care to leave the veggies in the pot.
6. Take all the meat off and throw the rest away.
7. Return the meat to the water.
8. Bring back to a boil
9. Add dried basil, salt, and pepper to taste.
10. Add the spaghetti and boil until soft
11. Add the tomatoes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Soup
On Sundays
we’d have our big
meal at noon
so supper
was a light affair.
On this Sunday
after Thanksgiving
we are having
my mom’s soup
and leftover rolls.
It’s a delicious soup
with onions,
(Hey Saltines,
do you wear a bra yet?”
Timmy asks Sally,
the youngest
and most sensitive.
A tear plops
into her soup.)
and sweet carrots
(“It’s okay, Sal.”
My mom puts
her arm around her.)
and meat
(My father bangs
the end of his fork
on the table,
fist around it.
“Why do you have
to make her cry
all the time?”
he says to Tim.)
and stewed tomatoes
to add a little color
(“Dad, can I use
the car to go to CCD?”
Little does he know
I’m really going
to pick up my boyfriend
for an hour of parking.
“Sure,” he says.
I smile,
that little bit of wild
red showing in my
personality.)
and salt and pepper and basil
for spiciness
(Nancy pipes up.
“I’ve kissed eight
different boys.”
My father shakes
his head.
Tim high-fives her.
My mom scowls.)
and strings of spaghetti
twirling around,
(“Whose turn
is it to wash
this week?”
“Pass the butter,
please.”
“Mom, can I go
to Rosie’s after school
tomorrow?
“Hockey practice
starts this week
so I’ll be late.”
“Can you get
some more milk out?”
Tim, Wanna
armwrestle?”
“I’ll clean up
but dry the dishes
when I get back, okay?”)
and around
in the flavorful
soup.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
ReadWritePoem Monthly Challenge: 5 on 1: Day 4
Growing up in a Catholic family meant no meat on Fridays. It seems that about eighty percent of our meals on that night consisted of a sauce my mom would make with some kind of fish. It was sort of like Tuna Wiggle but my mom didn't put peas in and she used a variety of canned seafood. It was pretty simple and we just called it Sauce.
Sauce
2 cups milk
2 tblsp. butter
salt and pepper
2 tblsp. corn starch
2 cans of tuna, and/or shrimp, and/or crabmeat, and/or salmon
1. Pour milk into a sauce pan.
2. Add the butter and salt and pepper
3. Bring to almost a boil.
4. In the mean time, mix the corn starch with ¼ cup of water
5. When the milk is almost boiling, stir in the corn starch mixture
6. Cook and stir until thick and bubbly
7. Add seafood
8. Serve over toast or mashed potatoes with a veggie on the side.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sauce
Family love
pours over us
filling in
our nooks
and crannies
sometimes whether
we want it to or not.
Our only telephone
perched on the wall
barely two feet
from my dad’s
place at the table.
When it rang
that Friday night
during supper,
I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, listen” said
my date for that night.
“I’m up at Flint’s
blowing my mind.
You want to meet
me at the dance?”
“If I’m there, I’m there.
If I’m not, I’m not.”
I responded and hung up.
All eyes stared,
all ears perked up.
I hadn’t even been out
with this guy, yet,
and, already, I’d have
to lie to my parents?
They sat there
expecting an explanation.
The phone rang again,
a slight reprieve.
“Hey, listen, you
want to go to the movies
instead? I’ll pick
you up.”
Acceptable.
I relayed that
and heads nodded,
eating resumed,
normal banter
flew back and forth
again.
He met my parents
as they were on their way
out to go bowling,
played a game of cribbage
with my brother,
then we walked
to the theater,
watched The Taming
of the Shrew,and returned home
to have hot
chocolate with my folks
and sister.
Conversation and smiles
drifted around
like the steam
wisping from our cups.
It was just another
Friday night,
another connection
of family,
another meal
of sauce
spreading it’s comfort.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And in case you're wondering, the guy liked it so much at our house that we ended up getting married and we'll be celebrating our 39th anniversary in June.
Sauce
2 cups milk
2 tblsp. butter
salt and pepper
2 tblsp. corn starch
2 cans of tuna, and/or shrimp, and/or crabmeat, and/or salmon
1. Pour milk into a sauce pan.
2. Add the butter and salt and pepper
3. Bring to almost a boil.
4. In the mean time, mix the corn starch with ¼ cup of water
5. When the milk is almost boiling, stir in the corn starch mixture
6. Cook and stir until thick and bubbly
7. Add seafood
8. Serve over toast or mashed potatoes with a veggie on the side.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sauce
Family love
pours over us
filling in
our nooks
and crannies
sometimes whether
we want it to or not.
Our only telephone
perched on the wall
barely two feet
from my dad’s
place at the table.
When it rang
that Friday night
during supper,
I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, listen” said
my date for that night.
“I’m up at Flint’s
blowing my mind.
You want to meet
me at the dance?”
“If I’m there, I’m there.
If I’m not, I’m not.”
I responded and hung up.
All eyes stared,
all ears perked up.
I hadn’t even been out
with this guy, yet,
and, already, I’d have
to lie to my parents?
They sat there
expecting an explanation.
The phone rang again,
a slight reprieve.
“Hey, listen, you
want to go to the movies
instead? I’ll pick
you up.”
Acceptable.
I relayed that
and heads nodded,
eating resumed,
normal banter
flew back and forth
again.
He met my parents
as they were on their way
out to go bowling,
played a game of cribbage
with my brother,
then we walked
to the theater,
watched The Taming
of the Shrew,and returned home
to have hot
chocolate with my folks
and sister.
Conversation and smiles
drifted around
like the steam
wisping from our cups.
It was just another
Friday night,
another connection
of family,
another meal
of sauce
spreading it’s comfort.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And in case you're wondering, the guy liked it so much at our house that we ended up getting married and we'll be celebrating our 39th anniversary in June.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
ReadWritePoem Monthly Challenge: 5 on 1: Day 3
Whoopie Pies
Filling
1 cup milk
5 tbls. flour
1 cup sugar
1 tbls. vanilla
1 cup shortening
1. Cook milk and flour over medium heat until it forms a ball and then cool.
2. In a bowl put sugar, vanilla, and shortening. Mix
3. Add to cooked mixture. Cool.
Pies
½ cup cocoa
½ cup hot water
½ cup sour milk
2 eggs
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup shortening
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
2 ¾ cups flour
¼ tsp. salt
1. Mix cocoa and hot water together.
2. Add the rest of the ingredients, mixing well.
3. Spoon onto a greased baking sheet in desired size.
4. Cook for 12 minutes at 350˚.
5. Cool before filling
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Whoopie Pies
Nancy was the middle child
always second best,
bursting at the seams, and wild.
Late for supper, full of guile,
feeling like a guest
even though she was our middle child.
My father’d sit at the table, riled,
“Do you have to be such a pest?
Why are you so wild?”
Nancy just sat there and smiled.
“Why can’t you be like the rest?”
She replied, “Because I’m the middle child.”
And there sat the whoopie pies piled
on a plate with the filling pressed
between the layers, bursting and wild.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
ReadWritePoem Monthly Challenge: 5 on 1: Day 2
Graham Cracker Cake
- First, whip a pint of whipping cream until it starts getting thick.
- Add about a ½ cup of sugar and keep whipping.
- Add about 2 tablespoons of powdered chocolate and keep whipping.
- Then put a graham cracker on a dish and spread some of the whipped cream on it.
- Continue layering the crackers with the cream until it’s about 3 inches high.
- Use the rest of the whipped cream to frost the sides and pile the leftover on top.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Graham Cracker Cake
The building
of children
is like erecting
a Graham Cracker cake
one careful layer
at a time.
Our kitchen table
was round
and I sat
next to my dad
the perfect place
for the first born
the one with his blue
eyes and curls.
Conversation twisted
in and around
like the scents
of the food
we were rapidly
devouring.
As a fifth-grader
I was the expert
on all things
and if I didn’t know
the answer,
my dad did.
Then Timmy asked
a question
and I opened my mouth
to show off
that I knew
the simple
answer
but my dad
answered first
and he was wrong.
I closed my mouth
and sat quietly
my heart
a crippled bird.
My mom brought
the dessert
to the table
and I noticed
that it was lopsided
and crooked.
I ate my piece
slowly
and wondered why
the whipped cream
tasted a bit sour.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
ReadWritePoem Monthly Challenge: 5 on 1
ReadWritePoem is challenging us to write five poems in five days about one subject. This popped into my head because the prompt in one of my classes for journal writing today was "Write about your mother's cooking." I made a list of all the comfort and favorite dishes my mom used to make and that got me to thinking about the emotions associated with them.
First, here's the recipe for Chinese Pie. We grew up eating this about once a month but, when my son was going to school in Florida, a friend of his had never heard of it so it might not be as well known as I thought.
Chinese Pie
My mother is mashed potatoes,
the cotton batting
of our family,
covering us
like a blanket.
So, on this night
when Nancy
starts laughing
when my brother
is getting hell
our father sends
her outdoors
until she can
control herself.
I face the window
and can see Nancy’s
face as she looks
in at us. She opens
her mouth
filled with corn
and hamburg
and lets it overflow
out onto her chin.
I try to ignore her
but can feel
myself beginning
to laugh. I pick
up my milk
and clamp my mouth
on the rim
but there is Nancy
making faces
in the window. I
guffaw and milk
splatters everywhere.
My dad throws down
his napkin
and retreats
to the living room
and the news.
My mom opens the door
for Nancy. We clean
up the mess. My mom
gives each of us
a hug.
First, here's the recipe for Chinese Pie. We grew up eating this about once a month but, when my son was going to school in Florida, a friend of his had never heard of it so it might not be as well known as I thought.
Chinese Pie
- Peel, dice, and cook about 5 potatoes. When they are soft, mash them with butter and milk.
- Saute about a quarter cup of onions in olive oil then add a pound of hamburg and saute them together.
- Open a can of creamed corn.
- In a casserole dish, layer the meat/onion mixture, the creamed corn, and top with the mashed potatoes.
- Bake for a half hour or so or until bubbly.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chinese PieMy mother is mashed potatoes,
the cotton batting
of our family,
covering us
like a blanket.
So, on this night
when Nancy
starts laughing
when my brother
is getting hell
our father sends
her outdoors
until she can
control herself.
I face the window
and can see Nancy’s
face as she looks
in at us. She opens
her mouth
filled with corn
and hamburg
and lets it overflow
out onto her chin.
I try to ignore her
but can feel
myself beginning
to laugh. I pick
up my milk
and clamp my mouth
on the rim
but there is Nancy
making faces
in the window. I
guffaw and milk
splatters everywhere.
My dad throws down
his napkin
and retreats
to the living room
and the news.
My mom opens the door
for Nancy. We clean
up the mess. My mom
gives each of us
a hug.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Poetry Train: Essay
Essay
Weekends are parentheses
(I get up late,
wear pj’s all morning,
play games on the computer,
check email posts,
putter around the house,
have a glass of wine
in the middle
of the afternoon,
write poems)
in the paragraphs of my life.
Weekends are parentheses
(I get up late,
wear pj’s all morning,
play games on the computer,
check email posts,
putter around the house,
have a glass of wine
in the middle
of the afternoon,
write poems)
in the paragraphs of my life.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
3WW: Incubate, Nightmare, Vanity
I stumble
into the bathroom,
look at my face
in the mirror
above the vanity,
and scream.
This nightmare
of aging
just goes on and on.
I try to smooth
the wrinkles
but they return.
I wish I could take
the tiny eggs
of youth,
incubate them
for sixty years
then watch them hatch
into a new me.
Instead, I avoid
harsh lights
and brush my teeth
in the glow
of the nightlight.
into the bathroom,
look at my face
in the mirror
above the vanity,
and scream.
This nightmare
of aging
just goes on and on.
I try to smooth
the wrinkles
but they return.
I wish I could take
the tiny eggs
of youth,
incubate them
for sixty years
then watch them hatch
into a new me.
Instead, I avoid
harsh lights
and brush my teeth
in the glow
of the nightlight.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Carry Me Back for the Monday Poetry Train
Carry Me Back….
…to the house
we rented
on Papailoa Drive
in Haliewa, Hawaii
during the winter
of 1992
…to fresh pineapple
chunks waiting
on the cupboard
for the kids
when they got home
from school
…to windows
full of the ocean
…to Erin building
sandcastles on the beach
and Nathan surfing
in the waves
…to liquid sunshine
followed by rainbows
…to footprints
trailing away
in the sand
…to five months
of heaven.
…to the house
we rented
on Papailoa Drive
in Haliewa, Hawaii
during the winter
of 1992
…to fresh pineapple
chunks waiting
on the cupboard
for the kids
when they got home
from school
…to windows
full of the ocean
…to Erin building
sandcastles on the beach
and Nathan surfing
in the waves
…to liquid sunshine
followed by rainbows
…to footprints
trailing away
in the sand
…to five months
of heaven.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Elusive for One Single Impression
This poem popped into my head as soon as I saw the prompt. I wrote it almost 20 years ago when I first started writing poetry and everything had to rhyme. What on earth I was upset about, I have no recollection. Maybe nothing since I remember that winter in Bradenton as being a really pleasant one. Maybe I was just exercising my poetic license to be dramatic.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Barren
My heart is a part of the desert.
My soul is a hole in the sand.
My cares and affairs are all shriveled
suppressed by this desolate land.
My need is the greed of the thirsty.
My wants are the haunts of the mind.
Desires are spires of longing
elusive, delusive, and blind.
3/16/91
Bradenton, Florida
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Barren
My heart is a part of the desert.
My soul is a hole in the sand.
My cares and affairs are all shriveled
suppressed by this desolate land.
My need is the greed of the thirsty.
My wants are the haunts of the mind.
Desires are spires of longing
elusive, delusive, and blind.
3/16/91
Bradenton, Florida
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Junk for Sunday Scribblings
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My husband saw this Chinese Junk off the coast of Maine this summer.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Blue above
blue below
A Chinese Junk
slicing through
Rooster tail
spread in the sun
White lines
triangling the sky
A long way
from home
blue below
A Chinese Junk
slicing through
Rooster tail
spread in the sun
White lines
triangling the sky
A long way
from home
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
3WW: Indecent, Frustrate, Understand
Dressed indecently
she understands male hormones,
frustrates gleefully.
she understands male hormones,
frustrates gleefully.
Monday, October 12, 2009
M=Mom for ABC Wednesday
Four years ago my mom had cancer. It was a lymphoma that presented itself in her thyroid. They operated and she, surprising her doctors, survived. I spent part of my summer vacation that year in Florida taking care of her and wrote this poem in the airplane on the way down there.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This Isn’t a Poem
The sunrise looks like
an apricot river as I gaze
out the airplane window.
I wish I were flying
to Aruba instead of to Florida
to take care of my mom
and her cancer.
I would sink my feet
into brown sugar sand
instead of trying to make them
fit under the seat in front
of me.
My mom is a sick child
courageously coughing
the cancer
that is chewing her up.
She is my hero
and her sunrise tastes
like blood
and smells like death.
Nevertheless, she shines with strength.
I wish I were a magician
and could wave my wand
to make her better.
This isn’t a poem about loss, though;
it’s a poem about the thread of love
and how we sew the quilts of our lives together
with stitches of willpower and caring.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This Isn’t a Poem
The sunrise looks like
an apricot river as I gaze
out the airplane window.
I wish I were flying
to Aruba instead of to Florida
to take care of my mom
and her cancer.
I would sink my feet
into brown sugar sand
instead of trying to make them
fit under the seat in front
of me.
My mom is a sick child
courageously coughing
the cancer
that is chewing her up.
She is my hero
and her sunrise tastes
like blood
and smells like death.
Nevertheless, she shines with strength.
I wish I were a magician
and could wave my wand
to make her better.
This isn’t a poem about loss, though;
it’s a poem about the thread of love
and how we sew the quilts of our lives together
with stitches of willpower and caring.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Bump in the Night for Sunday Scribblings
Okay, this isn't really a bump-in-the-night story but it's all I've got today, and, really, the end of the summer season is scary to me!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My Bump in the Night
The air smells
like sun-dried laundry
and sounds
like children's prayers
hopeful and true
on this Saturday
in October.
Gary's boat
is out of the water
and we'll be closing
camp on Monday.
I'm at the beach
taking photographs
of the sky
and ocean. The sun
waves its wand
here and there
highlighting the pier,
red maple leaves,
a lighthouse on a point.
Birds are flocking
and skimming
over the water
and I'm catching
it all in my lens.
It's high tide
and the waves spread
on the sand like snow.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My Bump in the Night
The air smells
like sun-dried laundry
and sounds
like children's prayers
hopeful and true
on this Saturday
in October.
Gary's boat
is out of the water
and we'll be closing
camp on Monday.
I'm at the beach
taking photographs
of the sky
and ocean. The sun
waves its wand
here and there
highlighting the pier,
red maple leaves,
a lighthouse on a point.
Birds are flocking
and skimming
over the water
and I'm catching
it all in my lens.
It's high tide
and the waves spread
on the sand like snow.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Descent for One Single Impression
My husband's best friend fell off a roof this morning. He's in critical condition being transported by ambulance to a decent hospital 2 hours away. He's not breathing on his own, has bleeding in his brain, and various broken bones. Please send healing thoughts his way and to whatever deity you believe in. Thanks!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Descent
The roof was metal
that you slipped
off of.
The driveway was tar
that you landed on.
What thoughts
went through your brain
as you fell
before there were no
more thoughts?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Descent
The roof was metal
that you slipped
off of.
The driveway was tar
that you landed on.
What thoughts
went through your brain
as you fell
before there were no
more thoughts?
Saturday, October 3, 2009
First Kiss for Sunday Scribblings
When I arrive
at camp,
I notice
a blue jay
has gotten caught
in your Hav-a-heart
cage intended
for pesky
gray squirrels.
He has nearly ripped
his wings apart
trying to escape.
I flash back
to another trap…
Your lips
were so soft
and enticing
when we first met
that I let myself
be tempted
and I fell
for your kisses
right there
in the back seat
of Lee Dube’s
father’s Impala
on the way
back from Wildcat
Ski Area.
I fiddle
with the latch
and release
the bird.
He flies away
like a piece of sky
returning home.
at camp,
I notice
a blue jay
has gotten caught
in your Hav-a-heart
cage intended
for pesky
gray squirrels.
He has nearly ripped
his wings apart
trying to escape.
I flash back
to another trap…
Your lips
were so soft
and enticing
when we first met
that I let myself
be tempted
and I fell
for your kisses
right there
in the back seat
of Lee Dube’s
father’s Impala
on the way
back from Wildcat
Ski Area.
I fiddle
with the latch
and release
the bird.
He flies away
like a piece of sky
returning home.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Penultimate for TOP and Monday Poetry Train
Penultimate
The sun is buttering
the oak leaves
on this second-to-last
morning at camp.
My impatiens survived
the thirty-degree
temperature and are sun-
bathing.
The butterflies
in my heart
are still for the moment;
my mom has agreed
to move to an independent-
living facility
where she can be monitored
and stimulated.
This will be her
second-to-last home
and I don’t want to think
about her last.
The sun plays
hide-and-seek
with my fingers
as I type.
The sun is buttering
the oak leaves
on this second-to-last
morning at camp.
My impatiens survived
the thirty-degree
temperature and are sun-
bathing.
The butterflies
in my heart
are still for the moment;
my mom has agreed
to move to an independent-
living facility
where she can be monitored
and stimulated.
This will be her
second-to-last home
and I don’t want to think
about her last.
The sun plays
hide-and-seek
with my fingers
as I type.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Eclipse, Velocity, Languish for 3WW
He drags into class
with the velocity
of a bubble
in a lava lamp.
I watch him languish
day after day
no homework
no participation.
His eyelids sag
in a Ritalin-induced
stupor. I tell a joke.
He stares at me.
I ask him a question.
He blinks and mumbles
an answer. An unnecessary
eclipse of the mind.
with the velocity
of a bubble
in a lava lamp.
I watch him languish
day after day
no homework
no participation.
His eyelids sag
in a Ritalin-induced
stupor. I tell a joke.
He stares at me.
I ask him a question.
He blinks and mumbles
an answer. An unnecessary
eclipse of the mind.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Hive for TOP
I discovered the hive
long after I should have
but it was hidden
behind the tree
of normalcy for years.
So, you can imagine
how surprised I felt
when I got stung
by one of those big
fat bees covered
with words. It
landed on my neck
and pierced my
carotid artery.
The sting of new
ideas woke me up.
My husband tried
to destroy the hive
but I protected it
and it’s still there
producing honeycombs
of sweet sentences.
Can you hear them
buzzing?
long after I should have
but it was hidden
behind the tree
of normalcy for years.
So, you can imagine
how surprised I felt
when I got stung
by one of those big
fat bees covered
with words. It
landed on my neck
and pierced my
carotid artery.
The sting of new
ideas woke me up.
My husband tried
to destroy the hive
but I protected it
and it’s still there
producing honeycombs
of sweet sentences.
Can you hear them
buzzing?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Poetry Train: So It Has Come To This
So, It Has Come to This
The two of us
sitting in our La-Z-Boys
eating supper
on TV trays
watching the channel 13
“Live at Five” news
Two bubbles
of tiredness
and boredom
floating through our days
occasionally bumping
into each other
but mostly resting
in the curve
of those soft chairs
as evening
fills our lives.
The two of us
sitting in our La-Z-Boys
eating supper
on TV trays
watching the channel 13
“Live at Five” news
Two bubbles
of tiredness
and boredom
floating through our days
occasionally bumping
into each other
but mostly resting
in the curve
of those soft chairs
as evening
fills our lives.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thirst for One Single Impression
The Thirst to Fit In
The Beatles
are singing,
“I Want to Hold
Your Hand”
on Anita’s record
player. I’m sitting
in her kitchen
with ice cubes
on my ears.
As she pushes
a darning needle
through each one,
I hear the crunch
of cartilage.
She inserts
the tiny gold studs
then hands me
a mirror.
I see the beginnings
of conformity
sitting like birds’
eggs in the nest
of my lobes. Curls
frame my face
as unfashionably
as ever, though.
“Hey, you wanna iron
my hair now?”
The Beatles
are singing,
“I Want to Hold
Your Hand”
on Anita’s record
player. I’m sitting
in her kitchen
with ice cubes
on my ears.
As she pushes
a darning needle
through each one,
I hear the crunch
of cartilage.
She inserts
the tiny gold studs
then hands me
a mirror.
I see the beginnings
of conformity
sitting like birds’
eggs in the nest
of my lobes. Curls
frame my face
as unfashionably
as ever, though.
“Hey, you wanna iron
my hair now?”
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
3WW: Mayhem, Engage, Disarm
When I walk into school every morning,
a giant fan starts blowing on me.
I can barely catch my breath.
The mayhem of new incentives
slaps me in the face,
work for our 10-year evaluation
twirls around like a horde
of mosquitoes, trying to disarm
my good mood, announcements
on the intercom bombard me,
requests from guidance interrupt
my classes. All I want to do
is engage my students in learning.
All day I stand in the whirlwind,
wondering how on earth we’ve
gotten so far away from education.
a giant fan starts blowing on me.
I can barely catch my breath.
The mayhem of new incentives
slaps me in the face,
work for our 10-year evaluation
twirls around like a horde
of mosquitoes, trying to disarm
my good mood, announcements
on the intercom bombard me,
requests from guidance interrupt
my classes. All I want to do
is engage my students in learning.
All day I stand in the whirlwind,
wondering how on earth we’ve
gotten so far away from education.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Homework for TOP
All day
I breathe in
the alphabet soup
of school air
so when I walk
outside at the end
of the day
and see a fresh
couple inches
of snow,
I’m thrilled.
I get home
and change
into warm clothes
then grab
my shovel
and scrape
the driveway.
One strip
after another
the driveway
turns from white
to black
One strip
after another
the snowfall
of pressure
disappears.
I take deep breaths,
hold them
in my lungs,
work up
a little sweat,
and erase
my day.
I breathe in
the alphabet soup
of school air
so when I walk
outside at the end
of the day
and see a fresh
couple inches
of snow,
I’m thrilled.
I get home
and change
into warm clothes
then grab
my shovel
and scrape
the driveway.
One strip
after another
the driveway
turns from white
to black
One strip
after another
the snowfall
of pressure
disappears.
I take deep breaths,
hold them
in my lungs,
work up
a little sweat,
and erase
my day.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Laundry for TOP
Laundry
When Kylie
comes to visit,
I like to wash
her clothes
and hang them
on the line.
Her little Levis
next to Grampy’s:
long and short
blue legs
kicking the breeze.
Her ruffled white shirt
near my plain
black one:
piano keys
tapping out
a timeless
tune.
Two clothespins
hold Dora the Explorer
underwear.
Her panties
have ears!
Her tiny pink socks
in between
our longer ones:
wagging tongues
carrying on
a conversation
in the Downy-scented air.
The clothesline
sags in the middle,
grinning.
When Kylie
comes to visit,
I like to wash
her clothes
and hang them
on the line.
Her little Levis
next to Grampy’s:
long and short
blue legs
kicking the breeze.
Her ruffled white shirt
near my plain
black one:
piano keys
tapping out
a timeless
tune.
Two clothespins
hold Dora the Explorer
underwear.
Her panties
have ears!
Her tiny pink socks
in between
our longer ones:
wagging tongues
carrying on
a conversation
in the Downy-scented air.
The clothesline
sags in the middle,
grinning.
3WW: Fracture, Noise, Vanish
Noises
from your angry
mouth fracture the moonlight.
Feelings shatter into shards, then
vanish.
from your angry
mouth fracture the moonlight.
Feelings shatter into shards, then
vanish.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
3WW: Decay, Riot, Graceful & TOP: From Here to There
Morning surfs
into my bedroom
on a butter knife
in between the shade
and the window
creating a riot
of sun pixels
on my quilt,
prompting me
to get up
and write a poem.
But a heavy arm
imprisons me,
pulls me back
into graceful shadows
away from the light
and another poem
dissipates and decays
into scattered words
while I ride a wave
back into night.
into my bedroom
on a butter knife
in between the shade
and the window
creating a riot
of sun pixels
on my quilt,
prompting me
to get up
and write a poem.
But a heavy arm
imprisons me,
pulls me back
into graceful shadows
away from the light
and another poem
dissipates and decays
into scattered words
while I ride a wave
back into night.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
E is for Epithalamion
Epithalamion (ep a tha LAY me in): a song or poem in honor of a bride and groom.
I wrote this for my daughter's wedding two years ago. I folded it and thought I'd put it in my pocket so I could read it to them at the service. When the JP asked if anyone had anything to say, I put my hand in my pocket but the poem wasn't there. In the rush of getting ready, I'd accidentally put it in the book I was reading instead of my pocket. I was so mad at myself. I didn't find it until a month later. And I still haven't shown it to them. After I finish this post, I'm going to print it out and mail it to them. 'Bout time!
BTW, my daughter's name is Erin Elizabeth
You can see more E things at ABC Wednesday.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Epithalamion: A Few Words for Erin and Shaun
It’s a cold icy day
at sugarloaf.
Erin, Gloria and I
are making our way
carefully down
a slope
that is not treating
us very well.
Seven-year-old Erin
gets frustrated,
plops down on the snow,
throws her ski poles
off her wrists,
plunks her chin
on her fist
and refuses
to go on.
Gloria and I try
not to laugh
as she whines
and cries.
Finally, she picks
herself up,
puts her ski poles
back on and continues
down the slope.
Today, she’s doing
the same thing
as she maneuvers
the ski slope
of life.
Sometimes the trail
is smooth and smiling
and sometimes it’s not.
But how lucky
she is to have
Shaun skiing by her side,
to help her when she falls,
to find
her ski poles
and put them back on,
to pick her up,
wipe the snow
from her clothes,
and, together,
make it
to the bottom.
I wrote this for my daughter's wedding two years ago. I folded it and thought I'd put it in my pocket so I could read it to them at the service. When the JP asked if anyone had anything to say, I put my hand in my pocket but the poem wasn't there. In the rush of getting ready, I'd accidentally put it in the book I was reading instead of my pocket. I was so mad at myself. I didn't find it until a month later. And I still haven't shown it to them. After I finish this post, I'm going to print it out and mail it to them. 'Bout time!
BTW, my daughter's name is Erin Elizabeth
You can see more E things at ABC Wednesday.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Epithalamion: A Few Words for Erin and Shaun
It’s a cold icy day
at sugarloaf.
Erin, Gloria and I
are making our way
carefully down
a slope
that is not treating
us very well.
Seven-year-old Erin
gets frustrated,
plops down on the snow,
throws her ski poles
off her wrists,
plunks her chin
on her fist
and refuses
to go on.
Gloria and I try
not to laugh
as she whines
and cries.
Finally, she picks
herself up,
puts her ski poles
back on and continues
down the slope.
Today, she’s doing
the same thing
as she maneuvers
the ski slope
of life.
Sometimes the trail
is smooth and smiling
and sometimes it’s not.
But how lucky
she is to have
Shaun skiing by her side,
to help her when she falls,
to find
her ski poles
and put them back on,
to pick her up,
wipe the snow
from her clothes,
and, together,
make it
to the bottom.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Poetry Train: Can I See you in the Kitchen?
Someone says, “Can I see you in the kitchen?”
And I answer,
“Yes, the light
coming in through
the small window
makes it possible
for you to see me.
Well, on the outside
of me, anyway:
my jeans
with the worn-out knees
from scrubbing
the kitchen floor,
the oversized fleece
that is so comfy,
my hair
pulled up
with a clip.
But, even a huge
picture window
won’t let you see
what’s inside
and I know you
don’t like to read.
If you’d said, ‘Can I
see you in your poems?’
then you’d know
who I really am.
So, sure, I’ll stand
in the kitchen
with the light
showering
all over me
but I’ll still be
invisible to you.”
And I answer,
“Yes, the light
coming in through
the small window
makes it possible
for you to see me.
Well, on the outside
of me, anyway:
my jeans
with the worn-out knees
from scrubbing
the kitchen floor,
the oversized fleece
that is so comfy,
my hair
pulled up
with a clip.
But, even a huge
picture window
won’t let you see
what’s inside
and I know you
don’t like to read.
If you’d said, ‘Can I
see you in your poems?’
then you’d know
who I really am.
So, sure, I’ll stand
in the kitchen
with the light
showering
all over me
but I’ll still be
invisible to you.”
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Dinner Party for Sunday Scribblings
The table is set
with Mom’s
dinnerware
you remember
the ones with
the gray roses
tipped with a blush
of pink to match
the tablecloth
slowly you begin
to materialize
first Dad
sniffing the air
to make sure
we’re not having
any spicy foods
Grampy marches in
ordering everyone
around then Nonie
(you are still so beautiful)
sits down gracefully
you hand me a plate
piled high
with donuts
and I can smell
the nutmeg
Memere and Pepere
enter quietly
like clouds and sunshine
smile, Memere!
Uncle Bob, distinguished
and Uncle George
rumpled,
drink in hand
take their places
we eat what we always
ate: fluffy mashed potatoes,
fresh string beans,
and a beef roast
we talk and laugh
and reminisce
just after the lemon
meringue pie
you start to dissipate
like the steam
rising from the coffee
cups I clean up,
do the dishes
and later nibble
on one of those
plain donuts.
with Mom’s
dinnerware
you remember
the ones with
the gray roses
tipped with a blush
of pink to match
the tablecloth
slowly you begin
to materialize
first Dad
sniffing the air
to make sure
we’re not having
any spicy foods
Grampy marches in
ordering everyone
around then Nonie
(you are still so beautiful)
sits down gracefully
you hand me a plate
piled high
with donuts
and I can smell
the nutmeg
Memere and Pepere
enter quietly
like clouds and sunshine
smile, Memere!
Uncle Bob, distinguished
and Uncle George
rumpled,
drink in hand
take their places
we eat what we always
ate: fluffy mashed potatoes,
fresh string beans,
and a beef roast
we talk and laugh
and reminisce
just after the lemon
meringue pie
you start to dissipate
like the steam
rising from the coffee
cups I clean up,
do the dishes
and later nibble
on one of those
plain donuts.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
3WW: Capture, Jinx, Qualify
I don’t want to jinx
the capture of his tuna.
I qualify words.
MY HUSBAND HAS A TUNA ON HIS LINE
Must qualify words
so he’ll capture his tuna
without being jinxed.
Update: 9 PM
He got it! It took 7 1/2 hours but he finally got the tuna on the boat. He thinks it weighs between 600-800 lbs. That's a big one! I'm off to meet him at the dock to take some pictures.
Talking about it didn't jinx him. Phew!
the capture of his tuna.
I qualify words.
MY HUSBAND HAS A TUNA ON HIS LINE
Must qualify words
so he’ll capture his tuna
without being jinxed.
Update: 9 PM
He got it! It took 7 1/2 hours but he finally got the tuna on the boat. He thinks it weighs between 600-800 lbs. That's a big one! I'm off to meet him at the dock to take some pictures.
Talking about it didn't jinx him. Phew!
Totally Optional Prompts: Beach Thoughts
Ocean Park Beach, Maine August 13, 2009
four men playing Bocce
two little boys
and two little girls
building a sandcastle
a taildragger
trailing a banner:
JIMMY GREEKS LUNCH BUFFET $7.99 11-2PM
a fog bank
sitting like an angora
elephant just offshore
my feet
sifting through
sand
the shadow of my pencil
on white lined paper,
beach thoughts
flowing through
four men playing Bocce
two little boys
and two little girls
building a sandcastle
a taildragger
trailing a banner:
JIMMY GREEKS LUNCH BUFFET $7.99 11-2PM
a fog bank
sitting like an angora
elephant just offshore
my feet
sifting through
sand
the shadow of my pencil
on white lined paper,
beach thoughts
flowing through
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
3WW: Accentuate, Glamour, Pitch
An Annoyance Sandwich with a Side of Glamour
Pitch pines
surround our camp,
accentuate problems,
write calligraphy on the sky,
and drip.
Pitch pines
surround our camp,
accentuate problems,
write calligraphy on the sky,
and drip.
Monday, August 3, 2009
ABC Wednesday: C is for Carry
Darn, I'm already late with this round. I had such good intentions, too.
Click to see more ABC Wednesday submissions.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Carry Me Back
…to the house
we rented
on Papailoa Drive
in Haliewa, Hawaii
during the winter
of 1992
…to fresh pineapple
chunks waiting
on the cupboard
for the kids
when they got home
from school
…to windows
full of the ocean
…to Erin building
sandcastles on the beach
and Nathan surfing
in the waves
…to liquid sunshine
followed by rainbows
…to footprints
trailing away
in the sand
…to five months
of heaven.
Click to see more ABC Wednesday submissions.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Carry Me Back
…to the house
we rented
on Papailoa Drive
in Haliewa, Hawaii
during the winter
of 1992
…to fresh pineapple
chunks waiting
on the cupboard
for the kids
when they got home
from school
…to windows
full of the ocean
…to Erin building
sandcastles on the beach
and Nathan surfing
in the waves
…to liquid sunshine
followed by rainbows
…to footprints
trailing away
in the sand
…to five months
of heaven.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Anticipate
Flies land like raindrops
on the mirror canal.
A foot-long fish
jumps for supper
making the reflection
of trees shimmer.
Evening settles
like a shawl
on my mother’s shoulders.
Then Erin calls
and asks me to baby sit
Kylie next weekend.
I smile in anticipation:
oldest to youngest.
The sun sets
behind lemon clouds.
I grab my camera
and snap away the day.
on the mirror canal.
A foot-long fish
jumps for supper
making the reflection
of trees shimmer.
Evening settles
like a shawl
on my mother’s shoulders.
Then Erin calls
and asks me to baby sit
Kylie next weekend.
I smile in anticipation:
oldest to youngest.
The sun sets
behind lemon clouds.
I grab my camera
and snap away the day.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
3WW: Darkness, Patronize, Weaken
The last couple weeks
have been a darkness
watching my mom
weaken day by day.
Tomorrow, I’ll be going
to Florida to care
for her for a week.
That’s twice in the last
few days that I had to patronize
Direct Air for plane tickets.
The first time was for her
and the nice girl behind
the counter upgraded her
to first class and let me
go through security
to stay with her
until boarding time.
The second was for me.
So, poetry has been
far from my mind.
I miss it. So, right now
I’m going to take
my computer outside
and sit on the porch
and read what everyone
else has written.
have been a darkness
watching my mom
weaken day by day.
Tomorrow, I’ll be going
to Florida to care
for her for a week.
That’s twice in the last
few days that I had to patronize
Direct Air for plane tickets.
The first time was for her
and the nice girl behind
the counter upgraded her
to first class and let me
go through security
to stay with her
until boarding time.
The second was for me.
So, poetry has been
far from my mind.
I miss it. So, right now
I’m going to take
my computer outside
and sit on the porch
and read what everyone
else has written.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Random Words for TOP: Mice, rust storm, blinking lights
Totally Optional Prompts suggested we use the following words in a poem. I managed 3 out of 4: black mice, durien sherbet, a rust storm. blinking lights
I peek
out my bedroom
window
to see his back-up
lights blink on
and his truck
leave the driveway
before getting
out of bed
and turning
on my computer,
a blue sun
in the middle
of the foggy
morning.
Then words
like black mice
scurry across
my screen
and the rust storm
of dry regret
becomes dust
that I can blow
away with the click
of a key
or save
as a document
of a mistake
disappearing
in red taillights
through the gray mist.
I peek
out my bedroom
window
to see his back-up
lights blink on
and his truck
leave the driveway
before getting
out of bed
and turning
on my computer,
a blue sun
in the middle
of the foggy
morning.
Then words
like black mice
scurry across
my screen
and the rust storm
of dry regret
becomes dust
that I can blow
away with the click
of a key
or save
as a document
of a mistake
disappearing
in red taillights
through the gray mist.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
ABC Wednesday: Z
It Begins with Z
I can’t resist
a dare.
It’s 1962
and I’m thirteen
at 4-H camp
in Allenstown, NH.
Competition night.
Another girl
from my hometown
challenges anyone
to say the alphabet
backwards. No one
can do it so she wins.
Fast forward one year.
The same girl
offers the same
challenge.
I’ve been practicing
all year and am ready,
“ZYXWVUTSRQ
PONMLKJIHGF
EDCBA!”
My turn to win.
The other girl
sulks back to her seat.
I can’t resist
a dare.
It’s 1962
and I’m thirteen
at 4-H camp
in Allenstown, NH.
Competition night.
Another girl
from my hometown
challenges anyone
to say the alphabet
backwards. No one
can do it so she wins.
Fast forward one year.
The same girl
offers the same
challenge.
I’ve been practicing
all year and am ready,
“ZYXWVUTSRQ
PONMLKJIHGF
EDCBA!”
My turn to win.
The other girl
sulks back to her seat.
3WW: Drip, Hypnotic, Sulk
Berlin High School Junior Prom 1966
My Prom date
was such a drip.
Tall, skinny, and blond,
not even cute.
Tongue-tied and sweaty
he held me loosely
while we danced
to horrible band music
that floated around us
in cracked notes
then got stuck in tissue-
paper roses.
His eyes were hypnotic
in their blue blankness
and zombie-like I followed
his shuffling steps
all that boring night,
all the way to 11 o’clock
when we left and went
to his nerdy friend’s party
where there wasn’t even
any booze. On the way home
I sat in the cloud of my pink
gown sulking because
this long-anticipated night
had turned out to be as flavorless
as water. I don’t even
remember his name.
My Prom date
was such a drip.
Tall, skinny, and blond,
not even cute.
Tongue-tied and sweaty
he held me loosely
while we danced
to horrible band music
that floated around us
in cracked notes
then got stuck in tissue-
paper roses.
His eyes were hypnotic
in their blue blankness
and zombie-like I followed
his shuffling steps
all that boring night,
all the way to 11 o’clock
when we left and went
to his nerdy friend’s party
where there wasn’t even
any booze. On the way home
I sat in the cloud of my pink
gown sulking because
this long-anticipated night
had turned out to be as flavorless
as water. I don’t even
remember his name.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday Poetry Train: I Saw Time
I saw time
this July morning
on I 95
between Saco
and Biddeford, Maine.
In the middle
of a bank
of lavender clover,
a clump of brown-eyed-susans
staring at me
through autumn
eyes.
I rolled
my window
up against
the chill.
this July morning
on I 95
between Saco
and Biddeford, Maine.
In the middle
of a bank
of lavender clover,
a clump of brown-eyed-susans
staring at me
through autumn
eyes.
I rolled
my window
up against
the chill.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Fireworks for TOP
I went to ReadWritePoem and used their prompt generator to get 5 five words that I hoped I could produce some sparks with: willow, pell-mell, swerve, pleat, cedar. It didn't really work all that well, but this is what I came up with, anyway.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As I swerve
into my sixties,
I can feel the steering
wheel of my life
shuddering.
The scenery
is changing:
leaves falling off
the weeping willows,
cedars bending over.
The road feels like
it is pleated, now.
I bounce along,
hoping I never have to
shift into Park.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As I swerve
into my sixties,
I can feel the steering
wheel of my life
shuddering.
The scenery
is changing:
leaves falling off
the weeping willows,
cedars bending over.
The road feels like
it is pleated, now.
I bounce along,
hoping I never have to
shift into Park.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
3WW: Gloom, Kneel, Transparent
In Spite of the Gloom
Oak leaves
as big as hands
shine as if they’d
been painted
with polyurethane,
Fog, transparent
enough to see through,
settles like kneeling
parishioners in the pews
of pine trees.
I sit
inside the yellow sun
of our camper
typing letters
into words,
linking words
into sentences,
then watch as they
braid themselves
into this poem.
Oak leaves
as big as hands
shine as if they’d
been painted
with polyurethane,
Fog, transparent
enough to see through,
settles like kneeling
parishioners in the pews
of pine trees.
I sit
inside the yellow sun
of our camper
typing letters
into words,
linking words
into sentences,
then watch as they
braid themselves
into this poem.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Weather for TOP
I hear the Morse Code
of raindrops
on the roof
of our camper
tapping out a secret
message. To my husband
it says, “No fishing for you!”
To vacationers
here on the coast of Maine
it says, “Too bad you spent
all that money for this.”
But to me it says,
“Time to curl up
with Bel Canto and read,
time to write a poem,
time to sip a glass
of merlot and feel
the velvet spread
like the fog draping
the trees in gossamer.
of raindrops
on the roof
of our camper
tapping out a secret
message. To my husband
it says, “No fishing for you!”
To vacationers
here on the coast of Maine
it says, “Too bad you spent
all that money for this.”
But to me it says,
“Time to curl up
with Bel Canto and read,
time to write a poem,
time to sip a glass
of merlot and feel
the velvet spread
like the fog draping
the trees in gossamer.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
3WW: Sweet, Yearn, Collapse
My brain has been on vacation! Sometimes I just need a break. Here's a little cinquain.
When I Yearn
Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.
When I Yearn
Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Abecedarian for TOP
She sits on the sofa
sometimes all day
and traces my movements
to and fro
through the tired afternoon
until the umbrella
of evening unsheathes
its shadow over us
and I’m verging on violence.
I love my mom
very much and treat
her as tenderly as my Nonie
took care of her African violets
but wearing away
by doing nothing
wears on my world.
So I offer her a glass
of wine and we play
a game of cards
which she wins
in exceptional excellence
and my xylophone whining
mellows out.
The soft yellow
of the dining room light
bathes us in butter
and instead of yelling
my frustrations at her
I laugh and enjoy
the buzz, the companionship,
and the zippity-doo-da
of being in mom zone.
sometimes all day
and traces my movements
to and fro
through the tired afternoon
until the umbrella
of evening unsheathes
its shadow over us
and I’m verging on violence.
I love my mom
very much and treat
her as tenderly as my Nonie
took care of her African violets
but wearing away
by doing nothing
wears on my world.
So I offer her a glass
of wine and we play
a game of cards
which she wins
in exceptional excellence
and my xylophone whining
mellows out.
The soft yellow
of the dining room light
bathes us in butter
and instead of yelling
my frustrations at her
I laugh and enjoy
the buzz, the companionship,
and the zippity-doo-da
of being in mom zone.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Yard Sale for TOP & The Monday Poetry Train
A father and son
play baseball
in their yard.
Every time the boy
hits the ball
a dog chases it
then they have to chase
the dog. I slip
this image
into my word bank.
A scrawny woman
sits on her porch,
cigarette dangling
from her lips,
watching ragged kids
run around her messy
yard, the butt bobbing
as she yells at them.
I add her to the piggy bank
getting heavier
by the mile.
A fine, muscled specimen
of maleness
is mowing a lawn
shirtless, all bronzed
and chiseled. Another
shiny coin
of detail slides
into the bank.
I continue driving
my eyes eating up
every morsel.
When I get to camp,
I’ll break the bank open
and write a poem about
the human yard sale.
play baseball
in their yard.
Every time the boy
hits the ball
a dog chases it
then they have to chase
the dog. I slip
this image
into my word bank.
A scrawny woman
sits on her porch,
cigarette dangling
from her lips,
watching ragged kids
run around her messy
yard, the butt bobbing
as she yells at them.
I add her to the piggy bank
getting heavier
by the mile.
A fine, muscled specimen
of maleness
is mowing a lawn
shirtless, all bronzed
and chiseled. Another
shiny coin
of detail slides
into the bank.
I continue driving
my eyes eating up
every morsel.
When I get to camp,
I’ll break the bank open
and write a poem about
the human yard sale.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
3WW: Dangerous, Keepsake, Restless
Ants in my muscles~
feels like dangerous spasms,
keepsake of old age.
RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME
Keepsake of old age
feels like dangerous spasms~
Ants in my muscles.
feels like dangerous spasms,
keepsake of old age.
RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME
Keepsake of old age
feels like dangerous spasms~
Ants in my muscles.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
3WW: Folly, Ordinary, Hostile
Sunlight eases itself into my classroom
and wraps around the students
sitting obediently reading Antigone.
The word “folly” is mentioned
several times describing
Creon’s disastrous decisions.
The person reading inevitably
pronounces it as “foley”
and I can feel myself
getting hostile. I think
What is so hard about this word?
Dolly, Molly, golly, jolly, Polly.
But folly becomes foley
like holy or holey or wholy
and I just want to scream.
Instead, I look at the morning
making it’s way over the bent
heads of the kids, turning them
from ordinary to golden
and swallow the annoyance.
“Good job! Thanks for reading.”
and wraps around the students
sitting obediently reading Antigone.
The word “folly” is mentioned
several times describing
Creon’s disastrous decisions.
The person reading inevitably
pronounces it as “foley”
and I can feel myself
getting hostile. I think
What is so hard about this word?
Dolly, Molly, golly, jolly, Polly.
But folly becomes foley
like holy or holey or wholy
and I just want to scream.
Instead, I look at the morning
making it’s way over the bent
heads of the kids, turning them
from ordinary to golden
and swallow the annoyance.
“Good job! Thanks for reading.”
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Song Lyrics for TOP
Every Friday I play a song for my kids and pass out the lyrics, too, so they can follow along and think about them. Last week, the lyrics were so simple and superficial so I said to them, "I could write better song lyrics than this!" I tried. Well...it's not that easy!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Wedding
Our friends were getting married
And we fought about the gift.
I suggested silverware
But you were for a fifth.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head;
I’d never win, of course.
We were going to a wedding
And heading for divorce.
You sat beside me in the church
But left a space between.
I listened to them say their vows
And swallowed down a scream.
I wondered why you hated me
I didn’t know the source.
We were sitting at a wedding;
I was thinking ‘bout divorce.
Later at the reception
In a silence filled with ache
You stayed on the other side of the room;
I thought my heart would break.
Then I heard them play our song
And felt you touch my back.
We danced and every movement
Put us more and more on track.
Our love was stronger than your fury.
It rocked us with its force.
We were dancing at a wedding
And forgot about divorce.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Wedding
Our friends were getting married
And we fought about the gift.
I suggested silverware
But you were for a fifth.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head;
I’d never win, of course.
We were going to a wedding
And heading for divorce.
You sat beside me in the church
But left a space between.
I listened to them say their vows
And swallowed down a scream.
I wondered why you hated me
I didn’t know the source.
We were sitting at a wedding;
I was thinking ‘bout divorce.
Later at the reception
In a silence filled with ache
You stayed on the other side of the room;
I thought my heart would break.
Then I heard them play our song
And felt you touch my back.
We danced and every movement
Put us more and more on track.
Our love was stronger than your fury.
It rocked us with its force.
We were dancing at a wedding
And forgot about divorce.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Worry for Sunday Scribblings
Did you ever have anyone
hand you a glass of wine
in an expensive wine glass
thin as a skim of ice
on a pond? You hold
that stem like a delicate
rose. That’s how I feel
about my mom, now. I
love the wine, but
the container is just so fragile
that I’m afraid she’ll break.
I hug her as gently as possible.
hand you a glass of wine
in an expensive wine glass
thin as a skim of ice
on a pond? You hold
that stem like a delicate
rose. That’s how I feel
about my mom, now. I
love the wine, but
the container is just so fragile
that I’m afraid she’ll break.
I hug her as gently as possible.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
3WW: efficient, optimize, treacherous
Waterfalls of change
are treacherous. I paddle
with efficient strokes.
OPTIMIZE MY CHANCES
With efficient strokes
I paddle through treacherous
waterfalls of change.
are treacherous. I paddle
with efficient strokes.
OPTIMIZE MY CHANCES
With efficient strokes
I paddle through treacherous
waterfalls of change.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Poetry Train: Tulips are poeming
Today in Poetry-writing class I had my kids use nouns as verbs in their poems and this is what I came up with.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Tulips are poeming
out all over.
I see their lines
against stone walls
in a multi-colored
rhyme scheme.
Clumps of them
sonnet gardens
while straggler haiku
dot lawns.
Tulips are penciled
on the green paper
of spring.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Tulips are poeming
out all over.
I see their lines
against stone walls
in a multi-colored
rhyme scheme.
Clumps of them
sonnet gardens
while straggler haiku
dot lawns.
Tulips are penciled
on the green paper
of spring.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tardiness for TOP
I don't know about you but I've been dry, dry, dry since the April poem marathon!
Tardiness
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
I sat down to write a poem
then popped up to turn
the dishwasher on, instead.
I came back to the computer
then remembered that I wanted
to paint a journal page.
Afterwards, I poised my fingers
over the keyboard
and typed, “Tardiness”
then made the broken line
underneath. A ding
alerted me to new email
that I just had to check
right away. I noticed
that the ivy was drooping
so got up, again, this time
to water the plants. Finally,
here I am writing this non poem.
Tardiness
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
I sat down to write a poem
then popped up to turn
the dishwasher on, instead.
I came back to the computer
then remembered that I wanted
to paint a journal page.
Afterwards, I poised my fingers
over the keyboard
and typed, “Tardiness”
then made the broken line
underneath. A ding
alerted me to new email
that I just had to check
right away. I noticed
that the ivy was drooping
so got up, again, this time
to water the plants. Finally,
here I am writing this non poem.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
3WW: Bicker, Nervous, Trajectory
We bicker, we fight.
The trajectory of hate
is a loaded gun.
TOO MAD TO BE NERVOUS
of your loaded gun,
trajectory of your hate,
bickering, fighting.
The trajectory of hate
is a loaded gun.
TOO MAD TO BE NERVOUS
of your loaded gun,
trajectory of your hate,
bickering, fighting.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Poetry Train: As the blue sky
As the blue sky
knows nothing
about stars,
so am I a stranger
to you.
You see the person
you want
me to be: a white
fluffy cloud,
harmless.
But I am
the night
cloaked in the darkness
of secrets,
each of my stars
a hint
to the me
I really am.
knows nothing
about stars,
so am I a stranger
to you.
You see the person
you want
me to be: a white
fluffy cloud,
harmless.
But I am
the night
cloaked in the darkness
of secrets,
each of my stars
a hint
to the me
I really am.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Healing for Sunday Scribblings
A Voice
My mom started
talking again
last week.
It’s not much
more than
a whisper
but it is a
softness so
welcomed.
For months now
she’s been
mouthing words
and we’ve been
frustrated
lip-readers:
one of the sad
side effects
of cancer.
Hearing her voice
now is like
winning a
hard-fought
soccer game:
Mom-1
Cancer-0
Cheers.
Whoops.
Smiles.
~Linda Jacobs
Oct. 5, 2004
My mom started
talking again
last week.
It’s not much
more than
a whisper
but it is a
softness so
welcomed.
For months now
she’s been
mouthing words
and we’ve been
frustrated
lip-readers:
one of the sad
side effects
of cancer.
Hearing her voice
now is like
winning a
hard-fought
soccer game:
Mom-1
Cancer-0
Cheers.
Whoops.
Smiles.
~Linda Jacobs
Oct. 5, 2004
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
3WW: Cryptic, Flash, Malign
The flasher opened
his coat to show off his cryp-
tic manhood. I laughed.
MALIGNED
by his lack, I laughed
cryptically when his coat o-
pened. The flasher frowned.
his coat to show off his cryp-
tic manhood. I laughed.
MALIGNED
by his lack, I laughed
cryptically when his coat o-
pened. The flasher frowned.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Poetry Train: A Bed
A Bed
My bed has a head-
board where I hoard
chapstick and Bic
pens to write to friends.
It holds in its folds
a nail file I’ll
use when I choose
to fix, while I’m watching flicks,
my nails.
And if I fail to fall
asleep at all
I can read a book
or take a look
at TV. It’s free.
Or do a puzzle
and maybe nuzzle
if I must. It’s just
a great place
to be. Lucky me.
My bed has a head-
board where I hoard
chapstick and Bic
pens to write to friends.
It holds in its folds
a nail file I’ll
use when I choose
to fix, while I’m watching flicks,
my nails.
And if I fail to fall
asleep at all
I can read a book
or take a look
at TV. It’s free.
Or do a puzzle
and maybe nuzzle
if I must. It’s just
a great place
to be. Lucky me.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 30!: Exercise for TOP
Just a short one today. I'm poemed out!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My jeans
hang on the clothes line
running in place
squatting,
doing front kicks
and back kicks
to the wind’s
exercise video,
knowing this is the most
exercise they are going to get.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My jeans
hang on the clothes line
running in place
squatting,
doing front kicks
and back kicks
to the wind’s
exercise video,
knowing this is the most
exercise they are going to get.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 29 and 3WW: Opportunity-Service-Quarrel
Just Another Slap in the Face
I got home late
today,
fatigue dripping
from my shoulders
like a backpack
slipping to the floor.
I leave it on a hook
in the closet
along with my jacket,
so happy to forget
about the quarrel
I’d had with my fourth-
block kids.
I’d taken them outside
for Journal Writing,
the weather summer nice.
But several of them
decided to take advantage
of the opportunity
to stay out, enjoy the sun,
after I said it was time
to head back inside.
They tiptoed
into the classroom
late, eyes big,
knowing they were
in trouble,
knowing they’d
let me down,
knowing I’d never trust
them again.
Finally, I was home,
time to relax,
write a poem,
blog,
and check the mail
for a letter.
But what was in there?
A bill from
Public Service of NH.
I got home late
today,
fatigue dripping
from my shoulders
like a backpack
slipping to the floor.
I leave it on a hook
in the closet
along with my jacket,
so happy to forget
about the quarrel
I’d had with my fourth-
block kids.
I’d taken them outside
for Journal Writing,
the weather summer nice.
But several of them
decided to take advantage
of the opportunity
to stay out, enjoy the sun,
after I said it was time
to head back inside.
They tiptoed
into the classroom
late, eyes big,
knowing they were
in trouble,
knowing they’d
let me down,
knowing I’d never trust
them again.
Finally, I was home,
time to relax,
write a poem,
blog,
and check the mail
for a letter.
But what was in there?
A bill from
Public Service of NH.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 28: Red
He’s been working
on his new motorcycle
in the cellar
for months, now.
This one started
as old Harley parts
that were just begging
to be assembled.
And that’s what
he’s been doing
one puzzle piece
at a time,
sanding and bending
and swearing
and slowly
it began
to look like
a real motorcycle,
a 1952 panhead.
A couple days ago
I asked him
to help me
fix my Xyron
sticker machine.
He examined it,
got a perplexed look
on his face,
said he was sorry,
and gave it back to me.
Then he went outside,
got his tools out and adjusted
on his new motorcycle
in the cellar
for months, now.
This one started
as old Harley parts
that were just begging
to be assembled.
And that’s what
he’s been doing
one puzzle piece
at a time,
sanding and bending
and swearing
and slowly
it began
to look like
a real motorcycle,
a 1952 panhead.
A couple days ago
I asked him
to help me
fix my Xyron
sticker machine.
He examined it,
got a perplexed look
on his face,
said he was sorry,
and gave it back to me.
Then he went outside,
got his tools out and adjusted
t
he points on his bike.
he points on his bike.Monday, April 27, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 27: Wordle (Piggybank)
The piggybank of our life
is full of coins:
the copper pennies
of everyday business,
the chunky nickels
of laughter,
the thin dimes
of fights,
pursed lips,
resisting
being picked up,
the quarters of compliments
and kindnesses and love
and the occasional
fifty-cent pieces
of vacations.
Each night
before bed
we empty our pockets
and slide
the loose change
into the piggybank
watching our marriage
fill up.
is full of coins:
the copper pennies
of everyday business,
the chunky nickels
of laughter,
the thin dimes
of fights,
pursed lips,
resisting
being picked up,
the quarters of compliments
and kindnesses and love
and the occasional
fifty-cent pieces
of vacations.
Each night
before bed
we empty our pockets
and slide
the loose change
into the piggybank
watching our marriage
fill up.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 26: Word for One Single Impression
No
It’s a razor blade
cutting slashes
in an arm,
the sun pulling
a quilt of clouds
up over her head.
It’s a husband
turning away
in bed,
a mother
getting drunk
every night,
the silent scream
from a girl
being raped.
It’s a razor blade
cutting slashes
in an arm,
the sun pulling
a quilt of clouds
up over her head.
It’s a husband
turning away
in bed,
a mother
getting drunk
every night,
the silent scream
from a girl
being raped.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 25: Follow for Sunday Scribblings
As a recovering addict
I have to be careful
during vacations
not to have the TV
on channel 6
at 1pm
because that is when
Days of our Livescomes on and I don’t
want to get hooked
again.
It started in college.
I’d get back from class
and it was nice
to sit in the TV room
with friends
and watch the happenings
in Salem.
As a newlywed,
I brought the characters
with me as I started
this new life,
hoping never
to repeat their
mistakes.
Once the kids
started school,
we’d get home
in the afternoon
and sit together.
Erin and Nathan took
turns getting up
to fast forward
through the commercials
in those pre-remote
VCR days.
We always got excited
when a young Carrie
was on because
I’d try to imitate
her hair-do
on Erin the next
day.
Even after they graduated
I continued to watch.
It was like a big, fat
juicy novel
and I’d turn to a new
chapter every day.
Two years ago
I went cold turkey;
I just couldn’t take
any more of that
sappiness.
Oh, sure, my heart
does a little flip-flop
whenever I see their faces
on Soap Opera Digest
at the grocery store
and the occasional
commercial for it
pulls me in from
the next room
but, so far,
knock on wood,
I haven’t watched
a single episode.
Today is Saturday
after a week of being home
and I didn’t fall
off the wagon
even once.
Sometimes, it feels
like I’ve divorced
part of my family
but, most of the time,
I’m happy to be
free of cliff-hangers
and stupid decisions
and titillating sexual
tension
and kids who grow up
from babies to teenagers
in five years
and I just couldn’t take
another Christmas
watching the Hortons
hang ornaments
with their names
on them
on that perfect tree.
I have to be careful
during vacations
not to have the TV
on channel 6
at 1pm
because that is when
Days of our Livescomes on and I don’t
want to get hooked
again.
It started in college.
I’d get back from class
and it was nice
to sit in the TV room
with friends
and watch the happenings
in Salem.
As a newlywed,
I brought the characters
with me as I started
this new life,
hoping never
to repeat their
mistakes.
Once the kids
started school,
we’d get home
in the afternoon
and sit together.
Erin and Nathan took
turns getting up
to fast forward
through the commercials
in those pre-remote
VCR days.
We always got excited
when a young Carrie
was on because
I’d try to imitate
her hair-do
on Erin the next
day.
Even after they graduated
I continued to watch.
It was like a big, fat
juicy novel
and I’d turn to a new
chapter every day.
Two years ago
I went cold turkey;
I just couldn’t take
any more of that
sappiness.
Oh, sure, my heart
does a little flip-flop
whenever I see their faces
on Soap Opera Digest
at the grocery store
and the occasional
commercial for it
pulls me in from
the next room
but, so far,
knock on wood,
I haven’t watched
a single episode.
Today is Saturday
after a week of being home
and I didn’t fall
off the wagon
even once.
Sometimes, it feels
like I’ve divorced
part of my family
but, most of the time,
I’m happy to be
free of cliff-hangers
and stupid decisions
and titillating sexual
tension
and kids who grow up
from babies to teenagers
in five years
and I just couldn’t take
another Christmas
watching the Hortons
hang ornaments
with their names
on them
on that perfect tree.
Friday, April 24, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 24: Listen
I wrote this at the Unity Street Park
overlooking the river.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Androscoggin River
in high spring exuberance
laughing and gurgling
and schussing
drowns out the cars
going by like toys,
and the jet
unzipping the blue
sweater of the sky,
and the humming
of the leaf buds
fat and bursting,
and the dying groans
of goldenrod
skeletons.
The world is a pantomime,
my ears full of raging water.
overlooking the river.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Androscoggin River
in high spring exuberance
laughing and gurgling
and schussing
drowns out the cars
going by like toys,
and the jet
unzipping the blue
sweater of the sky,
and the humming
of the leaf buds
fat and bursting,
and the dying groans
of goldenrod
skeletons.
The world is a pantomime,
my ears full of raging water.
NaPoWriMo Day 23: Quote for TOP
It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how things are in themselves. The least of things with a meaning is worth more in life than the greatest of things without it. ~Carl Jung
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Kylie wakes up
with a smile
on her face.
I put the shade up
and see a gray,
rainy day.
“It’s so yucky
out there,”
I say to her.
She replies,
“I think
it’s beautiful.”
So, I take
another look
through the diamonds
on the window.
The clouds
are a down comforter,
jonquil spears
are drinking
thirstily,
and the grass
has turned
green.
Yes, my smart
Kylie girl,
it is beautiful.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Kylie wakes up
with a smile
on her face.
I put the shade up
and see a gray,
rainy day.
“It’s so yucky
out there,”
I say to her.
She replies,
“I think
it’s beautiful.”
So, I take
another look
through the diamonds
on the window.
The clouds
are a down comforter,
jonquil spears
are drinking
thirstily,
and the grass
has turned
green.
Yes, my smart
Kylie girl,
it is beautiful.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 22: List Poem of Stolen Lines
The Prompt at ReadWritePoem today is a list poem made up of 5 lines of poetry stolen from five different poems. Almost all my poetry books are at school and I only have two here. I picked up The Best American Poetry 2008 at the library the other day so my last three are from that.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Beginnings are brutal, like this accident
of her father’s voice on the phone.
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.
He was drunk, disgracefully so, which is why
nothing there except stones and wind.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dorianne Laux “Each Sound” What We Carry
Alison Townsend “TheAddict” Persephone in America
Robert Bly “Wanting Sumptuous Heavens”
Ira Sadoff “American”
D. Nurske “The Gate of Abraham”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Beginnings are brutal, like this accident
of her father’s voice on the phone.
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.
He was drunk, disgracefully so, which is why
nothing there except stones and wind.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dorianne Laux “Each Sound” What We Carry
Alison Townsend “TheAddict” Persephone in America
Robert Bly “Wanting Sumptuous Heavens”
Ira Sadoff “American”
D. Nurske “The Gate of Abraham”
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 21: Rite of Passage
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Erin sat on the washing machine
I took the toilet seat, camera in hand
Gary stood next to Nathan
who was in front of the sink.
I can still see how gingerly
Nay spread the shaving cream
on his face, tapping it into place
creating peaks and valleys
Then came the razor with a new blade
and I held my breath
as he scraped those beautiful baby cheeks
that I had kissed and kissed and kissed
Later, I wiped away the foam
from the sink and washed
the stray hairs of my son’s childhood
down the drain.
Monday, April 20, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 20: The Bride Wore Red
The following image is the prompt at ReadWritePoem and is by pareeerica
The Bride Wore Red
and the vultures were circling,
all those old boyfriends
wanting to take bites
out of her newfound
happiness.
But red is the color
of laughter
and as she ran
from the church
following
her husband
with his red cummerbund
and red tie,
the musical notes
of their giggling
rose in the happy air
and swept the specks
of annoying memories
out the door
of her mind.
The Bride Wore Red
and the vultures were circling,
all those old boyfriends
wanting to take bites
out of her newfound
happiness.
But red is the color
of laughter
and as she ran
from the church
following
her husband
with his red cummerbund
and red tie,
the musical notes
of their giggling
rose in the happy air
and swept the specks
of annoying memories
out the door
of her mind.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 19: Friendship
I breathe a sigh,
pack my book bag,
and head home
after a day of teaching.
When I get home,
I wait for footsteps
on the front porch:
mailman!
I lift the top
of the mailbox
and sunshine
glows out;
there is a letter
from my friend.
I carefully slit
the envelope
then sit in a warm
breeze of friendship.
There are stickers
and pictures
and poems and words
about the simple,
and frustrating, and joys,
and worries.
The best part
is our own acronym
at the end:
TFBMF.
(Thanks for being
my friend)
pack my book bag,
and head home
after a day of teaching.
When I get home,
I wait for footsteps
on the front porch:
mailman!
I lift the top
of the mailbox
and sunshine
glows out;
there is a letter
from my friend.
I carefully slit
the envelope
then sit in a warm
breeze of friendship.
There are stickers
and pictures
and poems and words
about the simple,
and frustrating, and joys,
and worries.
The best part
is our own acronym
at the end:
TFBMF.
(Thanks for being
my friend)
Saturday, April 18, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 17: Language for Sunday Scribblings
Here's an acrostic of American Sentences.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Laughter, like a wireless phone connection, rings in my heart and soul.
Announcer of emotions like birds in trees cawing about the cold temps.
Nouns and verbs marching like soldiers from lips through air to ears, hup, two, three…
Gestures: fingers that point and show disgust, hands saying come here or stop.
Ugh, ah, oh, wow, gee, ooh, ow, eek: sounds of life, words unnecessary.
Authors of books are heroes, with their backpacks of words and ideas.
Gazes that flow like the scent of baking bread with messages of love.
Envelopes of words we slit open to release the magic of speech.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Laughter, like a wireless phone connection, rings in my heart and soul.
Announcer of emotions like birds in trees cawing about the cold temps.
Nouns and verbs marching like soldiers from lips through air to ears, hup, two, three…
Gestures: fingers that point and show disgust, hands saying come here or stop.
Ugh, ah, oh, wow, gee, ooh, ow, eek: sounds of life, words unnecessary.
Authors of books are heroes, with their backpacks of words and ideas.
Gazes that flow like the scent of baking bread with messages of love.
Envelopes of words we slit open to release the magic of speech.
Friday, April 17, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 17: Missing
Vitamin Sea Deficiency
The ocean
is locked in a box
in the back corner
of my brain.
I can barely see
the tiny waves
rolling over themselves
or the glints
of sun sparkling
like fireflies,
ephemeral & brief.
Soon, soon, the screen
of the ocean
will be as large
as a drive-in
and I’ll be sitting
in the audience
with my eyes
full of sea.
The ocean
is locked in a box
in the back corner
of my brain.
I can barely see
the tiny waves
rolling over themselves
or the glints
of sun sparkling
like fireflies,
ephemeral & brief.
Soon, soon, the screen
of the ocean
will be as large
as a drive-in
and I’ll be sitting
in the audience
with my eyes
full of sea.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 16: Allure, Vivid, and Perch for 3WW
We were out hunting,
the woods all golden,
two parents and four kids
walking along a skidder trail.
I spied a bird
high on his perch,
a vivid speck against the blue.
The allure too much,
my brother tried to shoot it.
The bullet flew off to another planet.
I laughed. He turned red.
“You do it, then,” he said.
I took the gun,
spread my legs to balance,
aimed up to heaven,
and pulled the trigger.
That bird fell
right at my feet,
fat and warm.
The leaves
crunched like remorse
as we quietly made our way
back out of the woods.
the woods all golden,
two parents and four kids
walking along a skidder trail.
I spied a bird
high on his perch,
a vivid speck against the blue.
The allure too much,
my brother tried to shoot it.
The bullet flew off to another planet.
I laughed. He turned red.
“You do it, then,” he said.
I took the gun,
spread my legs to balance,
aimed up to heaven,
and pulled the trigger.
That bird fell
right at my feet,
fat and warm.
The leaves
crunched like remorse
as we quietly made our way
back out of the woods.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 15: List and Photo Poem for TOP
.jpg)
First Anniversary
Suit
tie
smiles of what have we done
arms
hands
an old car for the journey
child
first
making ends meet
Fleurette
Jim
“I loved your father so much”
Cocooned
protected
a lump in the throat
Ma
Linda
Daddy
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 14: Car
I started one about the old Rambler once before but it didn't go anywhere so I decided to redo it for this prompt.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The old Rambler
my boyfriend had
was unique:
the front seat
reclined to meet
the back seat
resulting in a queen-
size-bed
open space.
It was great
for going
to the drive-in.
We’d sit way
in the back
with a quilt
over us.
And parking?
All our friends
were jealous.
So, I have
no idea
how footprints
got on the ceiling.
And when his mom
asked him
about them,
he made up
some story
about having
to hunt
for something
under the seat.
But, his red face,
as red as the Rambler,
gave it away.
His parents sold
it soon afterwards,
replacing it
with a Volkswagen
bug.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The old Rambler
my boyfriend had
was unique:
the front seat
reclined to meet
the back seat
resulting in a queen-
size-bed
open space.
It was great
for going
to the drive-in.
We’d sit way
in the back
with a quilt
over us.
And parking?
All our friends
were jealous.
So, I have
no idea
how footprints
got on the ceiling.
And when his mom
asked him
about them,
he made up
some story
about having
to hunt
for something
under the seat.
But, his red face,
as red as the Rambler,
gave it away.
His parents sold
it soon afterwards,
replacing it
with a Volkswagen
bug.
NaPoWriMo Day 13: Where Do You Come From?
I come from mountains
so close I can taste them.
I come from the valley
in between that swallows me.
I come from rock cliffs
that my nose bumps against,
walls that get closer and closer.
I come from hills of ideas rising.
I come from the exclamation
points of trees in a forest of words.
so close I can taste them.
I come from the valley
in between that swallows me.
I come from rock cliffs
that my nose bumps against,
walls that get closer and closer.
I come from hills of ideas rising.
I come from the exclamation
points of trees in a forest of words.
NaPoWriMo Day 12: Found Poem
From the Last Chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird
Neighbors bring food
with death
and flowers
with sickness
and little things in between.
Boo was our neighbor.
He gave us
two soap dolls,
a broken watch and chain,
a pair of good-luck pennies,
and our lives.
But neighbors give
in return.
We never put back
into the tree
what we took out of it:
we had given him nothing,
and it made me sad.
Neighbors bring food
with death
and flowers
with sickness
and little things in between.
Boo was our neighbor.
He gave us
two soap dolls,
a broken watch and chain,
a pair of good-luck pennies,
and our lives.
But neighbors give
in return.
We never put back
into the tree
what we took out of it:
we had given him nothing,
and it made me sad.
NaPoWriMo Day 11: A smile of orange
A Smile of Orange
He has his black
Harley-Davidson
shirt on, the one
with flames
on the sleeves.
We’re sitting
in a bar,
he with a rum drink
he calls a Big Jake
and me with a glass
of wine.
We’re both dragging
after having painted
all day.
He takes the fruit
from his glass,
reaches over
and says,
“Here, have a smile
of orange.”
I chuckle to myself
as we let our arms
lean together,
the English teacher
and the biker.
When he leaves
to go to the men’s room,
I take my notebook
out and write
this poem.
He has his black
Harley-Davidson
shirt on, the one
with flames
on the sleeves.
We’re sitting
in a bar,
he with a rum drink
he calls a Big Jake
and me with a glass
of wine.
We’re both dragging
after having painted
all day.
He takes the fruit
from his glass,
reaches over
and says,
“Here, have a smile
of orange.”
I chuckle to myself
as we let our arms
lean together,
the English teacher
and the biker.
When he leaves
to go to the men’s room,
I take my notebook
out and write
this poem.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 10: The rock Queens
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The Rock Queens
Michelle 9 in her horse T-shirt
Tori 8 in pink ruffled tank
bored
decided to sell rocks
one day
at camp.
They gathered them
from the neighbors’
gravel driveway,
made an Open sign
and another
with prices,
then stood there
with their purses
and smiles
as people walked by.
Who could resist?
Everyone got such a kick
out of them.
Even the neighbors
bought a couple
of their own
rocks back.
They made $23!
Such imaginations
and entrepreneurship.
Now, as they become teenagers
will they display these qualities
or will they be hidden
behind sulky faces
drained through cell phones
and ipods?
Will they ever
be this young
and old
again?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
NaPoWriMo day 9: Paradise
Paradise
I’m sitting in the woods
sketching a burl.
I feel the breeze
on my neck soft
like my husband’s hand
as we fell asleep
in Hawaii
with the sound
of waves rushing
onto the sand
and the wind,
that had come
all the way from China,
puffing the curtains
and brushing
butterfly kisses
on our faces.
This is paradise,
being alone in the woods.
When it’s time to leave
I walk back out
through coins
of sunlight,
picking them up
and putting them
in my pocket.
I’m sitting in the woods
sketching a burl.
I feel the breeze
on my neck soft
like my husband’s hand
as we fell asleep
in Hawaii
with the sound
of waves rushing
onto the sand
and the wind,
that had come
all the way from China,
puffing the curtains
and brushing
butterfly kisses
on our faces.
This is paradise,
being alone in the woods.
When it’s time to leave
I walk back out
through coins
of sunlight,
picking them up
and putting them
in my pocket.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Medditation on Letter E by Danny Sheehan
I gave my Poetry-writing students this assignment this week and a couple of them asked if I could post their poems.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Meditation on Letter E
E is eternity that awaits us
the second part of us
the evil side,
always hungry
eating people apart by their fears.
E is the emptiness
that fills the broken ones,
the eyes blind by the lies
you tell yourself.
It’s the escape we long to find,
the entrance that will save us
from the execution.
It’s the end of everything,
the eclipse
to elimination.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Meditation on Letter E
E is eternity that awaits us
the second part of us
the evil side,
always hungry
eating people apart by their fears.
E is the emptiness
that fills the broken ones,
the eyes blind by the lies
you tell yourself.
It’s the escape we long to find,
the entrance that will save us
from the execution.
It’s the end of everything,
the eclipse
to elimination.
The Letter C by Moriah Vincent
I gave my Poetry-writing students this assignment this week and a couple of them asked if I could post their poems.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Letter C
Easy to mold like dough in the
hands of the chef.
Sometimes soft and silent.
C is usually a harsh letter,
cutting the tongue, sneakily
carving away one’s hopes with words
like cancer and casualties,
picking at dreams as if they were carcasses
on which the vultures and
coyotes feast;
leaving the survivors to contemplate
the quality of life of the deceased.
They find themselves empty
like a cast that has no cracked bones to support;
just a body with broken soul to contain.
C is the chief of containing bad news,
the master of chaos;
coming and going as it pleases,
living not to calm the feared
but to warn the careful,
to whisper to those who care
enough to listen.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Letter C
Easy to mold like dough in the
hands of the chef.
Sometimes soft and silent.
C is usually a harsh letter,
cutting the tongue, sneakily
carving away one’s hopes with words
like cancer and casualties,
picking at dreams as if they were carcasses
on which the vultures and
coyotes feast;
leaving the survivors to contemplate
the quality of life of the deceased.
They find themselves empty
like a cast that has no cracked bones to support;
just a body with broken soul to contain.
C is the chief of containing bad news,
the master of chaos;
coming and going as it pleases,
living not to calm the feared
but to warn the careful,
to whisper to those who care
enough to listen.
Meditation on the Letter V for TOP & Day 8
Meditation on the letter V
V’s are arrows pointing this way and that way.
They are vases holding the verses of our lives.
V’s are hands raised in a wave, cheering.
V’s are democratic; the capital V
is the very model for the baby v.
If you know one, you know the other.
It’s a family vibe.
When you see a fluttering, wavering V above,
you know the season is about to swerve,
become severe or temperate: veering into fall
or sliding into vibrant spring: the evolution
of our living.
V stands proudly, head erect, full of values:
dignity, assertiveness, conviction, veracity,
devotion, loyalty, love.
V’s are inverted legs giving birth.
We are all alive,
the first view of us
through the V in our mother’s bent legs.
We arrived through the avenue of a V’s V
and we proclaim victory.
V’s are arrows pointing this way and that way.
They are vases holding the verses of our lives.
V’s are hands raised in a wave, cheering.
V’s are democratic; the capital V
is the very model for the baby v.
If you know one, you know the other.
It’s a family vibe.
When you see a fluttering, wavering V above,
you know the season is about to swerve,
become severe or temperate: veering into fall
or sliding into vibrant spring: the evolution
of our living.
V stands proudly, head erect, full of values:
dignity, assertiveness, conviction, veracity,
devotion, loyalty, love.
V’s are inverted legs giving birth.
We are all alive,
the first view of us
through the V in our mother’s bent legs.
We arrived through the avenue of a V’s V
and we proclaim victory.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 7: Nicknames
The Evolution of a Nickname
The ocean,
blue sky,
sailboat
Nathan
just learning
to talk
My father-in-law,
“Say Grampa”
pronounced Grumpa
His German girlfriend
“Say danka,
come on, danka”
Nay is more interested
in watching the water,
seeing birds dive,
feeling the wind
in his face.
Later, his grandfather
kisses him goodbye.
“Bye bye, Gunka”
Nay says.
And Gunka
he has remained
to this day.
The ocean,
blue sky,
sailboat
Nathan
just learning
to talk
My father-in-law,
“Say Grampa”
pronounced Grumpa
His German girlfriend
“Say danka,
come on, danka”
Nay is more interested
in watching the water,
seeing birds dive,
feeling the wind
in his face.
Later, his grandfather
kisses him goodbye.
“Bye bye, Gunka”
Nay says.
And Gunka
he has remained
to this day.
Monday, April 6, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 6: Response to a Photo
This is for ReadWritePoem's Day 6 prompt. We were asked to write a poem in response to the following photograph by pensiero:
And You thought You Were In Charge
Hanging
marionettes.
Who is controlling them?
The hand of fate? I hear the clouds
smirking.
And You thought You Were In Charge
Hanging
marionettes.
Who is controlling them?
The hand of fate? I hear the clouds
smirking.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
NaPoWriMo Day 5: Fifty Words
The prompt at ReadWritePoem today is to ask someone for 50 words, read them several times, leave them alone for awhile, then try to remember about 10 of them, write them down, contemplate why we recalled those particular ones, then write a poem inspired by them.
Here are the ten words I remembered from the list my friend, Anne, kindly emailed me:
insulin, syringe, donation, surf, deposit, radish, pepper, mouse, sticker,
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Three Tries
to write a poem
inspired by these
words.
Some days I can
surf the waves of ideas
so easily
but, today, I’m just
floundering
in the ocean.
I’m a diabetic
needing a syringe
full of insulin
to balance
the sugar of
cliché.
Even the donation
of these words
is not enough
of a deposit
into the bank account
of my brain
to get my mouse
moving and pepper
my computer
screen with stanzas.
Instead, I just add
a period to the last word.
Here are the ten words I remembered from the list my friend, Anne, kindly emailed me:
insulin, syringe, donation, surf, deposit, radish, pepper, mouse, sticker,
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Three Tries
to write a poem
inspired by these
words.
Some days I can
surf the waves of ideas
so easily
but, today, I’m just
floundering
in the ocean.
I’m a diabetic
needing a syringe
full of insulin
to balance
the sugar of
cliché.
Even the donation
of these words
is not enough
of a deposit
into the bank account
of my brain
to get my mouse
moving and pepper
my computer
screen with stanzas.
Instead, I just add
a period to the last word.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Celebrate for Sunday Scribblings
I’m celebrating Saturday,
melting snow,
my husband going
to the IGA with me,
not having a cold anymore,
the smell of warm clothes
just out of the dryer,
listening to a show
featuring music by The Doors,
(“Come on baby light my fire”)
keeping up with NaPoWriMo,
(This is actually my second poem today!)
April,
no rain,
a letter from a friend,
ham, green pepper, and cheese omelet,
cutting a lilac branch
and putting it in water to force,
Planters Cocktail Peanuts with sea salt,
a cocktail,
crafting,
a good book,
blogs,
life.
melting snow,
my husband going
to the IGA with me,
not having a cold anymore,
the smell of warm clothes
just out of the dryer,
listening to a show
featuring music by The Doors,
(“Come on baby light my fire”)
keeping up with NaPoWriMo,
(This is actually my second poem today!)
April,
no rain,
a letter from a friend,
ham, green pepper, and cheese omelet,
cutting a lilac branch
and putting it in water to force,
Planters Cocktail Peanuts with sea salt,
a cocktail,
crafting,
a good book,
blogs,
life.
NaPoWriMo day 4: Paint Colors
Snow Ballet Starring the Poetic Princess
It’s as if she dipped
her ballet slippers
in black paint
for when she moves
she leaves the calligraphy
of her heart
on the surface of the stage.
She twirls and swirls,
a snowflake
in an ice storm
and her crystals of despair
shimmer like razor blades,
slicing through the air,
shards of pain falling
to blanket the audience.
It’s as if she dipped
her ballet slippers
in black paint
for when she moves
she leaves the calligraphy
of her heart
on the surface of the stage.
She twirls and swirls,
a snowflake
in an ice storm
and her crystals of despair
shimmer like razor blades,
slicing through the air,
shards of pain falling
to blanket the audience.
Friday, April 3, 2009
NaPoWriMo day 3: Threes
A Rainy Day Threesome
5 am
rain
gotta get out of here
drive drive drive
Mohegan Sun Casino
$100 in my pocket
$20 on quarter machine
nothing
Another $20
Slide it in a fifty cent machine
Three Double Diamonds
turquoise turquoise turquoise
pop pop pop
dingdingdingdingdingdingdingding
$800
Just like that
Play
eat lunch
drive drive drive
rain
home
5 pm
5 am
rain
gotta get out of here
drive drive drive
Mohegan Sun Casino
$100 in my pocket
$20 on quarter machine
nothing
Another $20
Slide it in a fifty cent machine
Three Double Diamonds
turquoise turquoise turquoise
pop pop pop
dingdingdingdingdingdingdingding
$800
Just like that
Play
eat lunch
drive drive drive
rain
home
5 pm
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Solitaire for TOP and NaPoWriMo Day 2
He ran in the house
grabbed my hand
and pulled me upstairs
to my bedroom,
a place he was not allowed.
My parents
were at work, though.
He made me sit
on the edge of my bed
and he got down
on his knees,
took the ring out.
“Will you marry me?”
he asked as he slipped
the solitaire
on my finger.
Did I even answer?
Did he ever imagine a “no”
in my mouth
ready to fly out
like scissors
and cut his smile
in two? He pulled
me up close
and “yes” got squeezed
in between
our beating hearts.
grabbed my hand
and pulled me upstairs
to my bedroom,
a place he was not allowed.
My parents
were at work, though.
He made me sit
on the edge of my bed
and he got down
on his knees,
took the ring out.
“Will you marry me?”
he asked as he slipped
the solitaire
on my finger.
Did I even answer?
Did he ever imagine a “no”
in my mouth
ready to fly out
like scissors
and cut his smile
in two? He pulled
me up close
and “yes” got squeezed
in between
our beating hearts.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Varied, Knack, Crush for 3WW and Naisaiku
Crushed pineapple, rum,
ice, and a splash of OJ.
Blend. Cures varied ills.
MY HUSBAND HAS A KNACK FOR GOOD DRINKS
Blend to cure varied ills:
ice, a splash of OJ,
crushed pineapple, rum.
ice, and a splash of OJ.
Blend. Cures varied ills.
MY HUSBAND HAS A KNACK FOR GOOD DRINKS
Blend to cure varied ills:
ice, a splash of OJ,
crushed pineapple, rum.
NaPoWriMo Day 1: Metaphor
Insomnia
Sleep was a silky fish
eluding me last night.
I tried to catch it
with the net of my dreams
but it wiggled out of reach
through cloudy thoughts
then taunted me
with its wide-eyed stare.
Sleep was a silky fish
eluding me last night.
I tried to catch it
with the net of my dreams
but it wiggled out of reach
through cloudy thoughts
then taunted me
with its wide-eyed stare.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Poetry Train: Last summer was a cemetery
Last summer
was a cemetery
for poems
that were never born.
Small sperms
of ideas
swam toward
blank eggs
then died.
Long, lazy days
stretched out before
me like miles
of sandy beach
but no waves
of words
begged to live
and all those poems
that could have been,
seeped into the sand
leaving behind
bubbles
of empty foam.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Aging for Sunday Scribblings
I'm recycling this week. I wrote this one a couple years ago.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
If she tilts
her head
just so
in the golden shafts
of sun,
I can see
a lone hair
growing
on her chin.
I consider telling
her about it
but we’re in the middle
of a card game
and she’s winning
so I don’t want
to spoil
this time
we have together.
Later that night
after she has climbed
the stairs
one step at a time
carrying the weight
of eighty-one
years of laughter
and sadness,
I, too get ready
for bed.
I brush my teeth,
wash my face
and apply
a night cream.
The light
catches a glint
on the curve
of my chin
and I stand there
looking in the mirror
at my mother.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
If she tilts
her head
just so
in the golden shafts
of sun,
I can see
a lone hair
growing
on her chin.
I consider telling
her about it
but we’re in the middle
of a card game
and she’s winning
so I don’t want
to spoil
this time
we have together.
Later that night
after she has climbed
the stairs
one step at a time
carrying the weight
of eighty-one
years of laughter
and sadness,
I, too get ready
for bed.
I brush my teeth,
wash my face
and apply
a night cream.
The light
catches a glint
on the curve
of my chin
and I stand there
looking in the mirror
at my mother.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Stolen First Lines for ReadWritePoem
Thanks to Gautami Tripathy for this great first line.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
That word you lost I found it under a rock
all dirty and flattened.
I took it home and washed it
then hung it on the line
in the sunshine to dry. See it there
sashaying in the breeze
becoming plumper and clearer
as it dries. The T is holding
its head up and the rust
is shining. That word you lost
I found it under the rock
of your heart.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
That word you lost I found it under a rock
all dirty and flattened.
I took it home and washed it
then hung it on the line
in the sunshine to dry. See it there
sashaying in the breeze
becoming plumper and clearer
as it dries. The T is holding
its head up and the rust
is shining. That word you lost
I found it under the rock
of your heart.
Season Change for TOP
Yesterday Afternoon
The front porch
was a pan
full of melted butter.
I sat like a bowl
of popcorn
and let the sun
drizzle all over me
on this first real day
of finally spring.
The front porch
was a pan
full of melted butter.
I sat like a bowl
of popcorn
and let the sun
drizzle all over me
on this first real day
of finally spring.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Earnest Layer Reactive for 3WW
Earnest as tulips
your feelings pop out in spring
layer by layer
REACTIVE LOVE
Layer by layer
your feelings pop out in spring
earnest as tulips
your feelings pop out in spring
layer by layer
REACTIVE LOVE
Layer by layer
your feelings pop out in spring
earnest as tulips
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sestina for Poem: A Virtual Poetry Group: ABCs
Learning My ABCs
Right now, I should be correcting an essay
or planning what my next assignment will be
for British Literature class. But, you see,
all I want to do is de-
vote time to writing a poem e-
ven though I know it will take ef-
fort. Today, as a teacher, I get an F.
I’m here physically but my mind is away,
dreaming of letters and words that will, e-
ventually, become thoughts. I turn on my computer and be-
gin to type a black and white de-
sign on this school-owned PC.
I take a poem from its infancy,
nurture it though childhood, survive the ef-
fing teen years, and gentle it with de-
tails into an adult. Shh, don’t let the PTA
know what I do when I’m supposed to be
teaching. I haven’t even checked my e-
mail since there’s barely e-
nough time to finish this, never mind see
about my students’ needs. Be-
fore the lunch bell, while ideas are still like ef-
fervescent bubbles, I want to parlay
them into something meaningful~a word melody.
Sometimes, it’s so easy to let myself be de-
toured from writing. So, now, while my e-
motions are high, and letters are dancing a ballet,
I have to lasso them, whip up a poem fricassee.
Instead of being a teacher I must be a word chef
for a little while. But kids keep coming in to be-
devil me with questions and the intercom is be-
coming annoying. There is no remedy
for these interruptions; inside I’m screaming, “F
You!” but outwardly I must remain e-
ven-tempered and capture se-
clusion where I can. I lock myself away.
I’m just a wanna-be poet with an e-
normous desire to sea-
son my refugee heart with word play.
Right now, I should be correcting an essay
or planning what my next assignment will be
for British Literature class. But, you see,
all I want to do is de-
vote time to writing a poem e-
ven though I know it will take ef-
fort. Today, as a teacher, I get an F.
I’m here physically but my mind is away,
dreaming of letters and words that will, e-
ventually, become thoughts. I turn on my computer and be-
gin to type a black and white de-
sign on this school-owned PC.
I take a poem from its infancy,
nurture it though childhood, survive the ef-
fing teen years, and gentle it with de-
tails into an adult. Shh, don’t let the PTA
know what I do when I’m supposed to be
teaching. I haven’t even checked my e-
mail since there’s barely e-
nough time to finish this, never mind see
about my students’ needs. Be-
fore the lunch bell, while ideas are still like ef-
fervescent bubbles, I want to parlay
them into something meaningful~a word melody.
Sometimes, it’s so easy to let myself be de-
toured from writing. So, now, while my e-
motions are high, and letters are dancing a ballet,
I have to lasso them, whip up a poem fricassee.
Instead of being a teacher I must be a word chef
for a little while. But kids keep coming in to be-
devil me with questions and the intercom is be-
coming annoying. There is no remedy
for these interruptions; inside I’m screaming, “F
You!” but outwardly I must remain e-
ven-tempered and capture se-
clusion where I can. I lock myself away.
I’m just a wanna-be poet with an e-
normous desire to sea-
son my refugee heart with word play.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I Come From for Sunday Scribblings
I Come From…
I come from words
like love
that jumped
from my dad’s eyes
to my mom’s,
and integrity
that was woven
into my character
the way
my mom pulls yarn
through her cross-stitch
projects.
I come from the garden
of kindness
and caring.
I come from words
like seeds
and grow
in the paragraphs
of life.
I come from words
like love
that jumped
from my dad’s eyes
to my mom’s,
and integrity
that was woven
into my character
the way
my mom pulls yarn
through her cross-stitch
projects.
I come from the garden
of kindness
and caring.
I come from words
like seeds
and grow
in the paragraphs
of life.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Poetry Train: Fortune cookies
I bought fortune cookies for my Poetry-Writing students and gave them each two. They had to begin a poem with one fortune and end with the other. This is what I wrote:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Fortunate Poem
“Your income will increase”
said the fortune cookie
and right away
I thought of winning
the lottery
and having all that
money.
But I know
what would happen.
My husband would want
and airplane
or two
and a new boat
and before I could blink,
we’d be in debt
and have tons
of bills.
No. I want
a different type
of income.
I want the richness
of poems.
I want bank accounts
of words.
I want an ATM card
that spews
ideas
and credit cards
with unlimited
creativity
because “the important
thing is to express
yourself.”
“Your income will increase”
said the fortune cookie
and right away
I thought of winning
the lottery
and having all that
money.
But I know
what would happen.
My husband would want
and airplane
or two
and a new boat
and before I could blink,
we’d be in debt
and have tons
of bills.
No. I want
a different type
of income.
I want the richness
of poems.
I want bank accounts
of words.
I want an ATM card
that spews
ideas
and credit cards
with unlimited
creativity
because “the important
thing is to express
yourself.”
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Revision for Totally Optional Prompts
Casting a Spell 11/1/05
What is it about words
that attract me
like fish to bait?
What tasty morsels
words are.
I can’t resist
nibbling at them,
taking bites
and chewing, chewing,
chomping
on their flavors.
Each one is different
in size and shape
so they are never boring.
I savor them
on my tongue
then swallow
and feel their richness
paint the walls
of my esophagus.
As I digest
each meaning,
I thank the witch
who cast
the fishing line
with the wordy worm
on the hook.
The Revision 3/14/09
Words are like bait
on a fishing line
tempting morsels
I chomp, chomp
and get hooked on.
But who is the fisherman
who dangles those words
so enticing? And do I mind
getting caught? Oh, there’s
another one meandering
around in the ocean
of my brain. I open
my mouth and swallow,
hooked again.
What is it about words
that attract me
like fish to bait?
What tasty morsels
words are.
I can’t resist
nibbling at them,
taking bites
and chewing, chewing,
chomping
on their flavors.
Each one is different
in size and shape
so they are never boring.
I savor them
on my tongue
then swallow
and feel their richness
paint the walls
of my esophagus.
As I digest
each meaning,
I thank the witch
who cast
the fishing line
with the wordy worm
on the hook.
The Revision 3/14/09
Words are like bait
on a fishing line
tempting morsels
I chomp, chomp
and get hooked on.
But who is the fisherman
who dangles those words
so enticing? And do I mind
getting caught? Oh, there’s
another one meandering
around in the ocean
of my brain. I open
my mouth and swallow,
hooked again.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Naisaiku: Temper winter spirits
Come, March, and cajole
the recluse crocus faces
out of their prisons.
TEMPER WINTER SPIRITS
out of their prisons.
The recluse crocus faces
come. March and cajole.
the recluse crocus faces
out of their prisons.
TEMPER WINTER SPIRITS
out of their prisons.
The recluse crocus faces
come. March and cajole.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Poetry Train: Setting the clock ahead
Setting the Clock Ahead
What happens to the hour
we lose when we spring
forward to daylight
savings time?
Does it explode into dust
and become those motes
swimming in the slant
of afternoon sun?
Does it get buried
along with the poems
never written
in that hour,
all the songs never sung,
all the paintings
never sketched,
all the thoughts
never born?
Or does it melt
into the next hour
making us doubly creative
for those sixty
pregnant minutes?
Where do those dandelion
fluff moments
disappear to when man
takes a deep breath
and, thinking that it fills
him with wisdom,
blows them apart
and sacrifices them
to the winds
of daylight?
What happens to the hour
we lose when we spring
forward to daylight
savings time?
Does it explode into dust
and become those motes
swimming in the slant
of afternoon sun?
Does it get buried
along with the poems
never written
in that hour,
all the songs never sung,
all the paintings
never sketched,
all the thoughts
never born?
Or does it melt
into the next hour
making us doubly creative
for those sixty
pregnant minutes?
Where do those dandelion
fluff moments
disappear to when man
takes a deep breath
and, thinking that it fills
him with wisdom,
blows them apart
and sacrifices them
to the winds
of daylight?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Listen Up for Sunday Scribblings
Listen Up; This Is Important
Your essay is due
on Thursday.
Period.
(Girl in back of room is hunting for something in her purse)
Even if you are absent,
you still have to
get it here.
(Boy gets up to blow his nose)
Have a parent
or a friend
bring it in
or you can
email it to me
as an attachment.
(Boy and girl eye each other, mouth sweet nothings, smile)
Also, you must have it
printed out
when you come to class.
I don’t want it
on a jump drive.
Figure out a way
to get it printed
before you get
here.
(Girl in first row combs her hair)
Don’t wait
until Wednesday night
to write it
and then realize
you have computer
or printer issues.
(Intercom interrupts: Please send so-and-so to the office)
No excuses
will be accepted.
Even if you
are in the hospital,
you must still
find a way
to get it
here by
2:30.
(Several students begin packing up to go)
If you die,
I expect
you will have made
back-up
arrangements
for its submission.
(Teacher looks out
classroom window
and sees fat snowflakes
falling like disjointed
words on deaf ears)
Your essay is due
on Thursday.
Period.
(Girl in back of room is hunting for something in her purse)
Even if you are absent,
you still have to
get it here.
(Boy gets up to blow his nose)
Have a parent
or a friend
bring it in
or you can
email it to me
as an attachment.
(Boy and girl eye each other, mouth sweet nothings, smile)
Also, you must have it
printed out
when you come to class.
I don’t want it
on a jump drive.
Figure out a way
to get it printed
before you get
here.
(Girl in first row combs her hair)
Don’t wait
until Wednesday night
to write it
and then realize
you have computer
or printer issues.
(Intercom interrupts: Please send so-and-so to the office)
No excuses
will be accepted.
Even if you
are in the hospital,
you must still
find a way
to get it
here by
2:30.
(Several students begin packing up to go)
If you die,
I expect
you will have made
back-up
arrangements
for its submission.
(Teacher looks out
classroom window
and sees fat snowflakes
falling like disjointed
words on deaf ears)
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