The old woman fumbles
with the bandage
wrapped around
her wounded wrist
like the pain pills
and booze
she wraps her mind
in to stop the pain.
I glance at her
and see the mess
she’s making.
I walk over
to help even though
she did this
to herself. I see
the stack of dirty
dishes in the sink,
the medication containers
lined up
like soldiers
waiting to fight,
the empty Absolut
bottle. I wrap
the ace bandage
loosely around
her arm. “Can
you go to the store
for me? I’m all out
of vodka.” I shake
my head no, too afraid
to open my mouth,
afraid all the negative
banter in my head
will spew out,
will cover her,
will kill her.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Carry On Tuesday: Neither a Borrower nor a Lender Be
The sun is just starting
to smear butter
on the turning
leaves as my students
prepare modern
interpretations
of Shakespeare’s
“Neither a borrower
nor a lender be” speech.
I’ve divided the scene
into three sections:
one where Laertes
is giving Ophelia advice
about Hamlet, two where
Polonius is giving
Laertes advice
about living, and three
where Polonius is
grilling Ophelia
about her relationship
with Hamlet. I tell
the kids to have fun
with it, pretend it’s
happening today.
How would these situations
play out in the 21st century?
I roam around the room
as they practice
keeping an eye on them
and on the progress
of the sun now filling
the cup of each leaf
with lemonade. When
they’re ready, the groups
begin their presentations.
Laertes warns his sister
that Hamlet will never
marry her and he’s just
using her. Polonius
mangles his bits of advice
until nobody knows what
the heck he’s talking about.
I try to stay focused
but the sun, scampering,
now, through the underbrush
is drawing my eyes away.
Finally, the last group
heads to the front of the room.
Ophelia perches on the edge
of a table, legs swinging.
Polonius paces in front of her.
“So, Ophelia,” he says. “Are you
and Hamlet doing the no-pants
dance? The room erupts
in hoots. I can’t keep from
laughing, too. The sun winks.
to smear butter
on the turning
leaves as my students
prepare modern
interpretations
of Shakespeare’s
“Neither a borrower
nor a lender be” speech.
I’ve divided the scene
into three sections:
one where Laertes
is giving Ophelia advice
about Hamlet, two where
Polonius is giving
Laertes advice
about living, and three
where Polonius is
grilling Ophelia
about her relationship
with Hamlet. I tell
the kids to have fun
with it, pretend it’s
happening today.
How would these situations
play out in the 21st century?
I roam around the room
as they practice
keeping an eye on them
and on the progress
of the sun now filling
the cup of each leaf
with lemonade. When
they’re ready, the groups
begin their presentations.
Laertes warns his sister
that Hamlet will never
marry her and he’s just
using her. Polonius
mangles his bits of advice
until nobody knows what
the heck he’s talking about.
I try to stay focused
but the sun, scampering,
now, through the underbrush
is drawing my eyes away.
Finally, the last group
heads to the front of the room.
Ophelia perches on the edge
of a table, legs swinging.
Polonius paces in front of her.
“So, Ophelia,” he says. “Are you
and Hamlet doing the no-pants
dance? The room erupts
in hoots. I can’t keep from
laughing, too. The sun winks.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
3WW: Indecision, Option, Fate
The sky
of my morning
is a white board
waiting
for words
or pictures
or scribbles.
I’ll start
with breakfast-
so many
options: yellow
and white eggs,
or raspberry
jam on toast,
or sliced
banana on English
muffin. I sit
watching
a squirrel
in the woodpile
flit back
and forth
like my indecision.
I’ll just let
fate
grab a marker
or two,
maybe a red
and a black
to doodle.
Oh, she’s choosing
blue and yellow.
Time to eat
and go
to the beach.
of my morning
is a white board
waiting
for words
or pictures
or scribbles.
I’ll start
with breakfast-
so many
options: yellow
and white eggs,
or raspberry
jam on toast,
or sliced
banana on English
muffin. I sit
watching
a squirrel
in the woodpile
flit back
and forth
like my indecision.
I’ll just let
fate
grab a marker
or two,
maybe a red
and a black
to doodle.
Oh, she’s choosing
blue and yellow.
Time to eat
and go
to the beach.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Woods for Sunday Scribblings
I pick Kathy up
and we head
into the woods
first walking
up Labossiere St.
then past
the concrete factory.
Finally, we enter
the cool chapel
of green. We
scramble over rocks
that were once
part of an avalanche
until we reach
the base
of Mt. Forist.
We climb by grabbing
hold of bushes
growing on the edge
of the steep
rock face
until we are
opposite an overhang.
Then, inch by inch
we cross the gray
granite, patiently
planting our feet
and hands
into little cracks.
When we reach
the outcropping,
we sit, high above
the city, queens
surveying our realm.
I see my tiny
mother hanging
clothes on the line.
Kathy’s brother
is riding his bike.
My sister
and her friend
are playing tag.
A car turns
the corner from Fifth Avenue
and has to stop
to wait for the girls
who are playing
jump rope
to get out
of the road. All’s right
in our neighborhood.
We eat our snack,
talk about this and that,
then leave our perch
to slide down,
enter the tunnel
of woods, again,
that transforms us
from roayalty into two girls
going home.
and we head
into the woods
first walking
up Labossiere St.
then past
the concrete factory.
Finally, we enter
the cool chapel
of green. We
scramble over rocks
that were once
part of an avalanche
until we reach
the base
of Mt. Forist.
We climb by grabbing
hold of bushes
growing on the edge
of the steep
rock face
until we are
opposite an overhang.
Then, inch by inch
we cross the gray
granite, patiently
planting our feet
and hands
into little cracks.
When we reach
the outcropping,
we sit, high above
the city, queens
surveying our realm.
I see my tiny
mother hanging
clothes on the line.
Kathy’s brother
is riding his bike.
My sister
and her friend
are playing tag.
A car turns
the corner from Fifth Avenue
and has to stop
to wait for the girls
who are playing
jump rope
to get out
of the road. All’s right
in our neighborhood.
We eat our snack,
talk about this and that,
then leave our perch
to slide down,
enter the tunnel
of woods, again,
that transforms us
from roayalty into two girls
going home.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Leaves of the Poet-tree: Journal
Ah, retirement
minutes, hours, days, thoughts, words~
four new journals.
minutes, hours, days, thoughts, words~
four new journals.
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