tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55865531974175483712024-03-19T04:14:25.771-04:00Linda's PoemsLinda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14459940700516084069noreply@blogger.comBlogger571125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-40826497172959536012015-05-02T11:37:00.003-04:002015-05-02T11:37:47.630-04:00Darningchallenges, grief, healing<br />
-----------<br />
<br />
Nana Freda used a light bulb when darning socks.<br />
She'd stick it inside so the hole was on the curve.<br />
<br />
Then she'd thread matching yarn into a fat needle,<br />
you know that needle; it's the one that pricked you<br />
<br />
so many times in the last year. First, drawing blood<br />
when your best friend died, second when Bob, whom<br />
<br />
you treated like a dad, passed, and the worst when that<br />
needle went right through your heart over and over<br />
<br />
leaving you torn and ragged and daughterless. But,<br />
needles can fix things, too. Nana Freda would weave<br />
<br />
the yarn over and under itself. Over and under. Over<br />
the memories, under the anger, over the grief, under<br />
<br />
the regrets, until that hole was filled from side to side.<br />
I tried darning, once. It wasn't easy. I made a big mess.<br />
<br />
It certainly is a challenge. I mean, how do you incorporate<br />
all those mornings of sitting on the porch, smoke swirling<br />
<br />
around your heads, conversation as warming as coffee,<br />
those stories of WWII and endless repeated questions,<br />
<br />
and Trish's wonderful smiles, common sense, and help<br />
into a strand of yarn? How can you even hold that needle<br />
<br />
with your trembling hand? There is only one way: pick<br />
it up, stick it in the edge of the hole and let the healing<br />
<br />
begin. Grief begins with a needle and it is only that same<br />
needle that can help darn everything back together. Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-49045582798487982192015-04-30T09:17:00.000-04:002015-04-30T09:17:33.654-04:00Day 30 National Poetry Month 2015rain, chalk, bicycle from Anne<br />
------------------<br />
<br />
Someone took a piece of chalk,<br />
held it sideways, and smeared<br />
the sky with it it. Back and forth.<br />
<br />
Back and forth on this last day<br />
of the month, filling the emptiness<br />
with shades and streaks of white.<br />
<br />
I've been sitting here writing for thirty<br />
mornings while memories pounded like rain<br />
and rode a bicycle into my brain coasting<br />
<br />
through the valleys of childhood<br />
and the peaks of today. I packed<br />
old friends, family, regrets, and loves<br />
<br />
into my saddlebags and took them along<br />
for the ride. For me, it was all about<br />
pedaling and feeling the wind fill my<br />
<br />
cheeks, my chest, my being with freshness.<br />
Round and round my feet went. I had<br />
a wonderful ride. I hope you did, too.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-30614789647289139432015-04-29T08:24:00.003-04:002015-04-29T08:24:57.625-04:00Day 29 National Poetry Month 2015duckling, leaf, frog from Anne<br />
<br />
-----------<br />
<br />
Her American name is Jenny<br />
but her Vietnamese name is "Nine."<br />
<br />
I don't know how it's spelled<br />
but it's pronounced with a lilt,<br />
<br />
like you're smiling when you say it.<br />
Not like how we say that number<br />
<br />
with our frog voices. She tells me<br />
it means Snow and I think that is<br />
<br />
beautiful. She's my nail tech<br />
and she's marrying Jimmy who<br />
<br />
also works there. He's a sprite,<br />
flitting around, joking with everyone,<br />
<br />
a lost duckling searching for himself.<br />
He's two years older than her but<br />
<br />
much younger. I ask where they are going<br />
for their honeymoon. She says they<br />
<br />
have to work. "But we're taking Monday<br />
off because Jimmy will be hung over."<br />
<br />
I ask if it's going to be a big wedding<br />
and it is because Jimmy has many friends.<br />
<br />
She tells me he did all the planning. She<br />
is so ambivalent I wonder if she really<br />
<br />
wants to get married. "Well, Jimmy wants<br />
this and I want to get married but I'm worried<br />
<br />
because I don't want to hold him back." She<br />
even converted to Catholicism for him. <br />
<br />
My nails are done and I leave there<br />
feeling sad. I want to tell her to run,<br />
<br />
stop the wedding. They are as mismatched<br />
as snow piling up on leaves in Florida. <br />
<br />
But, it's not my place. As I leave I glance<br />
over and there is Jimmy flirting with another girl.<br />
<br />
Jenny is hunched over, long hair hiding<br />
her face as she begins another customer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-73640648558185185672015-04-28T08:45:00.003-04:002015-04-28T08:45:39.744-04:00Day 28 National Poetry Month 2015Camper, storm, and tequila from Donna<br />
-------------<br />
<br />
I've been sitting here for almost a half hour<br />
trying to absorb today's words and turn<br />
<br />
them into a tasty drink but they're stubborn<br />
things today. And then I realize what's wrong;<br />
<br />
I haven't gotten the ingredients out. So I just<br />
start typing. That's the secret, you know: starting. <br />
<br />
I get the tequila out of the cupboard, the Limeaid<br />
out of the freezer, the 7-Up and Corona from<br />
<br />
the fridge. I mix twelve ounces of each together<br />
in a big pitcher. I don't use a blender because I'd<br />
<br />
end up with a storm in my kitchen and cleaning<br />
up messes is no fun. I get a couple of Margarita<br />
<br />
glasses out, dip the rims in the drink, then into<br />
coarse salt, add ice and the concoction. I hand<br />
<br />
one to Donna, who knows a great deal about<br />
cleaning up messes as her camper got badly<br />
<br />
damaged in a huge explosion and fire last spring,<br />
take the other one for myself, then we sit and talk.<br />
<br />
And, that's how life turns into a poem: booze,<br />
tears, laughter, and two friends sipping their drinks.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-33395544149602218172015-04-27T08:12:00.003-04:002015-04-27T08:12:17.340-04:00Day 27 National Poetry Month 2015station wagon, reception, and accident from Tim<br />
----------------<br />
<br />
Fish are jumping like crazy this morning<br />
in our canal. Nice to see that. A few months<br />
ago we had a young alligator in it and all<br />
<br />
the fish disappeared. Alligators don't thrive<br />
in salt water so authorities were called and he<br />
was removed. Now, the fish are back making<br />
<br />
lazy circles on the surface of the water. The<br />
world is right once more. It was just a hiccup,<br />
a small frost heave, a backfire from the station<br />
<br />
wagon of life. Tim and I were coming back from<br />
picking up folding chairs for my wedding reception.<br />
He had just gotten his license. We went through<br />
<br />
the green light on the corner of Mason and Main<br />
then Tim took his eyes off the road for just a sec<br />
to admire a pretty girl walking on the sidewalk<br />
<br />
when, bam, we smashed into the backside<br />
of a boat trailer being towed. Someone ahead<br />
of him had stopped to make the turn onto Pleasant<br />
<br />
Street right there by the Joliette Snowshoe Club.<br />
The cops showed up, people gawked, Tim got<br />
a ticket, then we went home and continued our<br />
<br />
preparations for my wedding trying not to let<br />
this accident, this alligator in salt water, put<br />
a damper on that exciting time. That's life for ya.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-54618089940023093312015-04-26T09:08:00.003-04:002015-04-26T09:08:47.248-04:00Day 26 National Poetry Month 2015ripple, rustle, mist from Lucy<br />
----------<br />
<br />
I'm sitting in a different chair this morning,<br />
a bar chair high enough so my face is out<br />
of the sun. The wind from the southwest<br />
is creating rustles in the palms and ripples<br />
<br />
on the water. I should go in and get<br />
my big girl camera and use those sparkles<br />
to catch some bokeh, those atmospheric<br />
background circles you can see on most<br />
<br />
television shows. So I do just that. I set<br />
the dial to aperture priority, get up close<br />
to a flower, wait for the ding announcing<br />
the focus is ready then click, click, click. <br />
<br />
I transfer the photos to my iPad and love<br />
the otherworldliness created from the simple<br />
act of taking a picture. A tiny bit of magic<br />
happens, like that bubble of happy in my<br />
<br />
chest whenever I see my son or my daughter<br />
or my Kylie girl. I'll be with them in less than<br />
a month, their reality forming from the mist<br />
of many days apart. So, really, this morning<br />
<br />
I was conjuring them while the neighbors<br />
saw only a crazy woman out on the stairs<br />
in her nightie with her nose in flowers taking<br />
pictures. Little did they know I wasn't alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-22174518725930968252015-04-25T08:54:00.003-04:002015-04-25T08:54:38.670-04:00Day 25 National Poetry Month 2015Coffee cup, Apple, Egg roll from Anne<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
I'm watching an old movie version of Our Town<br />
on the Turner Classic Movies channel. It was<br />
filmed in 1940 in black & white. But, I see colors,<br />
<br />
the colors of skin and auditorium seats and coffee<br />
cups sitting on my table. I'm Mrs. Gibbs, again,<br />
preparing breakfast for my family. George and<br />
<br />
Rebecca are upstairs getting ready for school<br />
and my husband is just coming in the door from<br />
delivering twins. Already I can feel my throat<br />
<br />
tightening up. Everything looks so normal<br />
like a still life painting of a bowl of apples. So<br />
red and healthy, now, but if they stay there too<br />
<br />
long, they'll begin to die. I know what is coming. <br />
And I know I'll cry. I anticipate every line before<br />
the actors say them. "The moon is so terrible."<br />
<br />
Yes, Emily, life can be terrible, but first you have<br />
to have a soda with George and marry him<br />
and go to live on his uncle Luke's farm and have<br />
<br />
a baby before the terrible part, before you'll join me<br />
in the cemetery. There's George standing<br />
in the rain at your funeral and here you are<br />
<br />
with us. There's Simon Stinson, the choir director<br />
and your brother Wally whose appendix burst<br />
while on a camping trip to Crawford Notch. You<br />
<br />
aren't ready, though, to join us. You want to go back<br />
so you pick your twelfth birthday....wait, in the movie<br />
it's your sixteenth. I guess they couldn't make<br />
<br />
you look like a twelve year old. Okay, I can go with it.<br />
You are still so frustrated that your folks won't really<br />
look at you. You notice all the little things but you<br />
<br />
aren't Paulette Demers in the Berlin High School<br />
production. You aren't packing the same emotional<br />
punch that she did. My goodness, there wasn't<br />
<br />
a dry eye when she whirled around..."and new-ironed<br />
dresses"...just the tears in her voice had grown men<br />
sobbing. "Do people really appreciate life every, every<br />
<br />
minute?" No, they can't. It would hurt too much.<br />
So you rejoin us and take your chair in the cemetery<br />
But, hold on, the movie isn't done. It fades back<br />
<br />
to the childbirth scene where you die, but you don't.<br />
You don't die. You're snuggling with your new baby<br />
and George is smiling. What? You don't die?<br />
<br />
You're supposed to. In my play you do. What kind<br />
of a lesson do we learn if you live? Life always has<br />
a happy ending? I'm not even crying; I'm too mad.<br />
<br />
How dare they? I turn the TV off then bang pans<br />
and cupboard doors while making breakfast. That end-<br />
ing was as wrong as Ma Gibbs serving her kids egg rolls.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-46743594209858677962015-04-24T07:31:00.000-04:002015-04-24T07:31:09.413-04:00Day 24 National Poetry Month 2015Golf, grass, and water from Gina produced this cinquain.<br />
----------<br />
<br />
As Necessary as Water<br />
<br />
Morning<br />
stretches like a<br />
par-5 golf hole with yards<br />
of quiet grass in front of me.<br />
Alone.<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-68531070734662792862015-04-23T08:24:00.003-04:002015-04-23T08:24:39.239-04:00Day 23 National Poetry Month 2015Sparks, Suburban, Vacation from Alissa<br />
------------------<br />
<br />
Gary's going to Sun 'N' Fun today.<br />
He'll be gone overnight so that means<br />
a vacation for me. Not that our life<br />
<br />
isn't a permanent vacation now that<br />
we're retired. But, it will be nice<br />
to be alone for a change. He's like<br />
<br />
a Suburban filled with noisy teenagers<br />
on their way to a ski meet with music<br />
blasting and equipment everywhere.<br />
<br />
The minute he gets up, he turns the radio<br />
on in the bathroom to shower. Then he<br />
walks into the living room to grab the remote<br />
<br />
and tune the TV to The Morning Express<br />
with Robin Meade on CNN to hear the news.<br />
But it's not enough just to listen. No. He<br />
<br />
has to make comments about everything. <br />
I'm trying to listen to her and him and make<br />
breakfast and write a poem and check my email<br />
<br />
and he's blabbering away. But, today, after<br />
he leaves, I'll turn everything off, I'll bask<br />
in solitude, I'll swim through my day in quiet<br />
<br />
underwater buoyancy. Shhhhh. And, then, I'll<br />
get bored and even enjoy that for a bit until<br />
I remember that cars need spark plugs to run.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-87708335287206315382015-04-22T08:44:00.003-04:002015-04-22T08:44:48.175-04:00Day 22 National Poetry Month 2015Motorcycle, music and marbles from Donna<br />
------------<br />
<br />
Tiny marbles of rain are making our canal dance<br />
this morning. I watch it kicking its legs up<br />
<br />
in exuberance and marvel at its happiness<br />
on a cloudy day. Or am I projecting my own<br />
<br />
feelings onto this inanimate living thing? Okay<br />
I know that doesn't make sense but that's<br />
<br />
how it seems. Like a motorcycle isn't alive<br />
but it is, you know? We enjoy an occasional<br />
<br />
ride on Gary's '67 Harley Panhead. Listen to me,<br />
like I know what I'm talking about! Last summer<br />
<br />
we and some friends rode down route 1 in Maine<br />
to Ogunquit and had Flo's hotdogs for lunch.<br />
<br />
Have you been there? It's an institution. You have<br />
to have their house special: mayo, Flo's relish,<br />
<br />
and celery salt. So, so good! Afterwards we went<br />
to the top of Mt. Agamenticus and the bike never<br />
<br />
complained all day. She's a sweetheart. See what<br />
I mean? The music from the raindrops is lulling<br />
<br />
me into a fantasy land and making me mumble<br />
about improbabilities, about happy canals and motorcycles<br />
<br />
with feelings. But you know I'm really talking about myself,<br />
right? About how raindrops carve smiles into the water.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-29544631996135364102015-04-21T08:59:00.003-04:002015-04-21T08:59:43.251-04:00Day 21 National Poetry Month 2015<br />
*Ice cream cone, sauerkraut, spoon. from Anne<br />
----------------<br />
<br />
It wasn't so much for an ice cream cone,<br />
although that was always a delicious benefit,<br />
that we'd drive up and down Main Street<br />
from Norm's Drive-In to the Dairy Bar<br />
looking for our friends and cute boys.<br />
<br />
I'd ask my dad to use the car, we'd pool<br />
our money, buy as much 29 cents<br />
per gallon gas as we could afford, then<br />
begin our journey through the sauerkraut<br />
air of that paper mill town. But, the smell<br />
<br />
didn't bother us; we were too busy gawking<br />
in all the cars driving by, gossiping about<br />
this person and that one and what they'd done<br />
or hadn't done or might do. Through Green<br />
Square, by the stores, checking who<br />
<br />
was hanging out in front of Woolworth's,<br />
and all along the Androscoggin River, we were<br />
this bubble of chatter and music and hope.<br />
Life was a bowl of maple walnut ice cream<br />
and we were savoring it one spoonful at a time.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-54839093958536172252015-04-20T08:03:00.001-04:002015-04-20T08:03:17.504-04:00Day 20 National Poetry Month 2015arms, eyes, & tears from Sherrie<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
It's a reverse sunrise this morning,<br />
poking its nose around<br />
the trees, blinding my eyes for a second,<br />
then letting the gray mouth<br />
<br />
of the clouds devour it. Some days<br />
are like that, huge monsters<br />
that eat us up, that suck all the life<br />
out of us, then burp.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to get Erin's arms into her<br />
jacket but she's too sleepy<br />
to help. Nathan is teasing her.<br />
If we don't leave now<br />
<br />
I'll be late for school. On the way<br />
to the babysitter's I speed<br />
through a puddle that splashes on the clean<br />
suit of a man walking to his car.<br />
<br />
I should stop, apologize, offer to pay<br />
for his dry cleaning but, if<br />
I do, my classroom will be filled with kids<br />
and I won't be there. So I don't.<br />
<br />
All day I feel terrible. I bark at students;<br />
my voice has that edge<br />
only regret can produce. I'm mad at myself<br />
so I yell at them, instead.<br />
<br />
And, that's how the beast thrives,<br />
how he rubs his tummy<br />
with satisfaction, chomping on the tears<br />
of others, consuming their sunshine.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-34436921349885807452015-04-19T08:51:00.000-04:002015-04-19T08:51:03.965-04:00Day 19 National Poetry Month 2015a moment that made a difference in your life...from Sally (opening, lingering, song)<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
I'm sitting here marveling at two simple words:<br />
yes and no and what lingering effects they have<br />
<br />
and how sometimes we don't even know we're<br />
making a decision that will change our lives.<br />
<br />
Sleep was a dreamless song, a waltz, soft<br />
and undulating. I was swaying back and forth<br />
<br />
in it's gauzy, foggy embrace that morning in1967<br />
three days after Christmas when the phone rang.<br />
<br />
I was in no state of mind to make an important<br />
decision, nor did I even know it was momentous.<br />
<br />
I cleared my throat a few times so the caller<br />
wouldn't know I'd just awoken then picked up<br />
<br />
the receiver. My mom's voice from the bank she worked<br />
at trilled into my ear. "Lee's going skiing. Do you<br />
<br />
want to go? He'll pick you up in twenty minutes."<br />
Lee was her coworker's son. I loved to ski. I said<br />
<br />
yes and that tiny word was the opening to the rest<br />
of my life. I got ready. Lee arrived. And, also sitting<br />
<br />
in the front seat was a blonde guy I'd never met,<br />
who, on our second date, asked me to marry him.<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-48699143655976064132015-04-18T09:22:00.003-04:002015-04-20T07:04:35.427-04:00Day 18 National Poetry Month 2015iPad, cinnamon stick, vitamin from Anne<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
My iPad is on my lap.<br />
I've picked three words.<br />
I typed them at the top.<br />
Now, I sit waiting for birds<br />
<br />
of inspiration to fly into my<br />
head. Some days those<br />
ideas stand up like cinnamon<br />
sticks. Others, they doze.<br />
<br />
Today they are fast asleep<br />
hiding under a heavy rock.<br />
Not even vitamin D from<br />
the sun can help unlock<br />
<br />
them. So, I sit watching<br />
real birds flit around the sky,<br />
watching real words appear<br />
on my screen then die.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-72994936109223545992015-04-17T08:05:00.003-04:002015-04-17T08:05:56.201-04:00Day 17 National Poetry Month 2015Whiskers, Saloon and Haystack from Lisa Ryan<br />
------------<br />
Finding That Needle in a Haystack<br />
<br />
The show is starting, again, as it does every morning<br />
and I'm out here to see it because it's April. I'd be sleeping<br />
otherwise. Pink whiskers fan out from where the sun<br />
<br />
will rise. Some are clouds, some are jet contrails. All<br />
are beautiful. Three birds flutter by in formation. Lilac<br />
sky gives way to the pale yellow of some marigolds<br />
<br />
which in turn becomes the golden glow from saloon lights<br />
in a lonely desert. And, that's what poetry is for me,<br />
a place alive with noisy chatter, beer glasses clinking,<br />
<br />
soft laughter, and a home away from home. I placed<br />
one foot in front of another and just kept trudging through<br />
the sand and scrub grass of life until a tiny pinprick<br />
<br />
of light started growing on the horizon. Oh, and the thirst!<br />
I imagined the feel of that cold whiskey turning hot as it quenched<br />
my throat, until I picked up a pencil and started writing<br />
<br />
my first poem when I was forty years old. One word, one simile,<br />
one rhyme at a time I staggered to the door, opened it,<br />
and, like Norm walking into Cheers, it shouted my name.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-51811560985340681792015-04-16T08:30:00.003-04:002015-04-16T08:30:22.972-04:00Day 16 National Poetry Month 2015Whoopie pies, doughnuts & chocolate chip cookies from Tim....<br />
<br />
----------------<br />
I walk into Dena's Bakery in downtown Punta Gorda<br />
hoping they'll have old-fashioned doughnuts.<br />
<br />
You know the kind with just a hint of nutmeg, no sugar<br />
coating, a crunchy outside and soft middle. They<br />
<br />
are impossible to find down here in Florida. Dena's<br />
is more like a cafe with tables and just a small<br />
<br />
assortment of whoopie pies and chocolate chip cookies,<br />
those staples of bakeries all across the United States.<br />
<br />
But, no doughnuts. Kelly's Pastry Shop on Main Street<br />
in Berlin had the best ones. Every morning on his way<br />
<br />
to his logging job, Gary would stop in for a sweet. If he<br />
was lucky, they'd have macaroons. If not, he'd buy two<br />
<br />
plain doughnuts, one for him and one for Annie, our dog<br />
who always went to work with him. She loved them.<br />
<br />
One morning, the shop was closed so Gary had to backtrack<br />
to Dunkin' Donuts. He bought the two donuts but when he<br />
<br />
tried to give hers to Annie, she turned her head and refused<br />
to even nibble it. Gary ate his, of course, all the while wondering<br />
<br />
exactly what he was consuming. Back in Dena's, the kind owner<br />
suggests I check Publix or Winn Dixie but we already have<br />
<br />
to no avail. And, so our quest for good doughnuts continues.<br />
I drive by Dunkin' Donuts but don't even bother going in.<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-59381737103482041162015-04-15T09:38:00.003-04:002015-04-15T09:38:37.683-04:00Day 15 National Poetry Month 2015horse, breeze, friend from Dale<br />
-------------<br />
Did You Ever Do Anything Stupid?<br />
<br />
The parking meter wiggles<br />
as we feed our coins into its<br />
slit of a mouth so, when we return<br />
<br />
to the car after shopping, we,<br />
the six of us friends, having no<br />
idea how the breeze of this idea<br />
<br />
entered our heads, pull it out<br />
of the soft ground and slide it into<br />
the back of Donna's station wagon.<br />
<br />
We cover it with a blanket to<br />
disguise it as we drive through<br />
town. It looks like a corpse lying<br />
<br />
there, still and quiet. We giggle<br />
all the way back to the motel where<br />
we work as chambermaids for the summer.<br />
<br />
Of course, we have no idea what<br />
to do with it. We can hear coins<br />
jingling inside but don't know how<br />
<br />
to get them out and don't really<br />
want to since we are not thieves.<br />
We hide it in a closet off the kitchen<br />
<br />
and there it stays for a month<br />
until it becomes a secret almost<br />
alive. We can hear it breathing in<br />
<br />
there, growing. It whinnies like<br />
a horse in its stall waiting to be<br />
fed, waiting to be released, waiting.<br />
<br />
Then, on a moonless night we<br />
carry that heavy thing out to the<br />
car and drive to the back of a dark<br />
<br />
cemetery where we dump it<br />
and leave it next to someone's<br />
grave. We hold our breath as we<br />
<br />
rush out of that scary place, turn<br />
onto the road, crank up the radio,<br />
and sing along in strong, sure voices.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-16103117534904680552015-04-14T08:34:00.003-04:002015-04-14T08:34:44.441-04:00Day 14 National Poetry Month 2015snow, puppy, trees from Mary (Gina's friend)<br />
------------<br />
<br />
There are pink and gray eels in the sky this morning<br />
as I sit here for the fourteenth morning in a row<br />
<br />
looking at three words and waiting for inspiration.<br />
A bird flies by, a silhouette, against the now pale blue.<br />
<br />
The baby-girl pink is giving way to brash neon. How quickly<br />
they grow. Every time I look up, there is a change.<br />
<br />
Every wispy cloud is smeared with strawberry cream cheese<br />
The boxwood trees point toward the new day, toward<br />
<br />
brightness, toward hints of lavender, where we all end up.<br />
But, not yet. The sun hasn't even risen and I'm thinking<br />
<br />
about the end. Most of the clouds have faded to snow,<br />
a clean, freshly-fallen snow. Only the area near the sunrise<br />
<br />
turns apricot. And, now, there it is pulling itself up. I snap<br />
a picture with my phone then change seats because it's just<br />
<br />
too bright on my eyes. This is my Kylie girl so bright in my<br />
heart, it hurts. Her puppyness is almost over. She wants<br />
<br />
to become a vet, this critter lover of ours. For years her favorite<br />
was the dung beetle. I remember sitting with her reading<br />
<br />
a book about animals. She was maybe two and she knew<br />
them all, what was curious about them, where they lived.<br />
<br />
"This one has poison but you don't have to worry because<br />
he lives in Africa" she wisely informed me. Oh, but, Ky, I do<br />
<br />
worry about all the poisons you'll encounter out there in the world. <br />
There is nothing I can do about that. Next month when she's<br />
<br />
here, we want to visit the seaquarium where Winter and Hope<br />
live, the two dolphins from A Dolphin's Tale 2. We saw<br />
<br />
the movie together last summer. How can she already be nine?<br />
Almost double digits. Most of the clouds have dissipated,<br />
<br />
the sun has released itself from the trees, the blue path<br />
it follows looks even and clear. Please, please: even and clear.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-68529007987365430372015-04-13T08:19:00.003-04:002015-04-13T08:19:58.133-04:00Day 13 National Poetry Month 2015book, candle, sweater from Dar<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
How to Write a Book of Poetry<br />
<br />
I pull a length of green yarn<br />
out of the skein,<br />
wrap it around the needle<br />
then pull it through<br />
<br />
to make a stitch. I'm knitting<br />
a sweater for a 4-H<br />
project that will be judged<br />
at the Lancaster Fair.<br />
<br />
I tried being a Girl Scout, well<br />
a Brownie, really,<br />
but it wasn't a good fit for me.<br />
It couldn't hold a candle<br />
<br />
to the fun we have in 4-H<br />
where my aunt<br />
and her friend are the leaders<br />
and my cousins<br />
<br />
are members, too. There is no<br />
door-to-door selling<br />
in this group. No embarrassing<br />
"No's" from annoyed<br />
<br />
customers, just meetings where<br />
we learn to cook<br />
(no-boil chocolate and peanut butter<br />
fudge rolled and sliced.<br />
<br />
Yum!), crochet, sew, play games,<br />
laugh, lose, get along,<br />
and, knit like I'm doing, now, in that<br />
past and this present.<br />
<br />
My sweater has a cable design<br />
twisting up the middle.<br />
I have to transfer five stitches<br />
to another needle,<br />
<br />
continue with the row, then insert<br />
those saved ones<br />
further along to create the braided<br />
design. I hear the others<br />
<br />
chatting and chuckling but I concentrate<br />
so I don't make a mistake. <br />
I'd hate to have to unravel my hard work.<br />
The needles click. I weave <br />
<br />
<br />
one pearl stitch after another,<br />
preparing me for<br />
the poems I'll knit with memories<br />
when I get older.<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-49546362483257321512015-04-12T08:14:00.004-04:002015-04-12T08:14:50.141-04:00Day 12 National Poetry Month 2015Sunshine, trees, beach! 🌞🌳🌊 from Deirdre<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
Yes, the word beach definitely needs<br />
an exclamation point. I grew up<br />
suffocated in the middle of mountains.<br />
<br />
Our house was just one street away<br />
from the elephant body of Mt. Forist.<br />
I could almost reach my hand out<br />
<br />
and pat the gray body. It blocked<br />
every single sunset. Some days,<br />
when I'd get home from school, the moon<br />
<br />
would already be poking it's nose<br />
over the beast's back and sunshine<br />
was long gone. Even my classroom<br />
<br />
faced a mountain. It started six feet<br />
away and sloped up steeply covered<br />
in white birch trees. I won't deny<br />
<br />
it was pretty with the sunlight scampering<br />
through the underbrush but how I longed<br />
for a wide open beach with sweet brown<br />
<br />
sugar sand seeping through my toes<br />
and waves, endless and new, crashing,<br />
foaming, receding, repeating nearby.<br />
<br />
And, then, we retired and moved near<br />
the sea and finally I could breathe. In<br />
the summer you might catch a glimpse<br />
<br />
of a curly, white-haired lady on a red bicycle<br />
pedaling toward the end of the land<br />
and you'll smile knowing she's heading home.Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-38693989118763558532015-04-11T08:21:00.000-04:002015-04-11T08:21:03.520-04:00Day 11 National Poetry Month 2011grass, bird, book from Leah<br />
<br />
----------<br />
<br />
This is my third attempt at a poem<br />
this morning. The first one was just<br />
whining about the fact that my husband<br />
<br />
was out here on the porch with me.<br />
I'll spare you that rant. The second<br />
was about the new veggie V8 juices<br />
<br />
I've been trying and liking very much.<br />
Now, there's an exciting topic. Are<br />
you asleep yet? So, here I sit<br />
<br />
in a flurry of bird songs falling all<br />
around me like snow flakes. Okay,<br />
not really but it sounds good, right?<br />
<br />
Sometimes, ideas for poems are<br />
as plentiful as blades of grass in our lawn<br />
and other times, like this lovely<br />
<br />
Saturday morning, I can't even find<br />
one. I switch seats hoping a different<br />
perspective will help. I go in to make<br />
<br />
coffee. I listen to the fish jumping<br />
in the canal and don't even try to come<br />
up with a metaphor. Now, Gary's back<br />
<br />
telling me he's done with his shower<br />
but what he's really saying is Hurry<br />
up and take your shower and get dressed<br />
<br />
before Mike gets here. He's an open<br />
book and not a mystery, either. There<br />
I go, again, trying to be poetic. Gary<br />
<br />
and Mike are going to a car auction.<br />
I declined. Maybe after they leave, I'll be<br />
able to write. Right now? Shower time!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-53482636497176963882015-04-10T09:20:00.003-04:002015-04-10T09:20:40.106-04:00Day 10 National Poetry Month 2015prayer, energy, trust. From Gina<br />
------------<br />
<br />
I turn my iPad on and tap the Masters app.<br />
The iconic piano notes of that trademark song<br />
swirl around me and I relax into my recliner<br />
ready to watch threesomes make their way<br />
<br />
through Amen Corner. The music is a like a prayer,<br />
soft and easy, just what these guys need to get them<br />
through holes eleven and twelve, the two hardest<br />
on the course. Pars are very acceptable here.<br />
<br />
From a distance the colors in the crowd resemble<br />
the azaleas and I can almost forget they're there<br />
with their shouts and cameras and folding chairs.<br />
It's just men, green fairways, and white golf balls.<br />
<br />
My mom and dad started playing the game later<br />
in life after raising us kids. I can understand how<br />
they loved the serenity of the course after working<br />
all week. It gave them extra energy to enjoy<br />
<br />
getting older and helped them fight the cancer<br />
that inevitably made them stop playing. That<br />
damn cancer. That fucking sand trap no amount<br />
of swinging could get them out of. The announcers<br />
<br />
pause and the song that is The Masters swells,<br />
again, and I remember the last time my dad<br />
watched it. It was a couple months before<br />
he died and I was in Florida visiting him. We sat<br />
<br />
in the lanai chatting about the game and players,<br />
he tethered to oxygen, me trying to breathe for him.<br />
Afterwards, I went to Publix and bought Maine lobsters<br />
and had them cooked for us. I can still see the melted<br />
<br />
butter on my dad's chin and the smile on his face<br />
as he devoured every last morsel of that delicacy.<br />
Back in Georgia the crowd groans as a ball hits<br />
the water, proof that nothing, nothing can be trusted.<br />
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-76563887510525120042015-04-09T08:49:00.001-04:002015-04-09T08:49:05.055-04:00Day 9 National Poetry Month 2015comforter, clock & pictures from Sherrie<br />
------------<br />
<br />
I missed the sunrise this morning;<br />
the cocoon I slept in under my comforter<br />
was just too cozy and warm to leave.<br />
<br />
So, by the time I got out here on the porch<br />
the sun was an inch above the trees<br />
and the light was fading from gold to yellow.<br />
<br />
Like my ideas for a poem are slipping away.<br />
Instead I watch as my shadow, reflected<br />
on the slats of the house, slides closer to the floor.<br />
<br />
I think of the first comforter I ever had. I chose<br />
it myself before heading to college. No more<br />
bedspread for me, no more sisters invading<br />
<br />
my space. A fluffy comforter to read under,<br />
or I should say study. I loved that thing.<br />
And so what if my roommates were nuts.<br />
<br />
Karin with her Doors obsession. The heavy beats<br />
of "Come on, baby, light my fire" like fog<br />
to walk through. And Norma sitting in front<br />
<br />
of a candle, a picture of her lost boyfriend<br />
in one hand, her depression dripping from her<br />
like wax, trying to catch the flame with her fingers,<br />
<br />
hoping the scorching would blot out her pain.<br />
I haven't thought of them in years. They're<br />
like my shadow getting closer to the floor,<br />
<br />
almost gone. The past is an old clock<br />
like the one I have of my grandmother's,<br />
my mom's mom, that sits on my hall table<br />
<br />
but doesn't tell time except twice a day. <br />
It looks so pretty from the outside, all burnished<br />
wood and fancy hands but the inside is empty.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-8310448085306104022015-04-08T08:43:00.000-04:002015-04-08T08:43:06.093-04:00Day 8 National Poetry Month 2015<br />
Peacock, hula-hoop, frying pan. from Tuts<br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
We are walking through the frying pan<br />
that is the Nature Preserve at the Shell<br />
factory in North Fort Myers, Florida.<br />
<br />
It's way too hot to be here but Kylie<br />
loves animals so here we are. Everything<br />
is kind of dowdy but the creatures<br />
<br />
seem healthy enough. I follow a peacock<br />
around hoping he'll fan his tail feathers<br />
so I can get a picture of the colorful<br />
<br />
design but he refuses to cooperate. There<br />
are birds all over the place. Kylie tries<br />
communing with one and puts her finger<br />
<br />
out for him to perch on but he bites her.<br />
She's done with the birds after that. We<br />
continue walking in the wilting air. <br />
<br />
The dinosaur park seems safe since<br />
nothing is alive but nothing is very interesting<br />
either. We walk on passing goats<br />
<br />
and more goats until we get to the camel<br />
rides. Finally, something to do. Erin and Ky<br />
wait in line then climb up onto the hump.<br />
<br />
I click photos. The camel tender leads them<br />
around the pen. I can see them swatting<br />
flies away and hear Kylie say it stinks.<br />
<br />
Once around and they've had enough.<br />
We continue our meandering then find<br />
a restaurant. When we walk in, the cold<br />
<br />
air hits us, we order drinks, and begin to revive,<br />
chuckling over this sad excuse of an amusement<br />
park that was as much fun as a broken hula hoop.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5586553197417548371.post-5869352611008135542015-04-07T09:24:00.003-04:002015-04-07T09:24:58.318-04:00Day 7 National Poetry Month 2015Rag, orange, flower. from Grant<br />
----------<br />
<br />
I'm picking an orange from our tree,<br />
searching for just the right one.<br />
It has to feel a bit soft when my fingers<br />
squeeze it but not mushy. A sun<br />
<br />
in my hand, warm and round. I twist<br />
it and if it detaches with ease,<br />
I know it will be perfect. It's like<br />
choosing an idea to tease<br />
<br />
into a poem. Not all thoughts<br />
are ripe enough, some are too hard,<br />
others are stubborn and refuse<br />
to budge. Forget the ones marred<br />
<br />
by bitterness; they aren't worth cutting<br />
into. I leave them to wither and rot.<br />
I want one that turns into a flower<br />
when I slice it open, like when I got<br />
<br />
asked to dance, finally, after sitting alone<br />
and I just felt so thankful I could cry.<br />
That's the kind of topic I need. I grab<br />
a rag to wipe up the spills and know why<br />
<br />
this common fruit with its bright color<br />
and run-down-your-chin juice<br />
contains all the goodness a writer<br />
needs to turn memories loose.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Linda Jacobshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09156972661541133665noreply@blogger.com0