I joined the Zoom meeting on my way down the dirt road toward home. After I went in the house and switched from phone to computer, it wasn’t too long before Dave said, “We have eight and a half minutes before this free Zoom meeting ends.”
More quick reports. These from the social justice team (e.g., a pop-up free store in a person’s yard so the community can know that we are all in this together and we can take care of each other) and the political group (e.g., we’ll go to the office of Jay Obernolte on April 5 in Hesperia. See below.)
Then, just like that, the meeting ended abruptly. I was in mid-chat message to a new person to get her email address to add to our contact spreadsheet. Oh, well, I’m pretty sure Dani shared her email, so hopefully the new person will get in touch.
Even when cosas son mal,
the body of agua won’t part,
las montañas won’t move.
Even when no entiendo,
Confiaré,
confiaré,
confiaré en ti.
I will trust in you.
I will rest in you.
I will breathe in you.
Today was the first day of our monthly Ethical ELA Open Write. Today is the Ides of March and the birthday of Leilya Pitre, our host. Read more at the post “Beware the Ides of March.”
I wrote my villanelle this morning, and then when I came back to it later, I was puzzled by a line I had taken from Leilya’s prompt. I thought, what does the Shakespeare quote she used even mean: “What once was still will rise and drift”? What did I wish it to mean when I used it? Was I thinking Democracy was still right now but it will rise? (I think so.) Do I want Democracy to drift again? (Absolutely not.) These are the thoughts I found myself thinking about during today’s slice of the day.
So I rewrote that line: “What once was still will rise and drift” became “What was at risk will rise and lift”. I think it’s better now.
What was at risk will rise and lift Our “firm” foundation creaks and groans. Democracy, our crucial gift
Grifters strive for severe facelift. Past freedom fighters have shown What was at risk will rise and lift
Justice for all–each one–new shift, Not just the wealthy anglophones. Democracy, our wondrous gift
They try to ruin empathy, to sift and separate, their hatred sown. What was at risk will rise and lift
Our Black sisters are justly miffed. Round our necks persist a millstone. Democracy, our rising gift
We will take back, may not be swift, But justice’s bend is fully known. What was at risk will rise and lift Democracy, our beloved gift
Today there were Not My President Day protests all over the country, especially in state capitals. I have hesitated to say “not my president” because on some level I know we have elected a felon for president in this county, but we have not elected the acting president, Elon Musk. For that reason, Not My President Day was a perfect name for the protest. I went with my sister, her granddaughter, and a friend to a protest in Palm Springs, California.
I hope we can continue to #BuildTheResistance and have each protest grow in power and numbers. Read more about 50 protests in 50 states on one day at #50501Movement. There is no way we should find ourselves watching while our democracy is in such great peril.
Poetry is a good way to protest, as well. Here are some poems from this month’s Open Write.
It’s Black History Month and
here we are in america
aiming to forget all that was,
so our future will be born
ignorant and closer to where
our white ancestors made war,
nurturing the rot that became
our unfolding. No justice, no peace.
Today we rename and
amplify past genocide
and call it patriotism.
Striking line by Nikki Giovanni in “The Great Pax Whitie” “And america was born / Where war became peace / And genocide patriotism”
truth
unarmed–
believe it–
truth unarmed and
unconditioned love
will have the final word.
truth and love stronger than fear.
Yes, in reality, hope will
have the final word. Right stalled today
is stronger than evil’s triumphant gain.
MLK Nobel Prize speech “I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”
It’s been difficult for me to write lately. So much going on in the world and this crazy country. I’ve been busy this week with retiling a shower in a family home, watching an almost 4-year-old who isn’t potty trained, reading and scoring REALM literary magazines for NCTE, writing a poem a day for the Stafford Challenge. This week the poems are coming from prompts at Ethical ELA. Join in with today’s prompt called “Until I Discovered” with Erica Johnson, and tomorrow there will be a new one by Jessica Shernburn.
So lore goes,
Always the main character
Jack and his moot Jill,
without cooking,
Finna secure the bag
Of water
Jack’s dogs tripped (bruh)
Bucket yeeted
“I oop”
Jill, not usually an NPC,
This time falls in line,
Gagged, no girl bossing,
Out of pocket
No cap
My translation of “Jack and Jill” into Gen-Z dialect was inspired by Alan J. Wright’s “Jack and Jill” in the style of John Keats here.
I choose to keep
hikes around Abel’s Mountain,
the flickering candle under
this pot of masala chai,
writing one line a day
in my five-year memory book,
crocheting with a backrub
from my husband
and a good movie in front of us,
Spanish with Duolingo and Rocío,
healthy eating to lower my A1C,
my trusty Kindle
and extensive Libby library,
skylight apricity,
the ERA,
Curiosity,
Resilience,
Resistance,
Justice,
and
Mercy.
Time to rid myself of
overflow in the back recesses
of my cupboards,
binge watching poor shows,
throwing my hands up
in surrender to oligarchy.
Mrs. Lifflander was the substitute
everyone hoped we would never get.
She was mean as a snake and unfair.
And if I believe anything then (and now):
Everything has to be fair!
This time we drew the short stick,
and she became our Viola Swamp.
When Mrs. Moscrip came back, she
rebuked us for not respecting the sub.
(I guess Ms. Swamp left notes and names.)
“But she did thus-and-so.” “She was so unfair.”
I raised my hand to tell my side. She stopped me,
“Oh, Denise, I’m sure you had
to add your 2 cents, didn’t you?”
This is the year that Palestinian
children will play and dance and sing
along the shore of the Mediterranean.
No outsiders will ever consider taking
their coastline for high-rises for themselves.
This is the year when the olive orchards
will return to bloom and produce in abundance
and all the people will be full and healthy
with all their limbs intact and they will
eat Musakhan and celebrate independence.
This is the year when Palestinian borders
will no longer just be a squeezed strip
or a failing bank, but there will be enough
for all. That each nation in this shared space
will not train for war anymore.
Last week I enjoyed sitting outside each evening viewing Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS.
Last night during the night, I woke up and went outside to take a photo of the night sky for today’s #365picturetoday prompt. It was 2:00 a.m., and I was a bit sleepy-eyed. When I woke up this morning and looked at the photos I took, I saw what looked like a comet! I was surprised because I took photos in the opposite direction of where the comet had been last week. I had to see the second photo to notice it was just the moon’s ray shining.
This week was also a chance to write with the community at Ethical ELA’s Open Write.
Before Amazon, these
were available to kids,
kids who read comic books
and, when they got
to the inside back cover,
they dreamt of the joy
of sea monkeys,
living and smiling
in our fishbowls or
of magic tricks to awe
our siblings.
Just 50 cents
to a dollar and you
could get these
(barely 1-2 stars in
today’s ratings)
treasures sent right
to your door.
Ode to The Bending of the Arc of the Moral Universe
It’s true what Dr. King said,
a tiny bend of justice
keeps coming.
This I believe.
The arc will trample hatred.
The arc will sweep away fear.
The arc will wring the neck of idolatry.
The arc will stitch garments of justice.
The arc will sew raiments of joy.
Listening to The Message
by Ta-Nehisi Coates this morning
Chapter 4 brings up today’s news
Two-tiers of people in Israel
Palestinians are stateless
Non-citizens in their own country
Never again, Humanity.
When it comes to understanding,
(This poem is surely ultracrepidarian)
I’m not Jewish, I’m not Palestinian,
I’m not Black. But a white woman
knowing that Jim Crow regimes,
no matter where, are wrong.
Millennia of hatred has led to a complex
problem, but we elevate complexity over justice
Never again, Humanity
Buried and burned
Tens of thousands killed
ruthlessly—men, women, and children.
The survivors will surely
grow up to hate their oppressors.
When will we try something new?
The precious pink of her charming countenance,
the newborninnocence,
the nursery pink lace. Gentleparadise holds me
in an alternative wild pink. I love you, Pink Blossom.
People hold up the mirror of history and take a swipe across the facts found, the troublesome yesterdays their lies work hard to hide. “Smear it,” they say, “with projection and propaganda. We want to keep our superior position.” And they look at the stories and throw them into rewritten oblivion. Away with the hard truths, the truths that could set us free. These truths, not so self-evident after all, that we are created equal stumble. The facts scare, so we condemn ourselves to repeat them, feasting on lies instead.
____________________________________
Striking line adapted from the book James by Percival Everett, Part I, Chapter 21, Page 126.
Who am I? I ask
in my poems
as you witness
without judgment.
You read,
you hold space,
you make my
shoulders stronger
by helping me know myself
as you whisper answer, Who’s asking? __________________________________
The “Who asking? answer to “Who am I?” is inspired by a story Rob Bell tells in Everything is Spiritual.
This weekend was busy. First, we had the delight of seeing a niece and her family on Saturday and Sunday, but it was a quick trip for their family through our town. Saturday also happened to be the Poetry Marathon. Two wonderful events in one weekend!
I got behind and didn’t give the Marathon my all, but I did manage to write 24 poems in 24 hours. The best part, though, was seeing my niece. We had a chance to talk about family history and then some family dynamics that are painful to live with and hard to understand this side of heaven. It was a blessed time to connect.
Let’s Be Better Recalling the Umbrage with which you Make known your faith: Is God so angry and No longer willing to confer? A just, loving God Transferred all Infallibility to Only you? No, I think you do Not really believe that either.
Recent ruminations have Explored my Capacity for holding the Knowledge of the raggedness Of our fear to take up trauma. Nevertheless,
“I can do hard things.” Now I choose to take the risk to Grapple with those fears.
She
was not
the one I
would have thought would
go to dental school.
Sure, she worked hard as a
junior higher, stayed after
class, tried to retain toilsome
details. This month she graduated.
She’s Dr. S. (Of course, I should have known.)
These poets
are the impetus of identity
the providers of peace
in knowing myself
loving myself
more honestly
the seekers of truth
in finding my way
in the world as it
really is and not just
as I always knew it
These poems
are the tingling fingers
of an adventurous
and risky
ascent
into
knowing
I had a wonderful time at NCTE, and I want to write more about it later. Here are a few pictures on Instagram, but my slice today are the poems I wrote for Open Write. My Sunday poem includes a strong feeling I had this week.
I met someone yesterday
At a conference–
We engaged in
conversation
standing in the exhibit hall.
She’s come here from a
South American country
Where she fled to the U.S.
as a refugee.
Her grandfather came there as
A refugee fleeing the Holocaust.
Her name came together,
a perfectly delightful mix of
Spanish, Arabic, and Jewish.
She is a kaleidoscope of
color and light and generosity,
And I am better for having met her.
I’ve come here from
a white-washed history,
a white-washed lineage,
and so much loss of
color and light and generosity.
I’ve come from who knows where,
Except the generic ‘Wales,’
as a child, it was all I was given
when I asked, evidence enough
that we were in the right pot,
melting into America.
I came from who knows when–
not in this century,
or the last,
maybe the one before.
We are all losers
in the myth of white supremacy.
We are not a melting pot,
We are a kaleidoscope.
We will all win, when
We all belong.
On the airplane, Moon followed me home
last night. She wore a hefty grin–
face half full of bright white teeth,
gleaming, she smiled at me
as I peered out through
the darkness. Watched
her dance with
the plane’s
wing,
As
I view
her playful
moves, She reminds
me: we need the dance.
While the Sun brightens far
away, we are left here with
Moon. She transforms: new-, crescent-, half-,
full-faced, while dancing with obstacles.
There once was a dog named Sonny
Whose lifelong goal was not money
All he wanted was rubs
Castle King he was dubbed
scritch-tingle-scratch of the tummy
