I have seen the quiet dust
on the blue sage beavertail pads–
day after week after month,
month after brown month.
Until today, and the fuchsia
fireworks burst out.
We’re
diggers.
Two shovels,
Milo, and me:
Excavators.
Transfer sand here to there,
onto the porch in neat piles.
Sweep off the sand and pile again.
One large pile became a volcano.
So much sand. Is there time to move it all?
when poetry……………started
when poetry……………was first created
when poetry……………ruled the streets
when poetry……………speaks
when torture………………..d poets come out
when torture………………..d poets release
when was torture………….banned
what……………………………qualifies as torture
when is torture……………..legal
what is due process………………of law
what is due process………………in simple terms
what is due process………………for illegal (sic) immigrants
what is due process………………rights
what is due process………………simple definition
what is due process………………mean
In this world, we think we need order and power and money for a successful you and me. And everyone wants to have the same. We fight the write, ignoring the poetry, and now that’s our downfall,
(not that we create) but that we trust political leaders too much. I hope we have learned that must never again be our hope. We listen to human torture, to the concentration camps in the deforested land, where birds fail to thrive and sing and presidents call dehumanization in prison strength and order their soldiers to continue the brutality, prisoners who did not hear the judge pronounce them guilty. Just the kidnapping, the human trafficking, and the birds who weep because there is no due process. The United States used to be leaders, but a war on justice has turned us into a global enemy. Planes of mercy, smooth out the gouges that must be leveled before we can thrive again. Citizens, Be resistors of injustice and do not ever be silent again.
Striking line by Marwan Makhoul – “In order for me to write poetry that’s not political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the war planes must be silent.”
When the day is almost finished,
and you are relieved to not be going
to dinner, you rest in the change.
Sadness and disappointment establish
a premium of anger, as you watch
the rabbits scream and jump at each other
in conflict over the carrot scraps.
You are having a birthday celebration,
not a memorial service. The old agitation,
like a tumor, squeezes out your resolve.
Then your day finally finishes with piano
music and a warm bath. A minority of
your days are like this one.
Praise be to heaven.
It’s your birthday–
and Mexican food, it is,
no one would be surprised.
It’s your usual request,
made by my sister.
Bon appetit: Today we enjoy
chicken en mole, chile verde,
beans, rice and the biggest
bowls of chips and salsa
you’ve ever seen.
She made enough to feed
a hundred, even though we
were 24. All of us were there
to honor the new 70-year-old
and eat big and delicious
to celebrate this special day
of the love of my life.
The milk of human kindness ain’t got thick cream on it for all of us. Ask Hoover Musk & Trump.
~John Samuelson
What I Didn’t Do Today
· Deface National Park Service property by graffitiing over “Hoover” on this, one of Samuelson’s Rocks.
· Break any bones or twist any ankles hiking at JTNP
· Bake homemade hamburger buns
· Get bit by the rattlesnake
· Kill the pope
· Give up
Who would have thought– more than we wanted, more than we needed of the gifts of Mother Earth would have led us here? Has she not bled enough to get our attention? For she is speaking to us not just on Earth Day.
The worry is every word on Earth can’t poem enough, is not loud enough for the masses to do something right here. Is there any hope that this side of gasolinism and of consumerism and of lithium and of greedium history will ever not destroy us?
This golden shovel has two lines from Andrea Gibson’s “Homesick: A Plea for our Planet” for the striking lines: “Who, more than the earth, has bled for us” and “The earth is the right side of history.”
Another Earth Day Blitz poem, where I tried to be more thankful…
Earth for Earth
Thank you, Mother
Thank you, Earth
Earth rising
Earth boiling
Boiling too much
Boiling in anger
Anger of depth
Anger justified
Justified this day
Justified forever
Forever creation
Forever healing
Healing despite
Healing strength
Strength to bury
Strength to overcome
Overcome indifference
Overcome pollutants
Pollutants of attitude
Pollutants of consumption
Consumption of greed
Consumption of fear
Fear of sharing
Fear of caring
Caring for earth
Caring for our mother
Mother of grace
Mother of mercy
Mercy rainforested
Mercy extended
Extended throughout
Extended worldwide
Worldwide growth
Worldwide grace
Grace of comfort
Grace of care
Care to try again
Care of renewables
Renewable energy
Renewable creation
Creation of hope
Creation of green
Green and blue
Green comfort
Comfort in our hearts
Comfort for Earth
Earth is our Mother
Earth is our choice
Choice
Mother
Jake longed to be
Invisible. He heeded
the Voice shouting hate
FOOD’S THE ENEMY
His demons screeched their deceit
But Frieden listened
Step by step, sometimes
Back, finally crossed the bridge
Rejected the troll
Embraced poetry
Musicals, healing, light, hope
Grandma’s strength still here
John speaks up and out
To youth and all: Find your voice.
Find your people. Peace.
About this poem: I finished the book Louder than Hunger by John Schu, and the character’s life experience (and the author’s, as well) fit the prompt of April showers turned into May flowers.
We were traveling yesterday at about 550 mph
(Too fast for us to comprehend this 737’s power) but Are we really? I am reading Edward Hays who
Made this book called Prayers for a Planetary Pilgrim Of whom I am one, I hope (she actually Wonders as she writes this poem). It is
Of interest to remember the 3 constant movements of our Great earth: 1) spinning on its sweetly-tilting axis at 1000 mph, And 2) journeying in order around the sun at 66,600 mph
(Ordinary for us, for we hardly recall it.) And 3) Mother Loves sailing together with the whole family Of our solar system at 43,000 mph. That last
Small miracle means we hurtle further into the Invisible space over a million miles a day, into Worlds not yet in existence, daily new creation
Of our Divine Mystery. And yet, here we are in A jet, feeling humanity is mastering science. We Need to look up and remember, in awe
To live both body and spirit, day and night, to Call to the creator within, and to live Out loud in our exterior life. Ursa Major
Through time, has become mostly The Big Dipper. We see his tail and rump, but Dark on his head and legs, yet he’s all still there.
About this poem: That was a journey and a half through all the thoughts in my head this morning. I read Ida Limón and had to use her precious last stanza in a golden shovel and her form of three line stanzas. Then I was reading this expansive thought book yesterday that reminded me of today’s prompt “Writing the Night Sky.” Third, I picked the well-known Ursa Major as my constellation and couldn’t let him go, so they all just collided into this mess. I’ve trusted Edward Hays for the stats within. I love the Big Dipper, and even though the stars are great out here in the desert, I rarely can make out any other constellations. I learned today that the Big Dipper phenomenon (a part of a bigger constellation) has a name for that, an asterism. I’ve never been able to figure out the whole Ursa Major, even though its the largest northern constellation.
I am Demon Copperhead
(After George Ella Lyon and Barbara Kingsolver)
I am from somewhere in Virginia
Southern Appalachia
from a too-hungry teen mom and a drowned father
whose demon was spawned by starving hearts
from a single-wide rental
and a soon drug-satiated dead mother
From the Dog of America getting kicked
I am from fucked up foster care,
child labor, and a dog urine bed
I am from snakes and hillbillies
(and with up-yours pride I wear the label)
From lovers of my broken life–
from Maggot and the Peggots
from June and Emmy
and from Dori and Angus
from my youth being used up way early
and my brief football stardom
I am from art pencils and markers,
the release found in creating
I am from busted knees, pain killers,
and sports doctor malpractice
I am from lost boys in a Dickensian tragedy,
from Fast Forward and Swap-Out
from big corporate greed
who blow the tops
off our mountains
who strive to remove
the cooperative land economy
of my once-thriving people
and green growing place,
from companies who demand
we use the taxable cash system of the city
I am from Redneck superheroes, like Tommy Waddles
I am from the moments marked from the get-out to lose
but turning out happier-ever-after than most
Italicized phrases are direct quotes from the book Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver.
The art of poetry according to Horace
is complicated and intimidating (my assessment).
In a 476-line poem, he instructs young poets,
“Whenever you instruct, be brief…”
Oh, he gives lots of instruction. One example,
A poem should have charm as well as beauty.
He gives ancient Greek lessons
on iambus and spondee,
Oracles and orchestras,
Wisdom and leeches, Diana
and how a play should have exactly 5 acts.
“If I fail to keep and do not understand
these well-marked shifts and shades
of poetic forms, why am I hailed as poet?” he asks.
(Actually, that is a translation of what he asks.)
I think poetic forms are great myself.
I like having parameters that help me write.
Maybe you do too.
But I would suggest that poetry
can be billboard length, as well.
(Thank you, Mr. McCloskey.)
“Cut a good story anywhere and it will bleed.” ~Anton Chekhov
“Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.” ~Robert Frost
“When you put your words to paper, they live inside my head” ~Jennifer Guyor-Jowett
“Every little thing is gonna be all write. Just write.” ~Fran Haley
“If someone says you aren’t good enough,
Laugh and write a limerick about them.” ~Leilya Pitre
“Take life by the shoulders…Write it a poem.” ~Joanne Emery
A poem is a what we need right now,
And you are hailed as the poet.
All About Money
for mercurial idiot savant
unprincipled robber baron
sociopathic leader who
demands vast
wealth and power
scoffs at norms
wants total control
no regard for anyone
but self–demanding $47
billion salary package
with threats if
shareholders don’t agree
Tesla laid off 14,000
without warning
(parking key didn’t work
one day)
minimum severance package
with stipulations–
no lawsuit
no arbitration
no publicly defaming
Tesla.
American capitalism
coming apart because
of people like Musk,
extorting shareholders
and shafting workers
For Grandma Mom
I’ve been writing this since
I was six years oldbornand we young ones had to climb and you had to handle into the brokenness of life with reallywithout a partnerwindow to unlock the door to get all into the house where the birds had taken up residence
then after Dad died you
became the go-to giver
of all things for Grandma,
one being to restore
the bird and rodent infested
old homestead
for her.
I’ve been writing this since that house homestead Grandpa
built in the 40s became your home
after Grandma died in the 80s
and that kitchen where she used to cook
became where you cooked, we watched you make
popovers being just one of your masterpieces– you gently beating the eggs and milk and stirring in the flour until just moistened.
I’ve been writing this since your index finger spatula-ed out every last bit of the batter
you poured the popover batter
into the mismatched custard cups
not caring about wasting that last bit
(a clapback at the not-so-great Depression
of your childhood, perhaps)
and baked them for what seemed
(to my children) like hours
at two different temperatures
I’ve been writing this since
those popovers, with their custardy
interiors and crispy toasted outsides,
came out of the oven into the history of a new generation
who broke them open and enjoyed and added honey or boysenberry jam or syrup
the steam rising as honey drizzled
and boysenberry jam glopped thank you, Jennifer and We ate our fill
on those slow moving much faster
deserty mornings
at firstGrandma’s house later your house
I’ve been writing this since I found those old custard cups high on a shelf in Lori’s laundry room and she welcomed me to take them home, and now I’m
I became the grandma who bakes popovers
in the desert. And you would be glad
wouldn’t care at all to hear
that I’ve got your
Grandma’s magic spatula
finger so I don’t waste a drop
Firsts I Considered Writing About Today my first sister-in-law who died last month or all the ‘firsts’ from this week alone: the first time I started an official bird watching life list the first time our cabin bedroom got a closet the first time I ripped out sticky vinyl tiles the first time I got myself stuck on a sticky vinyl-less floor or any of the “firsts” on the list of memories I wrote this morning before I got word that
my third sibling died yesterday
I lost another sister this week. Three years ago I wrote a poem about my sisters here during Verselove: https://www.ethicalela.com/24-30-snapshots-in-time/#comment-38674 Today I used that poem to write a blackout poem, and it’s attached as an image. There were 7 of us in my family, and now there are 4. Each sibling has died suddenly, no illness and no warnings. While it certainly can be counted as a blessing not to die by inches, it’s still shocking for those left behind. It’s also humbling to see my own expiration date on the horizon.
Dear Sister,
You remember all the
food and love showered
on us by generations.
We knew we were
loved by our eating.
I’ve tried to forget many
of these rich delights,
but you make them
over
and
over
and
over
and you don’t let me forget.
You remind me how
delicious they were by bringing
them to me–tastier, I think than
Mom or Grandma made them–
macaroni and cheese,
tamales, lasagna,
chicken pot pie,
cherry cobbler,
lemon pie,
cinnamon rolls,
biscuits…
And today you brought
chicken tortilla casserole
and chile-cheese cornbread.
I try to forget,
I try to forget,
I try…oh, forget it.
Pass the cheese sauce, please.
I was six years old
waiting for the mail
Maybe this will be my lucky day!
Sometimes it was, and the
mailman would pull out that
cardboard covered package
that made my heart swell.
Two beginning readers,
this time maybe it was Hop on Pop and Are You My Mother?
I couldn’t make out a word,
but I enjoyed the pictures.
I probably knew the letters,
and maybe I had memorized
some words from Dick and Jane
at school (Look, see, come…)
However, these books at home
were magical.
I don’t remember my mama
ever reading books with me, though.
She was busy with seven kids.
Cooking, cleaning, ironing,
knocking new doorway holes
in the wall and remodeling
with a perfectly crafted doorjamb,
as needed. That kind of stuff.
I read books with my sister, though.
When she came home from working
at the telephone company
and/or on Saturdays (I’m not really sure),
she would sit with me and my new books.
She would paint my fingernails and read.
She somehow made the symbols
not so scary,
not so impossibly gibberish.
She taught me how to read.
I often wonder how and why
my mom ever agreed to buy
those books for me.
How could she have afforded them?
Just for me.
They even came with
my name on the box.
I have always treasured the memory.
These books are still favorites.
Every time I see a copy, I smile and remember.
Sixty years ago, and the flood of love and support
come back.
My grandma was quiet,
fragile, and seemed to lean
on her daughter to provide
strength, muscles, and purpose.
Her daughter, my mom,
of my grandma, but not her
Mom would have loved to study
architecture, but she married instead.
Finished raising her family–five still
in the next when her husband died.
Me, of my mom, but not her
I went to college and finished
even if it took 6.5 years and
ended in a geography degree,
the first B.A. in my family
My daughter, of me, but not me
She just came down the stairs
hair slicked back in a pony donning
a stylish sweater and sweats below
grabs the coffee we brought home
then returns to her home office
She’s a marketing director because
she asked for the title and salary to
match her responsibilities–she makes
things happen, rather than watches
My daughter, of me, but not me
Gradually, the women in our family
become more powerful
D: Yes, Barbie. It’s Glenda’s prompt.
Remember, you sat by her at dinner
in Anaheim? And Ken, who also liked
the movie. He has a Kenough shirt.
K: Yes, sure I remember, but I still don’t
want to see the movie.
D: I never owned a Barbie. I had a Francie
and a Skipper. Skipper was
Barbie’s little sister,
and Francie was like a
young teen with small boobs.
Lori had a Barbie and a Midge,
who had a brown beehive and freckles.
Judi’s friend borrowed Lori’s Barbie and Midge
for a 4-H diorama and never returned them.
That’s one of those unforgivable offenses
of family lore for the Reeds.
My little brother had G.I. Joe. We played
together a lot, and I must say
G.I. Joe was better.
K: Is that why it took so long for
you to fall for me?
D: What?
K: Were you looking for a soldier?
D: He had boots that were easy to
put on and a backpack.
K: I had boots and a backpack.
He also had guns.
D: Oh, I forgot about the guns!
That’s gross.
I liked his wooden foot locker.
Today the prompt encouraged us to consider rest and resistance. Glenda was inspired by the book Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto by Tricia Hersey. I had this community help me today with a found prose section. The overwhelming pace of teaching that I wanted to describe is getting away from me as a retired person. As a teacher I never seemed able to rest, even on breaks my to-do lists never stopped. Now that I’m retired, I feel that I have again begun to live, but now with so much time, I can’t help but wish I would have done better before I retired.
——————–
Rushing, dizzying tasks await. High performances exhaust heart and mind. Buzz-humming frenetic pace. Exhaustion. Stress. This tempest. I lie awake in my bed. How do you turn your mind off?
Retirement senses renewed, peace, sleep. Maybe… more than I wanted?
A poem doesn’t know my name.
It was composed time ago
and away from here
But that poem
whispers from the ages
From the pages
And finds its way
Swirling
Dreaming
Loving
Changing
Into my life
Today.
When I’m by myself
And I close my eyes
I’m content
I’m unbent
I want more
I’m a bore
I’m full of ambition
but short an ignition
I’m focused, but hazy
I’m the wind, I’m a daisy
I’m whatever I want to be
An anything I care to be
And when I open my eyes
What I care to be
Is me
That year
I spent hanging out
with boys every recess,
I was one of two girls
“allowed” to play baseball
in the sixth grade lunch recess league.
Every day I wore
the same rag tag jeans
with patches on the knees.
When I went to our larger junior high school,
I decided to embrace my femininity.
I thought I had made
changes in my appearance,
that summer I started
growing my hair out. I
bought new girl clothes
and wore some that first day
of seventh grade.
But as Mrs. Sykes
called out my name
during roll call,
I came forward
to get whatever
she was passing out.
She said,
“No, this is a girl.”
Or something similar.
I said, “That’s me.”
Or something similar.
In a better world,
she would have known
my pronouns.
The past is a glorified gauntlet,
Where one side of the challenge
is a ready stream of if-onlys and wishes
beyond the hope of tomorrow
But on the other side is
a source of joy and pride in
a life well-lived, strength
sustaining me into the future
Which is to say, it is punishment
only if I walk the gauntlet
letting that side beat me up
with its
glorified
regrets
Incendiary Introspection: Musings of Her Aimless Anger
Inflammable
Passion, fierce and spirited
Detonator of dynamite
Skipping stones across silent waters
On the mark
My combustible kindling
Looks to ignite.
Peers into conversations,
Dumpsters, everywhere–
Ready with a lit match,
Fierce and fiery,
Burning through
the mundane,
the righteous
and the idiot
with equal flare and fervor
“Where’s my speaker cord, Denise?”
“How should I know? Why are you asking me?”
I need to speak to Denise
and remind her
Of my power to explode, inflame
and burn through relationships.
I should remind her that she hopes for
Passion, fierce and spirited against intolerance and evil.
Detonator of dynamite
Skipping stones across the silent waters of apathy
How she’s proud when
the flames are harnessed and
accountability and justice occur,
When rights are wronged, and
Unfair rules are reimagined
But then she lights my fire
with random hot-tempered explosions
against her loved ones
I am the one who happily and
promiscuously throws
my flames with aimless abandon.
But she longs for more
precision in pelting
profuse pyrotechnics
at inexcusable injustices.
This is a Golden Shovel poem using part of this quote from Samuel Hall Young, who attributes it to John Muir in his book: Alaska Days with John Muir, chapter 7:237 (1915) “Keep close to Nature’s heart, yourself; and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean from the earth-stains of this sordid, gold seeking crowd in God’s pure air. It will help you in your efforts to bring to these men something better than gold. Don’t lose your freedom and your love of the Earth as God made it.”
What we keep
Is revealed in our close
Connections to
Our blessed oasis. Nature’s
Sacrifice, the whisper of her heart…
Calculates her capacity to carry on. She shivers–Wash
The carbon off your
Knife blade, murderer. Your spirit
must be clean.
Thank you for creating me back when seventh grade was a terror and you were quietly ready to fly back to Arizona where your parents had pulled you away from the only home you remembered. When you created me, sunflowers were shining in your center even if not in your circumstances yet.
You bent that hanger that used to hold your hoodie into one giant ear of understanding for the outcasts, the voiceless, and the refugees–all of us who longed to be counted, even if among the dusty.
Then you covered me with your mom’s pantyhose (of all things) and took away my shame by quickly brushing each square inch with a chromatic makeover right out of southern France. You, whose mother demanded to know why your seventh grade report cards were sprinkled with Cs, painted me with a swirling and dancing starry sky. The cypresses mourned the pitfalls of your unsure future. But paired with those uncertainties of the night was a sun of hope right in the curve of my listening ear. It said everything about what you held dear, what you longed for and believed in: a future.
You, who were to stay and keep learning and growing here in this provincial town.
You, who would keep growing a lifetime of compassionate love and justice.
You, who make the world a better place as an activist, artist, and writer.
You, who would practice your French and independence by working on an organic farm in Normandy, sleeping in a barn bedroom, bravely sharing your walls with scritch-scratching farm mice.
You, who moved from Iowa to Illinois to Missouri to Minnesota, while your parents were 7,000 miles away.
You, who have crossed fluctuant oceans and come back again and again to love.
You, who this very weekend with Thomas will go back to the town where you painted me.
Back to the birth place of your dearest friend since seventh grade, for whom you will have a baby shower.
Back to this dear friend who introduced you to her college friend, Thomas.
Fruits from every land
Fill ships passing through
the Strait of Hormuz,
Destined for our produce stands.
I am a fresh fruit connoisseur.
Covered with playful filaments, the red rambutan
Nestles a smooth and sweet pearly gift from Thailand.
The Fuji apple from China, the size of a softball,
Is as sweet and crisp as a new spring day.
The tough rich purple of the mangosteen
Opens to show its flowery frosted petals from Indonesia.
Succulent neon navel naranja from Spain
is like opening my Christmas stocking every day.
Mangos from all over the world,
but the ones from Egypt win–
Green and dully camouflaged,
Creamy texture, color of marmalade
luscious and honeyed sweetness within.
The Elaichi banana from Kerala
Fits in the palm of my hand
and tastes like a firm bite of Eden.
The golden kiwi from Italy is like joyful sunshine.
Syrupy sweet melon from Iran,
the dripping juice as sticky as honey.
Yellow Rosemary pear from South Africa,
Delicate white donut peach from Jordan
Long juicy grapes from India,
Tart, sweet pineapple from the Philippines,
I could go on and on.
I am a fresh fruit connoisseur.
Can we snap a picture, one asked?
Sisters by marriage, by choice, by birth
Hopes for tomorrow, hurts from the past.
Together again at long glad last
Unperceived by the world, our joy on earth.
Can we snap a picture? one asked.
Memories of broken promises recast.
Forgetting behind for this day’s worth
Hopes for tomorrow, hurts from the past.
My eldest’s wedding stole in, too fast
(Just yesterday it was when I gave birth.)
Can we snap a picture, one asked?
These sisters all came, in love unsurpassed.
Unafraid of the pain we may unearth.
Hopes for tomorrow, hurts from the past.
Love and forgiveness, newness amassed.
Put aside sadness and pain; choose mirth.
Can we snap a picture, one asked?
Hopes for tomorrow, hurts from the past.
Inspired by a quote in this poem Homesick: A Plea for our Planet –
“How do we not mold our hearts after the first spruce tree who raised her hand and begged to be cut into piano keys so the elephants could keep their tusks?” ~Andrea Gibson
I Did. Now It’s Your Turn, People A Roundel
(After Andrea Gibson)
Mold yourselves after me?
I am sharply dressed,
But I am just a tree.
You? You aren’t guests.
What you’ve done has messed
Up our home. Don’t you agree?
Elephant isn’t the only one stressed.
Brains and hearts hold the key.
Stop and let us take rest.
Do it, so we can all be free.
You? You aren’t guests.
Josh who throws hope around like bells
ringing clear and bright
and asks how everyone’s doing,
who is a tall lighthouse and a shady forest
who is a peaceful hike in Saudi
and a good run on the beach
whose kind walls are made of faith
Josh who listens patiently
as we sit on the cushy chairs in Caribou
and I list all the reasons I can’t do my job.
Josh who believes in me,
sits with his sweet mocha untouched as he
enthusiastically tells of the latest research
and what books he wants to lend me from the
overflowing shelves in his office.
Josh who plans for success for all students
who gently high fives the little ones
who brings jokes for the teens
Josh who disciplines with sharp self-control
who astutely initiates staffing changes
who introduces us to literary giants and
gives us all wigs to put on as we contemplate
our Wildly Important Goal for the year
Josh who plans for success for all of us
whose big ideas surprise, scare, and scintillate
Whose presence brings comfort during conflict,
wisdom when we didn’t know we needed it,
and identifies strength
when we didn’t know we had it.
Josh who throws hope around like bells
ringing clear and bright
is leaving us,
Josh who prays for us
and with us
is leaving us,
Josh whose love and joy fill the school
is leaving us,
and his hope and prayers and love and joy–
his legacy–
will linger after
he’s gone.
Godspeed, Josh.
The constant conversation:
How many more days? We’ll leave the day after school’s out.
Finally the day arrives.
We get up early and
climb into the car.
Positioned on the back of the front seats
are the cloth slings my mother sewed,
each painted with our names.
They are filled with snacks
we got to choose ourselves,
plus brand new coloring and puzzle books
and a fresh box of crayons
Late that afternoon we stop half-way
at a cheap motel in St. George, Utah,
or maybe Cedar City if we made good time
The next day we get on the road
again early. Our travel bags and
snacks help the day pass
And that evening we arrive in
time for dinner in
Lander, Wyoming.
Here will be our summer home–
six weeks in
cousin-time
delight and wonder,
outdoor exploring,
Yellowstone camping,
sandstone carving,
rodeos,
swimming in the public pool,
even library visits
are magical here.
The forgotten conversation: How many more days?
Wait! What do you mean it’s time to go home!?
Carrot cake:
the recipe of
anniversaries,
births, weddings,
baptisms of
Shredded carrots
freckling the kitchen
So many fluorescent flecks
threatening to spoil the
surprise
Z
O
O
M
into the meeting at 6:50 p.m.
Bahrain time,
8:50 a.m. Pacific,
for this
pandemic party
Carrot cakes
stealthily baked
with love
in tiny
aluminum pans
delivered to
participants
to celebrate
the anniversary of
the birth of my beloved–
this man,
so good
and kind
and passionate–
with carrot caky goodness
Wisdom was born eons ago
in a small town called Adversity. She has
the bruises and scars
to show she is a graduate of
UWS–the University of the Way of Suffering.
When she gets to an impasse,
Wisdom braves the decision,
she persists and either turns back,
retracing her steps,
or finds a new route.
Wisdom splinters
the status quo
with her fierce and
piercing questions.
Wisdom is married
to knowledge. Though she
holds all the degrees,
she doesn’t assert herself
against pretenders. Wisdom
doesn’t always
outshine the imposters,
but she does outlive them.
Wisdom kisses love, joy, and peace.
Wisdom dines on patience, kindness, and goodness.
Wisdom wears faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Wisdom is
as quiet as a heartbeat,
as sweet as a hug after a loss,
and as gentle as a bell of mercy.
She listens more than she speaks,
but when she talks,
those close to her
sit up and listen and she spreads.
When necessary she thunderously
proclaims truth from the peaks
and topples over tables of injustice.
Wisdom leans on the
moral arc of the universe
and brings justice just a little nearer.
Question?
That question that haunts me to my very core,
the one I avoid.
The one that I shove back
into the depths of my ugly heart
And don’t let it surface.
But others dig deep and have been
doing so this week.
Susan inspired you yesterday.
Angie’s prompt reminded you today.
These and others have asked tough questions.
Why don’t you too, Denise?
Speak it, repent, reframe the question.
Not today. Maybe
Soon.
Hate is the country with such a long scar
We dole out death sentences far
From courts of law
White power, our flaw –Street-selling loose cigarettes, death
–Holding a sandwich taken as a threat, death
–Not signaling when moving to the right, death
–Using a bad twenty or having lofty height, death
–Going to the car wash with your new ride, death
–Eating ice cream where you abide, death
–Even sleeping in your own abode, death
Remember their names and the code: Eric Garner
Casey Goodson
Sandra Bland
George Floyd
Daunte Wright
Botham John
Breonna Taylor
The code of hatred: White supremacy
Hope: Dismantle the enemy
My inspiration came from this Instagram post I saw this morning
Yes, I do want a chocolate-coated,
date-filled cookie, thank you.
Maamouls–a Ramadan gift from
my husband’s co-worker.
I take the wrapper off
and bite into the buttery goodness.
I take another.
How about some chocolate-covered hazelnuts?
Turkish delight and pasta flora?
Gifts of love from my friend.
The pounds I lost last year
are staging a comeback.
The earthquake trembles under my feet,
not from the San Andreas,
but from my own faults.
Remembering when my seven-year-old
“embarrasses” me at Costco.
The middle-aged woman beside us–
intent on rifling through the mom tees–
hasn’t even noticed the child’s faux pas.
(What actually is the little girl’s blunder?)
But because Mom insists,
she apologizes.
Everyone awkwardly
walks away.
I’ve seen my faults shock and shake.
Ode to Grilled Cheese
How glorious are your
gooey,
melty,
strings of goodness,
golden globs of
nutty,
buttery
deliciousness
nestled inside.
Outside,
thick slices of
homemade
sourdough
buttered and sizzling
in the pan,
crispy and brown,
becoming one with the
cheddar.
You are a wonder.
I winced but smiled with the second dose.
Wondering
Hoping
Dreaming
Drifting
Wondering
Mutants
Spreading
Wildfire
Wondering
With the second dose, I smiled but winced.
Today I noticed details–
Like the smell of the cardamom
And saffron in my milky tea,
And the way the young mother
Stooped over again to retrieve
The blue binky for the
delighted warm baby,
who was the clear leader
in this game of fetch.
I noticed how much
I don’t like to wear lipstick, but not
Until I was able to stop
And put on a mask instead.
My one lipstick, already years old,
may last another decade at this rate.
I was never able to notice how much I liked to cook,
until I moved into my home last March.
It’s the same flat I had slept in for six years,
but I finally began to live here.
Now I cook, I plan, I write, I read,
I smile, I laugh, I listen, I pray
in this place.
I’m no longer a whirlwind of anxiety
about the next
appointment,
meeting,
service, or
responsibility,
for which I need to run out the door.
I never knew how much
I needed more peace in my living,
But now I know.
I never knew how much I appreciated
noticing these things until I joined
other teacher-poets in this
#verselove community
in the April of Covid, 2020.
I didn’t know how much
I loved poetry,
But now I know.
Thank you, friends.
Psalm 58 – A Prayer for God to Punish the Wicked (GNT)
Do you rulers ever give a just decision?
Do you judge everyone fairly?
No! You think only of the evil you can do,
and commit crimes of violence in the land.
Evildoers go wrong all their lives;
they tell lies from the day they are born.
They are full of poison like snakes;
they stop up their ears like a deaf cobra,
which does not hear the voice of the snake charmer,
or the chant of the clever magician.
Break the teeth of these fierce lions, O God.
May they disappear like water draining away;
may they be crushed like weeds on a path.
May they be like snails that dissolve into slime;
may they be like a baby born dead that never sees the light.
Before they know it, they are cut down like weeds;
in his fierce anger God will blow them away
while they are still living.
The righteous will be glad when they see sinners punished;
they will wade through the blood of the wicked.
People will say, “The righteous are indeed rewarded;
there is indeed a God who judges the world.”
My 21st Century Mirror of Vengeance
I learned something about God from this poem,
placed in the good book, and read for eons.
God must have invited
people to speak their truth,
not to hide their emotions,
“break their teeth”
“blow them away like weeds”
“dissolve them like salt on a slug”
but
also
there was no need to
take vengeance in
their own hands and do violence.
“Give it to me,” God said, “I’ll take it from here.”
So, I wait and pray:
We’ve got some unjust and evil
people with power
who still need their teeth broken, God.
I couldn’t get the photo I wrote about out of my mind all day. It’s the last one on the Glimpses of Grief and Resilience article in National Geographic. “This picture reminds me that domestic violence doesn’t start with bruises on the skin, domestic violence begins with words and takes many forms,” says photographer Irina Unruh. (I also alluded to Jenny in Forrest Gump, Jeremiah 6:14, and a reprise of this week’s shadow and mask poems.)
Hang On
Pray with me
fly, fly
away from here
Poison pulsing through the air,
Trampling and suffocating,
Cruelly wounded by words,
only to have them
superficially
dressed with
“Sorry” bandages.
“Let’s go for a drive, baby,
you know I don’t mean it.”
He speaks peace
where there is no peace
Masked by the thing with wings
Little glimpses of hope
Glittering in the sunshine
Come soon, Promise,
For she is still
Hidden in the shadow
Of the pandemic
Speech to the Spenders; Speech to Those Sinking Our Planet
Say to them,
Say to the private profit proliferators,
the conspicuous consumers,
the I-can’t-live-withouts,
and the empty souls needing something,
yet settling for stuff,
“More is not always better.”
Buying that thing will not satisfy your longings.
Try thrifting or bartering.
Wear out the one you already have.
Dig deep and see what’s really missing.
Free yourself by giving freely.
I Don’t Want to Be a Porcelain Bowl
I don’t want to be a
bowl of porcelain–
pale, translucent
and fully fragile.
I don’t want to be displayed
shamelessly on a
shelf, waiting in the shadows,
perfect but untried.
Smooth and without character.
I want to be a Kintsugi bowl,
flawed and fully fractured,
but gold-veined–
beautiful in my brokenness.
Scars and wounds do not
imply defect, but they
are the rich
integration of
wounded suffering, and
rising empathy.
Even the author of
the Resurrection
unabashedly chose to
rise with
His scars on.
I’ve had George Floyd on my mind all week. I watched and read the transcript of his encounter with the police. He was scared, not scary. And then there was the Filipino-American who was attacked in New York. My God, save us. When Stacey shared the list of metaphorical shadows, I was drawn to this verse in Psalm 91, which has always been a favorite of mine. Yet, today I wonder if it’s easier for me to believe God’s protective wings cover me because I don’t have to fear for my life because of my color.
He who lives in the secret place of the Most High Shall stay under the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 91:1
Safe in Heaven’s Abode Direct and Omnipresent Word
How do people of color in these
divided states get
to that secret Safe place?
Away from knees on their necks
and hate crimes against their very personhood?
Is God there in Heaven’s
reach? Is there an Abode
for all? Create a just and verdant place, God,
shady with your big wings’ protection.
Stir up good trouble– Direct distress for us who feel
worthy in our whiteness.
Bring new Omnipresent
Truth in Minneapolis and
beyond. Word of God,
shine in the darkness.
Today is April 1. It is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am excited to Write, Read and Care with a lot of other passionate teachers. I plan to write my first drafts here on this blog post, and then copy and paste it onto a comment on each day’s prompt at the Ethical ELA site. Do please give it a try and join us!
Spirit of ’76 Grad and first time voter–
With a month to spare, I was
Eligible to vote in my first presidential election
I registered as an independent
Jimmy Carter earned my vote
That was an easy choice even for
a teen who cared more about getting a date with
Rick than about politics
But I did notice Watergate and a pardon,
Gerald Ford didn’t stand a chance, I thought
I continued through the years as an independent–
always looking at the two candidates
voting at times for Republicans,
other times for Democrats
When Obama was running in 2008, though– Yes, we can! Hope! I was enthralled.
I went out and changed my 30-year independent
status to Democrat, so I could caucus for
Obama in Iowa.
After the caucus, I went straight back
to being Independent.
I always thought there was strength in
independence,
I was proud to be discerning, diplomatic Denise
I saw both sides. I was a good listener
and autonomous thinker.
Presidential elections are personal,
aren’t they? I didn’t want the party to decide.
I wanted to decide for myself.
When trump came down the garish escalator
in 2015 and spoke of Mexicans the way he did,
I couldn’t believe he didn’t get ostracized and
chased away from the process.
Republicans ate it up
and he ate up their souls
Somewhere during that primary season,
I became a
Democrat for good.
The Holy Bible,
MAGA Version, 2020,
Adulterated–
A Bible chock-full of capsized values for:
The power-hungry court packers
Those in fear of losing white power
Those who have ‘Merica confused with the Kingdom of God
Those whose guns are heavier than their God
Those who demand religious exemptions for loving and serving others
Despite that word adulterated–this version
has nothing to do with adults
but is babyish and petty at best
At its worst it exists to
usurp divine authority in order to
promote white supremacy
The MAGA version follows
in a long line of
bastardized translations–
Slavery version, 1850
Anti-science version, 1925
Jim Crow version, 1950
Moral Majority version, 1979 (Actually a de facto fight for the Revised Jim Crow version, but conveniently touted as anti-abortion in order to protect themselves from impropriety)
Tea Party version, 2010
My own personalized
contaminated translation
often needs to be
plucked out as well
Purged and replaced with
The real Word of God
Breath of Heaven
Word made flesh
Lived among us
Killed by false translations of his day
Died to love us
Love
Her first move, she was just over one year old. She had no idea on that drive from Iowa to Michigan that her dad had added an extra three-hours to the all-night journey when he followed the road signs to Council Bluffs instead of Dubuque after dinner in Des Moines. She slept peacefully through it all in the car seat. When she woke up, the box of tissue entertained her throughout the early morning traffic in Chicago. She tossed each Kleenex whimsically throughout the backseat for an early snowfall while Dad took his turn sleeping on the camping mattress in the back of the pickup.
Four years later we did it again. Busy selling our winter gear at the thousand-dollar yard sale, we prepared to leave Michigan for Phoenix. She looked up and saw her big yellow school bus neglectfully leaving her behind. Marcus later told her he was afraid she was sick. “Mom, there goes the bus!” We raced into the house and got ready, driving to afternoon kindergarten. I stood outside Mrs. Bigler’s classroom and cried like a baby as I explained why we were late. This experienced kindergarten teacher tried to cheer the young mother, “Don’t worry. It’s only October. She will forget about us and just have memories of her new class.” What? That offered no comfort.
A few days later, she and I were sitting in the bathroom. She sobbing and me trying to find a quiet place to console her where we wouldn’t wake the household of new friends who were accommodating us until our house was ready. At home, on this Saturday morning, the sun was shining and the pancakes would have been on the griddle, but in this new time zone, it was an unearthly hour for crying. She wrote me a note with a blue crayon, “Keep Marcus.” I joined her in sobbing.
And then we moved again. This time after she finished her freshman year in high school of all indefensible decisions. My husband tells people she never forgave us for that move. But she did, at least outwardly, formally. We took her from Arizona back to Iowa, the town of her birth. The girl, who later became her best high school friend, at one time was a baby she had seen-not-seen at the doctor’s office when both of their mom’s held each other’s hands as they waited their turn to have their two-month-olds inoculated. Fifteen years after the shots, she did fine in her new high school. She joined cross country, drama, speech, quiz bowl, debate. She took AP classes and had some great experiences. At least I try to convince myself she did.
Before too long it was time for college. She packed her bags and hardly looked back. Sailing club on Lake Michigan, knitting club, including late night practice sessions and chats in dorm rooms with new lifelong friends, service and volunteer work, excellent success in classes. I asked her that Christmas, “How are you doing it? You are rocking your first year of college!” My firstborn’s answer stung but didn’t surprise. “I left home three years ago.”
I wrote poetry with a group at Ethical ELA. The teachers and other writers are amazingly supportive. In this running April 2020 post, I added each day’s poem throughout the month. The poetry challenge will continue five days each month beginning 16-20 May 2020.
Writing with #Verselove
Thank you, mentors
Thank God for writing
Writing poems
Writing hearts
Hearts of longing
Hearts of healing
Healing traumas
Healing brokenness
Brokenness once unspoken
Brokenness poured out in poetry
Poetry of triumph
Poetry of laughter
Laughter in knowing
Laughter in tears
Tears of renewal
Tears of cleansing
Cleaning from old hurts
Cleansing like therapy
Therapy of self-awareness
Therapy of celebration
Celebration of spoken words
Celebration of written words
Words like treasures
Words like flowers
Flowers of magic
Flowers of moods
Moods to relay
Moods to wander
Wander not aimlessly
Wander to ponder
Ponder hindrances
Ponder existence
Existence of whispers
Existence of universal truths
Truths to craft in form
Truths to craft freely
Freely speaking our hearts
Freely reading one another
Another day passed
Another poem written
Written in quiet
Written in embrace
Embrace of new friends
Embrace of sure future
Future of hope
Future of #verselove
#Verselove sustains
#Verselove restores
Restores
Sustains
And another thankful poem I wrote earlier in the month:
An Ode to #Verselove Poets
Wow!
Powerful!
Beautiful!
Lovely!
To my friends:
When I write these it doesn’t mean
I don’t love your poems,
that I’m not truly touched.
I am.
To myself:
But come on, Denise,
that’s all you write.
You are 62 years old.
Learn some precise language
for speaking about what you mean.
How about using a thesaurus?
Try…
striking
compelling
convincing
aced spelling
revealing
healing
appealing
got me dealing with my own feelings
reflecting
connecting
respecting
collecting
wisdom from you, my mentors
exposing
imposing
disclosing
composing that closing
With your words
my soul you’re jabbing
my heart you’re stabbing
my mind you’re grabbing
my eyes I’m dabbing
Your poems are cathartic
for the arctic
sea in me
reminding me of open wounds
yet to be restored when
given your remedy
A Limerick of My Writing Journey
Wield a half millimeter black roller ball
Indite in my journal, whatever befall
Mind focused on prompt
Diversions I’ll stomp
And tomorrow I’ll pen an overhaul
A List Poem About Why That Limerick is a Lie
While writing it, I…
…answered a teacher query about post-Eid assessment changes
…recorded four Flipgrid video responses
…initiated family trivia night
…answered six What’s App texts
…and two phone calls
…warmed up and ate leftover machboos
…browsed The Washington Post
…watched my husband play a video game
…worked on my genius hour presentation
time…none like the present
8:00 a.m., noon, 3:00 p.m., 8:00 p.m., midnight, 3:00 a.m.
tools…any or all
my rollerball is probably lost, so grab a pencil or a conference freebie ball point or my computer
topics…prompts and non-prompts
letters, emails, recipes, students’ feedback, texts, poems, blog posts, lesson plans
In reality, I cannot articulate my writing process.
Spalding
Them: Too much experience, grad degree
That puts you here on the salary scale
Sorry
Me: Can we negotiate?
After several interviews like this
I was frustrated, feeling useless
What else would I do?
My mom’s message to me,
a still, small voice,
restoring me and giving me hope:
“You are a treasure waiting to be discovered.”
Like a fortune cookie with a purpose.
Soon after, I received a teaching job,
fully negotiable
for the little rural Catholic school
that needed teachers, even Protestants,
and couldn’t afford to pay much–
a junior high ELA teacher
with experience and an MA
The morning after, and for seven years
before coming to Bahrain,
I felt like a treasure
Big brother Responsible, military Officer, sheriff, CHP captain Taught me to swim by throwing me in He was a father fill-in and when I moved across the country for a boy, he Even offered me a return ticket just in case Remembering him today
Baby brother Responsible, teacher and Officer in the union Though we caterwauled and clashed in free-for-alls, He finally grew bigger, so I stopped beating him up. Today, we Enjoy friendship and fellowship Rejoicing today that I have him
Bookend brothers–or the capital letter and period of our Reed sibling sentence. One, the oldest twin, the other, The sweet and welcome baby boy after five girls. Helpers in their careers and families. He was Elder by 18 years, so Rick had a special bond with Keith, but Suddenly, in 2012, Rick’s heart failed and our sentence faltered.
Four Things I’d Say to People Who Are Afraid of Their Spice Cabinet
1 – I used to be too, using cinnamon and basil and oregano and salt and pepper.
When I felt exotic I’d add a pinch of cumin and a smidgen of chili powder. Nothing louder than what you’d find in a steaming bowl of chowder, though.
2 – Then I got older and bolder and experimented. I always loved to eat savory, flavory dishes, so why not recreate them in my kitchen? I can try. And try I do now because you see.
3 – My spices are becoming a touchstone for me. I look in my cupboard and see so many jars of hope, flavors brimming, ideas bubbling, whole leaves, pods, seeds, some crushed and powdered, as the hours are in my life. My time is limited in this place, in Bahrain where the flavors are exquisite and the spices are pennies. My time is limited on this earth. My time is limited in the kitchen, So,
4 – I want to use every hour, every recipe, every moment, every meal to the fullest. To the tastiest. To the joyful hope of a new beginning.
Whose Job is More Important?
the first time I was confronted
with the idea that
I was half an orphan
the assignment was an essay
in third grade
“Whose job is more important–Mother’s or Father’s?”
Well, I penned my composition,
Of course, it was my mother’s job
that was most consequential,
most conspicuous at least
sweeping
cooking
making a coat for me at Christmas
At that time, I had no idea who
had picked up the pieces
of my missing father’s job.
Yes, it was Mother’s job
I compelled and convinced myself
What else could a girl without a father conclude?
7 years
Jacob and Rachel–
My husband’s favorite analogy
“Seven years I had to wait for Denise”
Now I know what I didn’t know then.
I could have given myself advice:
At 18 Keith is going to ask you to marry him
Let him down easy
Not yet
You both still have growing up to do
And in 7 years time
you’ll ask him back
Standing in his kitchen
on the 14th of February
He, sick in his brown fuzzy bath robe
You, saying I’m ready
We’re going on four decades now
We’ve said over the years without those 7 years
We would not be together today.
7 years became a gift of a lifetime
Here is a season that knows it is going to lose the fight.
One day a breeze blows in the twilight,
almost breathing a bit of chill from the Saudi peninsula.
Another one has a humid breeze from the south east
soaking up the water from the Arabian Gulf,
pouring it on the island.
Not in rain, but in oppressive heaviness.
In April there is an angry dance,
One, lovely springtime weather, warm and welcome.
The dance partner, summer day, is a bully–stifling and scorching.
Dominant and tormenting summer.
It’s coming.
An unbreakable building, building.
Heat dome lying heavy and unmovable.
Over the Middle East there are no Canadian cold fronts
providing relief for a day or two
Summer in all its oppression will win
At fifteen, you will be in grade 10, with a new stylish haircut and feeling on top of the world.
You will be dreamily thinking about Steve T. and John B. while you sit in accounting class.
Really, why are you in that class? Get up now and go sign up for Algebra.
At fifteen you will dance with Steve, but that’s all, so quit daydreaming.
You will try out for cheerleading, but you won’t make it.
So, pick yourself up and know that everything will be OK.
At fifteen, you will think you want to follow in your sisters’ footsteps and be a secretary.
It’s okay, you haven’t had many role models, but believe it or not, you will get a BA and an MA.
So, get to that Algebra class and take some AP courses while you’re at it.
At fifteen you will think the world revolves around your reputation at school.
Don’t worry, everyone else thinks the same thing and aren’t paying attention to you.
Know that this too will pass and there is another world where all that doesn’t matter.
At fifteen you think you know it all.
At fifteen you don’t know much.
At fifteen you will be forgiven.
Carry on, you make it to 16 and even 61.
One day at a time.
Compost Stew
Hey, friend, what are you up to?
Compost stew
Compost stew? Oh, that makes me smile.
Yes, not a pile
Organic bits simmering true.
It’s a stew.
Sent fresh from Mama Earth to you.
Fertile soil, a promise redeemed
“Be fruitful, tender earth,” God beamed.
Compost stew! Yes, not a pile. It’s a stew.
Aunt Jo took the match,
drew it against the fence post,
and launched it.
With precision
like a tiny bomb,
It rocketed into the straw bed
where Rony lay in repose
Her stiff equine figure
outlined against the glowing
crackling golden frame of chaff
She was soon joining the flames
at first a perfunctory
fizzling, sizzling
Then soaring, imploring,
and, once her fat fueled the fire,
bellowing and cursing
The charring of flesh and hide
(hide once covered in hair of Mahogany bay)
twisted our insides
nauseated us
caused us to relocate the requiem
to a tolerable distance
My animal-loving sister
eulogized Rony with her tears
and I sat and waited
Having a pot of karak tea with you
is more comforting than
the sound and depth of James’ Earl Jones’ voice
the feeling and chills I get when someone plays with my hair
a frosty glass of water after working in the yard
cozying up with a warm, fluffy blanket
the sound of rain, gentle on a tin roof
the smells of fresh bread and rich earth
the throaty full crooning of Gordon Lightfoot
the sight of seeing you come through the door
and joining me at the table in Naseef’s
(when we no longer need to have virtual tea parties)
which is why I’m telling you about it
My Nightmare
(Incorporating Robert Frost “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”)
My nightmare is when imperative
To-Do Lists are not done
1) Turn in grades
2) Contact parents with missing assignments (Before #1)
3) Rewrite two virtual entrance exams
4) Write my lesson plan so it can be sent out virtually by 6 pm
5) Prepare for Teach Meet tomorrow.
6) Make a Flipgrid video sample for my students.
My favorite items on the to-do list
1) Write a poem on EthicalELA.
2) Comment on my fellow poets’ work
Didn’t make the cut
The nightmares are ruthless, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Where I Am From
I am from fresh fruit,
from milk in glass bottles delivered to the porch,
always available, and
Smirnoff’s in the cupboard,
for only my dad to reach.
I am from the white stucco tract house
with green shutters
and seven kids (brimming, entangled,
trying to fit into the puzzle)
I am from the sweet guava tree
in the neighbor’s yard offering
boundless bounty
for those brave enough to climb.
I’m from camping in rugged Yellowstone
and big smiling teeth,
from Virginia and Richard
I’m from the put-on-a-happy-face and be-cute-at-all-costs family.
From “Clean your plate so the neighbors don’t think we’re starving you,” and
“Come home when the street lights turn on.”
I’m from real Jesus, not rubber Jesus,
and a grandma who helped me understand.
I’m Heinz 57,
from Ohio, on one side,
Texas and Georgia, on the other, some
went west with the railroad and made it to California.
I am from cornbread, pinto beans, macaroni and cheese and enchiladas.
I am from the birth of Scotty, my first nephew full of rubella birth defects
and Aunt Thelma, who made everyone laugh and always had See’s candy.
Photos were stored casually in cardboard boxes in my mother’s closet,
scattered memories, remnants of love and doing our best.
No Hand Shakes
Wink
Jazz Hands
Elbow bump
Namaste bow
Elegant curtsy
A Hunger Games salute
High five across two meters
Say hello, goodbye, good morning
Smize–smile with your eyes under your mask
Shoulder, hip or foot shakes — just no handshakes
My basil plant is getting smaller and smaller, weaker and weaker
Sweet Basil
Today I noticed
my sweet basil plant
dying in Bahrain.
Try as I might,
I can’t grow it here
All die.
It brought me back to a
better basil time
a summer in Iowa when
I had a basil bush—
exuberant and enormous,
verdant and lush,
flourishing,
nourishing my pride
as a gardener.
So much life
so it demanded to be brought
inside for the winter.
I stuck the shovel in
and carefully pulled out a
great mound
of silky clay loam,
the black earth
hugging the roots
of my prodigious prize.
I brought it indoors
in a hulk of a pot
and it satisfied us all winter.
As spring approached
I decided instead of one plant
that next summer
I needed a whole flowerbed
filled with sweet basil.
I clipped and trimmed, and
rooted a dozen-and-a-half
successors, so my
fine plant’s posterity was assured.
I carefully planted each one
giving them plenty of space
to later fill-in
and take over the bed
under our kitchen window.
A year’s feasting forthcoming!
pesto
Caprese salads
basil butter on garlic toast
basil vinaigrette
bruschetta
Margherita pizzas
broccoli basil soup
tomato, basil & mushroom frittata
cucumber- and basil-infused water
and…
Yes, thank you for taking my question. Wondering who all will get his aggression? What is the plan? Here it comes, oh man.
No, sir, I don’t work for them. Would it be disrespectful to clear my phlegm? I’m new with the AP. How can I flee?
I don’t see how that is relevant. Nasty? Ridiculous? Third-rate? How did HIllary handle it with such elegance? I need to escape to reality, I can’t wait.
Yes, sir, but I really just want to know about your plan. Would anyone be surprised if it included Fox and the Klan? You mentioned you had a plan. Oh, for scandals of suits of tan.
Sir, I was just asking about the details. If I lose the coin toss next time, I’ll yank out my nails.
An ekphrastic poem is written in response to a scene or work of art. I used this image from feminist.org, a photo of Alice Paul at the Seward-Belmont House. I wrote a Fib poem and reverse: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21,13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1.
Bust
Break
Me too,
Lucretia,
You wouldn’t believe
What we done made of this country
Slavery gone, racism stayed to our core, women vote,
But Hillary, Kamela, and Elizabeth are all shut down by 2020
You don’t want to know about 46-1
I won’t even go there, my friend
It is not pretty
Glad we don’t
Have to
Live
It
My friend sits over the flame
filled with sweet milky goodness
Both arms faithfully rigid
One points down like the arm of the driver
without functioning break lights
That one arm,
though the color of a stop sign,
Does not say, halt,
It says, drink up, dear
The other arm up,
hand held high,
waits to pour out
libations of luxury
in the morning
dad
sometimes symphonies
remain unfinished
a long long time ago
he was 43 years old
the devil’s only friend
the day the music died
he was singing
bye bye
too many kids to feed
too many emotions to weed
bye bye cigarettes
bye bye vodka
before they married
his widowed bride
was blind to
all the minor keys
in which he played
his childhood
a telling overture of the whole
rhythm and blues opera
what would an
abusive alcoholic’s
magnum opus
be anyway
maybe it was the
seven kids lost in space
trying not to misstep
bad news on the doorstep
they turned out nice
not into vice
stayed out of jail
tried not to fail
cute at all costs
not too many lost
to dysfunction with alcohol
one
when promoted to chp captain
asked mom,
watched him on the stage
hands clenched in fists of rage
do you think dad would be proud yet
Teeth
“Your girls have such big teeth!”
Our neighbor
was giving my mom a compliment.
My teenage sisters looked at her–
eye rolls postponed until after the goodbyes–
And smiled fakely,
light glinting off the
three piano keyboards,
(fortunately,
minus the sharps and flats.)
These Reed teeth
Dominate the genes
Because the next generation
was also initiated into
the big teeth club.
An indelible image
comes to mind:
My daughter’s first dental x-ray
“What is this?” I asked, pointing.
The dentist, not alarmed,
“A secondary incisor,
Her front tooth.
For later.”
Frightening!
Is that how Reed teeth look in a three-year-old?
I thought.
Those front teeth were like
masked, menacing miscreants,
lying in wait to strike. How can we stop the invasion? I wondered.
“Aren’t they too big?” I asked.
“She’ll grow into them.”
Sigh of relief.
Bread
Manna
Staff of life
Loaves freshly baked
Multi grain, whole wheat
Sour dough, comforting white
Not just loaves, but bagels, naan,
Muffins, sweet bread, pancakes, corn bread,
Tortillas, chapati, ciabatta
How many pounds and breads before we’re done?
Chief learner
Chief yearner
Yearner of joy
Yearner of purpose
Purpose in knowing
Purpose in giving
Giving to others
Giving myself
Myself even when a mess
Myself even when incomplete
Incomplete in this life
Incomplete alone
Alone but longing to be together
Alone but able to think
Think of the future
Think of joy
Joy that we are not alone
Joy in humanity
Humanity comes out
Humanity grows in crisis
Crisis of enemies
Crisis of belief
Belief in the good of others
Belief in benevolent leaders
Leaders who can be trusted
Leaders who earn our trust
Trust in leaders
Trust only in God
God who is Bread of Life
God who is Water
Water Living
Water cleansing
Cleansing our souls
Cleansing our thoughts
Thoughts of fear
Thoughts of escape
Escape from the unknown
Escape from the solitude
Solitude has its perks
Solitude becomes old
Old as fear
Old as joy
Joy in the Garden
Joy at the empty tomb
Tomb of life
Tomb of Rising
Rising on Easter
Rising for us
Us
Easter
