At the edge of the narrow road
I push the stroller, edge by edge
through the pinecone-littered streets,
through you and me and on to the park.
We stop and watch the trash truck–
the driver empties barrel by barrel,
Then we walk backwards so we can
appreciate the work of the
driver-dumper-in-one:
drive-stop-get-out-dump
barrel by barrel.
We turn and continue.
Now we climb hill by hill.
You are heavier this year
and I am older, hill by hill by
hill by hill, and my head is sweating
under my sun hat. It’s nice to finally
feel warm in Seattle. Soon we’re at the park.
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.
