Post-racial, non-discriminatory, tolerant, diverse
Accepting of all -- credos of a nation that proclaims itself great.
Meanwhile one out of every eight black men and boys go missing.
They disappear -- into jails, into morgues
And we shrug and wonder what happened.
What to do next
But we don't act; we simply wait for someone else to pick up the slack
After all, it's not me pointing the gun
Not me lowering the gavel.
Somehow, though, it is.
Silence is the true offender.
Silence keeps the myth of the American Dream alive.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Walkers
When you're on the down and out, conventional wisdom is to pick yourself up,
Get back on your feet, start walking again.
One step forward, two steps back --
some day the pattern reverses
as long as you keep moving forward,
one step at a time.
Walking down a busy street at rush hour,
I hear a car horn and a driver hailing me,
"Would you like a ride?"
"No thanks," I cheerfully reply.
The driver looks confused so I explain,
"This is my workout today."
A glimmer of light shimmers in her eyes
as she smiles and wishes me well.
Just walking won't cut it; a workout makes sense.
Fit-bits and pedometers measure our steps,
promising to make us fit.
Meanwhile, some walk the malls in frigid weather,
making friends and exchanging copies of India Abroad.
"Did you have a breakdown?"
"Are you trying to get somewhere?"
"Where are you going?"
It doesn't matter why or where, if you're just walking.
Do marchers in Baltimore wear fit-bits as a way of measuring the struggle for justice?
Does anyone offer them a ride?
Perhaps the police do.
Get back on your feet, start walking again.
One step forward, two steps back --
some day the pattern reverses
as long as you keep moving forward,
one step at a time.
Walking down a busy street at rush hour,
I hear a car horn and a driver hailing me,
"Would you like a ride?"
"No thanks," I cheerfully reply.
The driver looks confused so I explain,
"This is my workout today."
A glimmer of light shimmers in her eyes
as she smiles and wishes me well.
Just walking won't cut it; a workout makes sense.
Fit-bits and pedometers measure our steps,
promising to make us fit.
Meanwhile, some walk the malls in frigid weather,
making friends and exchanging copies of India Abroad.
"Did you have a breakdown?"
"Are you trying to get somewhere?"
"Where are you going?"
It doesn't matter why or where, if you're just walking.
Do marchers in Baltimore wear fit-bits as a way of measuring the struggle for justice?
Does anyone offer them a ride?
Perhaps the police do.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Cold feet
This morning the sun was shining brightly
but I rose with reluctance,
my body unwilling to shake off the slumber of sleep
after so many days without.
I started to write deprived,
but are you deprived when the reason for no sleep
is not about deprivation at all?
But rather about the joy of living life
to the fullest,
savoring time with old friends,
filling the brain with new thoughts,
the notebook with insights?
Is it unnatural to feel cold after an all night bus trip
that lets one experience a Greyhound
winding through small, rural, circuitous routes
in the darkness of the heartland.
I lived long days,
played and worked hard,
thought of sleep as an after thought,
something to catch up with later,
like friends whom you'll see just a few times
in life, after the intense era of daily contact.
For them, cold feet on a bright sunny morning
seems like a good reason to turn the alarm off.
but I rose with reluctance,
my body unwilling to shake off the slumber of sleep
after so many days without.
I started to write deprived,
but are you deprived when the reason for no sleep
is not about deprivation at all?
But rather about the joy of living life
to the fullest,
savoring time with old friends,
filling the brain with new thoughts,
the notebook with insights?
Is it unnatural to feel cold after an all night bus trip
that lets one experience a Greyhound
winding through small, rural, circuitous routes
in the darkness of the heartland.
I lived long days,
played and worked hard,
thought of sleep as an after thought,
something to catch up with later,
like friends whom you'll see just a few times
in life, after the intense era of daily contact.
For them, cold feet on a bright sunny morning
seems like a good reason to turn the alarm off.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Busy Work
(Inspired by another day of walking around the stone paths around a place where I once lived, a long time ago.)
Stones
that speak from the past whisper up memories of a right wing group of the past,
Busy work creates busy bees,
worker
bees,
docile
bodies,
compliant,
controllable,
disciplined.
What
happens when you stop working?
Can
you stop doing the work?
What
are the stakes in not doing the work?
of
a fascist who comes to campus to speak,
of
a crowd of "Communist" students who shout him down,
and
ultimately of the woman -- the unknown woman -- who throws a bucket of blood
all
over the fascist's three-piece suit.
That
shuts him down fast.
Students
march up and down the street.
It's
a victory for the "Communists" --
of
the pyrrhic sort.
Thirty
years later, a leftist is tagged
by
right wing groups
who try to derail a worker's efforts
to
land a reasonable job.
Busy
work keeps the gears turning,
and
it stops minds from thinking too hard.
More assignments,
more
reading,
more
writing,
pile it,
pile it, pile it on.
Friday, April 24, 2015
What is a museum?
A holding space for artifacts of the past,
curated by "experts" who claim a higher level
of knowledge on the things that matter to you.
Bold statements of who you are
and what you represent
made by somebody else.
Pretty displays, with informative plaques
that help you know yourself more
than you could imagine.
Public spaces for the elite,
refreshments for the artistically inclined.
Not the browsing aisles of the poor,
the weary, the downtrodden
those welcomed with stony open arms
at the shores of America.
But what if the narrative flipped?
The museum became not the static representation of past
but dynamic laboratory for envisioning the future?
Would the clientele change?
Would the mission change?
How might we see ourselves now?
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Being a stranger
Don't be a stranger"
-- a code word these days for hospitality.
Translated, it means:
Drop by anytime.
Come visit more often.
Stay in touch.
A way perhaps of telling a stranger
-- a visitor,
an outsider,
a friend of the past who no longer resides in your present --
that you still count, that you still matter, that you're still welcome to visit.
But perhaps to not stay forever.
What does it mean to be a stranger?
In a place where you came as a young person
and stayed as you aged,
as you made new friends who became old friends
and eventually your family
in the non-blood, communal sense?
As you saw your closest friends leave,
not for better places on earth
but for that elusive space known as the afterlife,
leaving you in the strange place that they once shared with you
alone,
with one less friendly face, one less person to share old stories,
one less person who once was like you,
a stranger in a place where you came as a young person,
a place that grew old and familiar
but never quite saw you as theirs.
-- a code word these days for hospitality.
Translated, it means:
Drop by anytime.
Come visit more often.
Stay in touch.
A way perhaps of telling a stranger
-- a visitor,
an outsider,
a friend of the past who no longer resides in your present --
that you still count, that you still matter, that you're still welcome to visit.
But perhaps to not stay forever.
What does it mean to be a stranger?
In a place where you came as a young person
and stayed as you aged,
as you made new friends who became old friends
and eventually your family
in the non-blood, communal sense?
As you saw your closest friends leave,
not for better places on earth
but for that elusive space known as the afterlife,
leaving you in the strange place that they once shared with you
alone,
with one less friendly face, one less person to share old stories,
one less person who once was like you,
a stranger in a place where you came as a young person,
a place that grew old and familiar
but never quite saw you as theirs.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Discomforts
Stepping onto stones on which I last walked at age 22
shakes my belief that I have finally, at age 52,
found a way to live fulfilled in my own skin.
Memories of wishing to be someone else waft back.
Feelings of failure, pressures to do better without really knowing
how to do better lie latent inside me,
like virile little cultures
waiting for the tiniest of incentives to grow.
My eyes blur more quickly now.
My energy ebbs at a faster pace.
Recovery still occurs, but as I step onto stones on which I walked at age 22,
I remember all nighters, late nighters, running outdoors late at night in a t-shirt disguised as a dress
wondering how I had the energy,
how I had the guts to think that I could do it at all.
On these stones, I remember disliking school,
not loving books,
just waiting to graduate.
It seems perhaps that these stones carry some
embodied wisdom. If I step on them again and ask them to share,
will they divulge?
Things We Carry
The Things We Carry
Books we might never read.
Papers we think we should read.
Bills we need to pay.
A pound of coffee for the brothers
who always leave their coffee behind
for me to consume.
The memories of parents
of suitcases lost
in journeys
from one continent
to the next.
The stories of memories
of baggage passed
from one generation
to the next
of old cars
finding new homes
and bags that lose purpose
when nomads stop being nomads
and settle
into middle aged life.
We dream of getting bills paid,
of getting all papers read,
and books finished off.
Then, a warm cat meows,
and a new chick is born,
and we forget to feel the weight
of the load that we carry
and live
like the animals do,
with each moment anew.
Books we might never read.
Papers we think we should read.
Bills we need to pay.
A pound of coffee for the brothers
who always leave their coffee behind
for me to consume.
The memories of parents
of suitcases lost
in journeys
from one continent
to the next.
The stories of memories
of baggage passed
from one generation
to the next
of old cars
finding new homes
and bags that lose purpose
when nomads stop being nomads
and settle
into middle aged life.
We dream of getting bills paid,
of getting all papers read,
and books finished off.
Then, a warm cat meows,
and a new chick is born,
and we forget to feel the weight
of the load that we carry
and live
like the animals do,
with each moment anew.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Cheese makers
(National Poetry Writing Month, Day 20. I chose to focus on a food I love and hope to make on my own someday)
Cheese makers
To make a basic cheese, start with milk.Boil it and add an acidic agent: lemon juice, vinegar, even yogurt will sometimes do.
Watch the milk froth over and separate.
All of a sudden you're left with a vat of curds and whey.
Curds create cheese; whey can feed the world -- or at least the world of the farm, if you happen to be a resident of such a place.
Pigs love whey. So do chickens, cats, and humans -- to an extent.
Whey also can balance soil, and help grass family plants like the asparagus break through chilly soil.
Draining whey from curds is anywhere from a six-hour to overnight process,
but the end result is cheese, your own fresh cheese.
Making cheese is simple.
Mastering the making of cheese is an art.
Like anything, it starts out as a simple practice:
Clean your kitchen,
sterilize all cooking vessels, stirring devices, and surfaces.
Wash your hands and change your shirt if you've been outdoors tending to the farm.
Quickly, in its elegant simplicity,
cheese becomes like wine: filled with complex flavors, textures, hues, qualities that are ultimately all about making the same thing different
in a hundred ways.
Like the graffiti tag, the figure skater, the gymnastics routine,
cheese strives to hide its complex underpinnings,
presenting itself to you as a hunk or round of an artfully fermented solid.
In truth, knowing cheese means knowing its main ingredient
is like the human body,
not a lot of fat,
not a lot of protein,
no fiber,
minimal carbohydrate.
Water, simply water.
Knowing cheese is manipulating milk --
The percentage of water extracted from a gallon of milk determines
its type: Feta about 40 percent water.
Chevre: 30.
Cheddar: 25.
Parmesan: Perhaps 10.
Sit someday, like I did one day, and sample an array of cheeses made from the same milk.
You'll discover a stunning insight: all cheeses taste alike.
Every cheese is different.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Morning
(This is National Poetry Writing Month, Day 18, take two. All month, I have felt my poems to be ostentatious and dull and have wondered how to break the mold. Epiphany at 11 p.m. helped me realize that I was writing without listening to my own voice. Hopefully, now, things will get better -- or at least funnier.)
Alarm rings at 5:45 a.m.
The cue for B-Girl, who's been sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at my slumbering body, to start pawing me awake.
The sky is light enough for the roosters to crow.
I rise, reluctantly, from the overnight warmth of blankets and body heat
and try to recapture the feeling in jeans.
Outdoors, a light dew decorates the slowly greening grass.
In the coop, the chickens have knocked over the feed trough again.
Only, I learn later, it is not the chickens who are to blame,
but rather the goats,
who, like wild puppies or the proverbial bulls in the china shop,
romp joyfully,
paying no heed to the damage they wreak.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker that withstood three major moves and ten years of marriage gives up the ghost,
prompting a panicked search for the campfire percolator,
last used in 2009 over an open fire in the Columbia Gorge,
where a man without a home traded armloads of brush to get a fire started for a handful of beans.
Coffee beans.
Caffeine is an equalizer across classes and other demographics.
We all need our morning coffee.
Alarm rings at 5:45 a.m.
The cue for B-Girl, who's been sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at my slumbering body, to start pawing me awake.
The sky is light enough for the roosters to crow.
I rise, reluctantly, from the overnight warmth of blankets and body heat
and try to recapture the feeling in jeans.
Outdoors, a light dew decorates the slowly greening grass.
In the coop, the chickens have knocked over the feed trough again.
Only, I learn later, it is not the chickens who are to blame,
but rather the goats,
who, like wild puppies or the proverbial bulls in the china shop,
romp joyfully,
paying no heed to the damage they wreak.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker that withstood three major moves and ten years of marriage gives up the ghost,
prompting a panicked search for the campfire percolator,
last used in 2009 over an open fire in the Columbia Gorge,
where a man without a home traded armloads of brush to get a fire started for a handful of beans.
Coffee beans.
Caffeine is an equalizer across classes and other demographics.
We all need our morning coffee.
Sleep
(Prompt from Poetic Asides was to create a poem with words that contained two particular vowels.)
Sleep watches me
keep my eyes and ears alert
and then
enacts the spell that
makes me yawn and fall asleep.
Sleep watches me
keep my eyes and ears alert
and then
enacts the spell that
makes me yawn and fall asleep.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Swings
(Today's prompt was to write a swing poem.)
If you don't know how to dance, try the swing.
It's simple: step to the right,
step to the left,
then swing backward, forward.
You're supposed to do it with a partner,
but it also works well alone.
Dancing tonight, a young girl, white;
young adults, all races and all ages, varied genders and body types.
A deejay spun, and the music pulsated,
as I swung awkwardly from one foot to the next
weighed down by backpack, laptop, and burdensome thoughts.
And then it occurred to me,
I could let my hair down.
I swung off my pack, shook off my thoughts,
and began to try the swing.
If you don't know how to dance, try the swing.
It's simple: step to the right,
step to the left,
then swing backward, forward.
You're supposed to do it with a partner,
but it also works well alone.
Dancing tonight, a young girl, white;
young adults, all races and all ages, varied genders and body types.
A deejay spun, and the music pulsated,
as I swung awkwardly from one foot to the next
weighed down by backpack, laptop, and burdensome thoughts.
And then it occurred to me,
I could let my hair down.
I swung off my pack, shook off my thoughts,
and began to try the swing.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
April snow
(Tired of prompts from NaPoWriMo.net, I returned to a previous year's source the Poetic Asides blog by Robert E. Brewer. He proposes a science poem.)
Highs have hit the 70s for several days.
Still, the snow lingers over woodlands blanketed by nettles of pine.
It is time, they say, to put the peas in the ground,
for the asparagus to push their mighty spears out of the soil,
and for ramps to appear in farmers markets.
Still, the chill persists amid otherwise bright sunshine,
keeping the fireplace warm and heaters on
as April passes the half-way mark.
Highs have hit the 70s for several days.
Still, the snow lingers over woodlands blanketed by nettles of pine.
It is time, they say, to put the peas in the ground,
for the asparagus to push their mighty spears out of the soil,
and for ramps to appear in farmers markets.
Still, the chill persists amid otherwise bright sunshine,
keeping the fireplace warm and heaters on
as April passes the half-way mark.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Airplanes
(Not really in response to any particular prompt, just what was on my mind)
Airplanes
It used to be so simple:
Book a flight.
Pack a bag.
Ask a friend for a ride to the airport,
and arrange for a pick-up at another.
The flight would be cramped,
but the trip would be an adventure.
The friends who took an hour out of their day would become willing accomplishes.
The system worked wonders from hub to hub.
But what happens when you reside in a spoke,
and not even a spoke -- but on the edge of the wheel that is an hour from the nearest spoke.
Booking a flight evolves into a series of questions:
One stop or two?
Is three quarters of an hour enough to get from an arriving terminal to a departing one?
Will there be an alternate flight if yours is canceled? Or is this the spoke's only opportunity to connect with another particular spoke today?
And what about the rides?
It's no longer an hour out of a day, but three on both ends.
And chances are good that the flight will depart at 6 a.m., forcing a departure from home at about 3:45 a.m.
Is it still such a friendly sky -- when a flight takes almost as long as a 1,000 mile drive?
Airplanes
It used to be so simple:
Book a flight.
Pack a bag.
Ask a friend for a ride to the airport,
and arrange for a pick-up at another.
The flight would be cramped,
but the trip would be an adventure.
The friends who took an hour out of their day would become willing accomplishes.
The system worked wonders from hub to hub.
But what happens when you reside in a spoke,
and not even a spoke -- but on the edge of the wheel that is an hour from the nearest spoke.
Booking a flight evolves into a series of questions:
One stop or two?
Is three quarters of an hour enough to get from an arriving terminal to a departing one?
Will there be an alternate flight if yours is canceled? Or is this the spoke's only opportunity to connect with another particular spoke today?
And what about the rides?
It's no longer an hour out of a day, but three on both ends.
And chances are good that the flight will depart at 6 a.m., forcing a departure from home at about 3:45 a.m.
Is it still such a friendly sky -- when a flight takes almost as long as a 1,000 mile drive?
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
So, what do we do now?
(Today's prompt was to write a poem involving dialogue.)
What do we do now?
Six hours of sleep four, five days in a row,
in sets the law of diminishing returns.
An auto-immune deficiency might be attacking the thyroid,
chewing at the jaw,
tightening the grip of the gums upon molars.
Quietly, sleep.
We are at peace.
We are living a good life,
and have overcome much difficulty.
Almost every hurdle you've cleared.
Now take a rest,
before the frenzy resumes
with the first crows of sunrise.
What do we do now?
Six hours of sleep four, five days in a row,
in sets the law of diminishing returns.
An auto-immune deficiency might be attacking the thyroid,
chewing at the jaw,
tightening the grip of the gums upon molars.
Quietly, sleep.
We are at peace.
We are living a good life,
and have overcome much difficulty.
Almost every hurdle you've cleared.
Now take a rest,
before the frenzy resumes
with the first crows of sunrise.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Breadth
(Today's prompt from Napowrimo.net was to write a riddle poem. I can't say more; otherwise, I'll give away all the clues. Here goes.)
Breadth
In a world where time equals money,
I am a wealthy misfit.
I reside on air,
thrive on demand for a slower pace,
away from the tyranny of the planner.
I swell the belly downward, the ribs outward.
I cause the breasts to rise and heave
as I force suspension.
I coax you into savoring the tension,
relaxing into the pause,
and then the release.
Breasts that once heaved sag.
Ribs that strutted outward compress,
and finally the belly shrinks into the naval
shriveling in relief.
Breadth
In a world where time equals money,
I am a wealthy misfit.
I reside on air,
thrive on demand for a slower pace,
away from the tyranny of the planner.
I swell the belly downward, the ribs outward.
I cause the breasts to rise and heave
as I force suspension.
I coax you into savoring the tension,
relaxing into the pause,
and then the release.
Breasts that once heaved sag.
Ribs that strutted outward compress,
and finally the belly shrinks into the naval
shriveling in relief.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Being outdoors
(Today's NaPoWriMo.net prompt was to write about your favorite room, place, meal, day, or person. I based this poem on a series of writings in nature that I did last fall as part of a workshop on Root, Word and Ritual in Storytelling. One thing I learned from the writings I did was that I love being in nature, as long as I'm not sitting still.)
My profession: books, desks,
offices, classrooms,
closed doors,
meetings, long hours
sitting and listening,
or trying to.
My favorite place: outdoors
in sun, in soil, sweating as I work out,
getting dirty as I make things grow.
The kitchen and food that I cook
from what grows outdoors.
I cannot write or teach outdoors.
Bugs, breezes, the sun's angle
all distract me. I hate sitting on uneven ground,
getting damp from dew lingering on grass,
itchy from organism residing in soil.
My favorite place requires
not sitting still.
My profession: books, desks,
offices, classrooms,
closed doors,
meetings, long hours
sitting and listening,
or trying to.
My favorite place: outdoors
in sun, in soil, sweating as I work out,
getting dirty as I make things grow.
The kitchen and food that I cook
from what grows outdoors.
I cannot write or teach outdoors.
Bugs, breezes, the sun's angle
all distract me. I hate sitting on uneven ground,
getting damp from dew lingering on grass,
itchy from organism residing in soil.
My favorite place requires
not sitting still.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Using memories
(Decided to totally ignore the NaPoWriMo.net prompt for tonight, and write a dedication to the power of memories. Credit to Keali'i Reichel's rendition of "Wanting Memories" (composed by Ysaye M. Barnwell. Here is a brief commentary from Barnwell on the lyrics, and here is Reichel's rendition)
I am sitting here in the empty space of upstate New York
no longer alone, no longer needing friends,
no longer wishing I could be somewhere else.
I think of times in places past -- in Seattle, in Hawai'i, in India --
and know that even as it's been such a long, long time
I am still using what I learned from those times
to inspire me now.
Your line was "I am sitting here wanting memories
to teach me to see the beauty in the world
through my own eyes."
Your sentiment was, for so many people, sad.
It was seemingly about trying to be happy after a loved one passed,
even as the composer notes it was not quite that, as yet.
For me, in 1995, -- it was about Hawai'i, and what it was, what it is:
A place sitting here wanting memories to teach it
to see the beauty in the world
through its own eyes,
and not the eyes of the Other
who exploited the Islands' resources and spirit,
yes, that aloha thing.
For me, in 2015, it is about where I am and what I am doing.
So far away, so far removed from the sun, the warmth, the ocean, the sand, the politics, the languages, the food.
I see the beauty of my world
in Hawai'i eyes.
The charm of the cold winds and unwilling to melt snow,
the chunks of ice that still float on lakes, not ocean,
the warmth that requires raking coals, tossing on more logs, not letting the fire
of family and friendship and companionship
die out. There is sand from the creek, politics in gun rights,
resistance to languages,
suspicions of food.
But there is beauty. Slowly, like the first spring shoots of the asparagus and garlic
that thrived beneath the snow, the beauty of the world
emerges
in our own eyes.
Using memories
It's been 20 years since your song changed my life forever.I am sitting here in the empty space of upstate New York
no longer alone, no longer needing friends,
no longer wishing I could be somewhere else.
I think of times in places past -- in Seattle, in Hawai'i, in India --
and know that even as it's been such a long, long time
I am still using what I learned from those times
to inspire me now.
Your line was "I am sitting here wanting memories
to teach me to see the beauty in the world
through my own eyes."
Your sentiment was, for so many people, sad.
It was seemingly about trying to be happy after a loved one passed,
even as the composer notes it was not quite that, as yet.
For me, in 1995, -- it was about Hawai'i, and what it was, what it is:
A place sitting here wanting memories to teach it
to see the beauty in the world
through its own eyes,
and not the eyes of the Other
who exploited the Islands' resources and spirit,
yes, that aloha thing.
For me, in 2015, it is about where I am and what I am doing.
So far away, so far removed from the sun, the warmth, the ocean, the sand, the politics, the languages, the food.
I see the beauty of my world
in Hawai'i eyes.
The charm of the cold winds and unwilling to melt snow,
the chunks of ice that still float on lakes, not ocean,
the warmth that requires raking coals, tossing on more logs, not letting the fire
of family and friendship and companionship
die out. There is sand from the creek, politics in gun rights,
resistance to languages,
suspicions of food.
But there is beauty. Slowly, like the first spring shoots of the asparagus and garlic
that thrived beneath the snow, the beauty of the world
emerges
in our own eyes.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Alphabet soup
Today's prompt was to write a poem that included all the letters of the English alphabet. I was tired after driving home from my parents place in Indiana, a distance of 750 miles, and basically wanted to get the task out of the way. Still, the exercise was interesting and useful. Here's what I came up with:
After a long day of driving, I
Behold Friday night at
Cantina's restaurant.
Dueling conversations --
Ephemeral,
Fleeting,
Gossiping,
Happy --
Infiltrate the air.
Joining the party would feel festive if I were still the
Kind of girl who
Likes to go out.
Money is a bit tight.
Nothing comes cheap but
Opulence reigns in
Poblanos con
Queso.
Routine Friday nights of days past
star
Tequila
under cubes of ice. For
Variety try the
Winning
XTreme. It is
Yellow hotness and
Zest.
After a long day of driving, I
Behold Friday night at
Cantina's restaurant.
Dueling conversations --
Ephemeral,
Fleeting,
Gossiping,
Happy --
Infiltrate the air.
Joining the party would feel festive if I were still the
Kind of girl who
Likes to go out.
Money is a bit tight.
Nothing comes cheap but
Opulence reigns in
Poblanos con
Queso.
Routine Friday nights of days past
star
Tequila
under cubes of ice. For
Variety try the
Winning
XTreme. It is
Yellow hotness and
Zest.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Hope
(Today's Nanowrimo.net prompt was to create a visual poem. I used 750words.com to freewrite some thoughts on the future, the past, the present, the value of friends, the connectedness of family and put them into a word cloud at Wordle.net.)
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Retraction
Retraction:
I write my poem, entitled "Two Years Later," paste it onto my blog, and load the link onto Facebook.
Within seconds, I hear from my husband who is back at home in upstate New York while I am away in Indiana:
"Hun, they were bombs, not guns."
"In the poem?"
"Yes."
And, so, what I previously said about guns,
make that bombs.
I write my poem, entitled "Two Years Later," paste it onto my blog, and load the link onto Facebook.
Within seconds, I hear from my husband who is back at home in upstate New York while I am away in Indiana:
"Hun, they were bombs, not guns."
"In the poem?"
"Yes."
And, so, what I previously said about guns,
make that bombs.
Two years later
(I sort of ignored the prompt from NaPoWriMo.net for today. But the poem below alludes to it.)
Executive decision:
We leave Friday, not Thursday.
We set a goal of leaving at 4 a.m., with hopes of being home by 6 p.m.
Ten kilometer fun run the next day.
Project for the day is to retract a statement from a previous day.
This might be the first prompt I ignore.
I'm not in the mood for retractions,
for reflections on how what I once asserted
in verse
has changed or mellowed with time.
But since someone has asked:
Two years ago, I had quit drinking.
Tonight, I had a glass of wine.
Four years ago, I was told I would be spending the rest of my life
on blood pressure and cholesterol meds.
Tonight, I am taking only vitamins.
Seven years ago, I thought I was done with marathons.
Tonight, I ran 3.4 miles with the intention
of keeping up my training for a marathon I plan to run in September.
The news is full of the verdict in Boston
and the word "marathon" is in heavy use.
Two years ago, a gunman opened fire in Boston.
I missed out on the immediate news because I was recovering from wisdom teeth surgery.
Later, I realized that this would have been the marathon I would have run,
if my dream of qualifying for Boston at age fifty had materialized.
I wasn't sure I still had a marathon in me at age fifty,
but I ran one that year -- for Boston and for me.
And I decided that I still have some marathons within me.
So I'll keep running
a little while longer.
Executive decision:
We leave Friday, not Thursday.
We set a goal of leaving at 4 a.m., with hopes of being home by 6 p.m.
Ten kilometer fun run the next day.
Project for the day is to retract a statement from a previous day.
This might be the first prompt I ignore.
I'm not in the mood for retractions,
for reflections on how what I once asserted
in verse
has changed or mellowed with time.
But since someone has asked:
Two years ago, I had quit drinking.
Tonight, I had a glass of wine.
Four years ago, I was told I would be spending the rest of my life
on blood pressure and cholesterol meds.
Tonight, I am taking only vitamins.
Seven years ago, I thought I was done with marathons.
Tonight, I ran 3.4 miles with the intention
of keeping up my training for a marathon I plan to run in September.
The news is full of the verdict in Boston
and the word "marathon" is in heavy use.
Two years ago, a gunman opened fire in Boston.
I missed out on the immediate news because I was recovering from wisdom teeth surgery.
Later, I realized that this would have been the marathon I would have run,
if my dream of qualifying for Boston at age fifty had materialized.
I wasn't sure I still had a marathon in me at age fifty,
but I ran one that year -- for Boston and for me.
And I decided that I still have some marathons within me.
So I'll keep running
a little while longer.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Money
(Today's NaPoWriMo.net prompt was to write about money and value.)
Money
It always seems short,
shy of enough. Plastic cards cannot replace
the feel and smell of green-backs and sweat laden coins,
only confuse the meaning of money and value.
I have been told that it is nothing,
just money.
But when I am short, every penny seems like a lot.
Money
It always seems short,
shy of enough. Plastic cards cannot replace
the feel and smell of green-backs and sweat laden coins,
only confuse the meaning of money and value.
I have been told that it is nothing,
just money.
But when I am short, every penny seems like a lot.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Who will be the first to disrupt my strategic plan?
 |
| Pascha (by Jim Gupta-Carlson) |
The sky lightens;
the grip of cat paws on skin tightens,
wake up, wake up, wake up!
The birds are chirping and soon the roosters will crow
as the hen clucks rise in crescendo
demanding release from the night's safety of coop
and yet another day to free range over the receding heaps
of melting snow.
It is Monday, a week with a clean slate so far.
I enter the morning with three strong cups of coffee,
a notebook and smooth rolling pen
mapping out my strategic plan.
The goats bleat.
They are waiting -- as are seeds rolling impatiently in paper packets --
for the snow to melt
and the ground to thaw, yielding
buds of thistle, shamrock, and clover, amid
sprigs of spring wheat.
I exit my house and enter my car.
"Manic Monday" jangles on.
In my office, e-mail -- at rest over the weekend --
has kicked into high gear.
To dos become one hopes,
and one hope,
one prayer,
one wish as the solidity of the strategic plan
melts into air.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Meeting the road
(Today's prompt from http://www.napowrimo.net was to work with an Emily Dickinson poem, with an ultimate goal of using one of her poems as a sort of inspiration for a new poem of one's own. I chose a poem entitled "I started early -- took my dog -- ", which I found at the Poetry Foundation site to which the poem links, and played with the prompt from there. Part of my subject matter was my primary activity for the day: driving 750 miles alone, mostly along Interstate 90, from 6:30 a.m. to about 8 p.m. Here's what I came up with:
I started early.
I took my coffee and met the road.
The squirrels at ground zero came out to greet me
and ravens in the upper stories extended coal hands
presuming me to be no more than a speck of the day's fare.
My radio played through jazz and hip-hop, and praises to Jesus in genres across multiple cultures.
But no song moved me till the road rumbling under reached in.
Its vibration joined my trembling dashboard and my driver's seat, too, and made as it would take me in completely.
And then I was all involved, too.
No one seemed to know.
I exited the freeway; barely acknowledging my existence, the road withdrew.
I started early.
I took my coffee and met the road.
The squirrels at ground zero came out to greet me
and ravens in the upper stories extended coal hands
presuming me to be no more than a speck of the day's fare.
My radio played through jazz and hip-hop, and praises to Jesus in genres across multiple cultures.
But no song moved me till the road rumbling under reached in.
Its vibration joined my trembling dashboard and my driver's seat, too, and made as it would take me in completely.
And then I was all involved, too.
No one seemed to know.
I exited the freeway; barely acknowledging my existence, the road withdrew.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Uncontrolled chaos
The prompt from NaPoWriMo.net for today was to write a "loveless" love poem, a work about love without the word or any of the usual Hallmark card cliched sentiments associated with that word. I played around with a few versions in two unlikely places of love -- the farmers market and the laundromat. Here's what I came up with:
the chocolate,
the diamond rings,
the five star restaurants
and escapes to the exotic.
From you, I receive a morning cup of coffee,
a fresh loaf of bread,
a warm body, and
a home of uncontrolled
passionate chaos
that raises the tempo of my pulse and fuels the fire of the free spirited,
keeping us alive and hearty
from dawn to well past dusk.
 |
| From http://easternphi.blogspot.com/2011_10_01_archive.html |
Uncontrolled chaos
Forget the flowers,the chocolate,
the diamond rings,
the five star restaurants
and escapes to the exotic.
From you, I receive a morning cup of coffee,
a fresh loaf of bread,
a warm body, and
a home of uncontrolled
passionate chaos
that raises the tempo of my pulse and fuels the fire of the free spirited,
keeping us alive and hearty
from dawn to well past dusk.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Dying for sins?
(The NaPoWriMo.net prompt for the day is to write what's called a "fourteener". The site and a Wikipedia entry on the subject define "fourteeners" as poems that contain an unspecified number of lines, with each line consisting of fourteen syllables. The form was popular in England during the 16th and 17th centuries, and is especially suited to narrative poetry. I have been thinking about the day -- Good Friday -- and the weekend of Passover (for Jews) and Easter (for Christians, of the non-Orthodox Eastern lineages), and how this particular weekend might hold some philosophical value to those who do not necessarily affiliate with faith.)The time of sacrifice began forty days earlier
with Lent, and the calling to give something up for a time.
Maybe chocolate, maybe wine, maybe a bad habit
accrued over years. It was about doing more, having less
and seeing the good in all. Or maybe not. I am not
a religious person, but I like Lent. I like letting
go of things that no longer serve a reasonable whim.
Lent brings on a time of cleaning and clearing out old dust.
Sunday palms graced churches for reasons that those not born in
by-the-book homes fathom. But the effect is delightful
in contrast with the somber tones that settle in Thursday,
as it is recalled that a man was arrested and then
sentenced for the sin of being a social radical.
Dragged through streets, whipped, denied drink, then nailed to a high wood cross,
the man died. That much is fact. The rest is belief and faith.
He might have risen from death. People reported sightings,
even conversations. It doesn't matter. He left us
a legacy that has been distorted. We only learn
that "Christ died for our sins," that we are forgiven of sin.
We are told by the by-the-book people to hate others,
in the name of the man who died for us. That is the sin.
We forget that perhaps this guy died for his politics,
like black youth who face off with police, for committing crimes
of wanting acceptance and a place in a society
that preaches hate for them, and upholds white supremacy
and fears social radicals. Can we celebrate the man
not for dying for sins but instead for offering us
a way to create a fairer, safer, and richer world?
Thursday, April 2, 2015
The Earth Has Shifted
(Today's prompt from NaPoWriMo.net was to look to the stars. In considering the stars, I was reminded of a piece from the news media site Indian Life in which Inuit elders were warning NASA and others of a shift in the earth's tilt. The "wobble" to the north had affected the skies. The poem that follows stems from the piece.)
If the earth has shifted, as Inuit elders across the Arctic report,
what becomes of the stars?
Is the North Star still the true north,
the guidepost for maritime navigators of the Pacific?
Does it still make sense to sleep with the head looking east,
to face Mecca when it is time for the Muslims call to prayer,
to plant in accordance with the waxing and waning moon,
to call the first day of spring the equinox and the last day of summer by the same name?
Inuit who reside all over the Arctic say the earth has wobbled toward the north.
For them, the sky has changed.
They report longer days, faster transitions from cool to warm,
and a growing lack of certainty
with the rhythm of nature that set the pace of their life for many generations.
It seems ironic that just as recipients of the westward march toward progress see the folly
of trying to control nature,
nature laughs back and changes the balance of power once more.
The Earth Has Shifted
 |
| From https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGcDed4xVD4 |
If the earth has shifted, as Inuit elders across the Arctic report,
what becomes of the stars?
Is the North Star still the true north,
the guidepost for maritime navigators of the Pacific?
Does it still make sense to sleep with the head looking east,
to face Mecca when it is time for the Muslims call to prayer,
to plant in accordance with the waxing and waning moon,
to call the first day of spring the equinox and the last day of summer by the same name?
Inuit who reside all over the Arctic say the earth has wobbled toward the north.
For them, the sky has changed.
They report longer days, faster transitions from cool to warm,
and a growing lack of certainty
with the rhythm of nature that set the pace of their life for many generations.
It seems ironic that just as recipients of the westward march toward progress see the folly
of trying to control nature,
nature laughs back and changes the balance of power once more.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Reflection
Preliminary matter: I'm going to start my work with poetry for 2015's National Poetry Writing Month by following prompts from the NaPoWriMo.Net web site. There are two prompts available currently, one of which I saw late last night and has been on my mind throughout the day. The other prompt, I guess, is the official prompt of the day, and it is to write a poem of negation, to essentially describe something in terms of what it is not. I might use that prompt at some point. For now, I would like to call up the prompt from last night.
Here is the text, quoted from NaPoWriMo's site: "Take a look at this poem by Bernadette Mayer, a “New York School” poet whose highly influential book, Sonnets, was recently reissued by Tender Buttons Press. Like other poets associated with the New York School, Mayer pushed the boundaries of what poetry could be and could talk about, writing in a straightforward, highly vernacular style that belies the rhetorical complexity of the work. Mayer’s lamentation for the other lives we could have led is something we probably have all felt." .The prompt is to write a poem that begins with the opening line that Bernadette Mayer uses "I guess it's too late to live on a farm." Or, if you live on a farm (which I do), write from an opening line of "I guess it's too late to live in the city" or "on a boat."
I am intrigued by this poem because the poet titles it as an essay. I also feel like I heard a riff on this poem a couple of years ago at the Renesselaerville Writers Festival, where the poet was lamenting the fact that it was too late to ride a pony. I spend a great deal of my own time imagining ways to live the other lives that I do not actually lead. I also spend a fair amount of time comforting myself about the fact that even if I am feeling a strain of lament, I probably have lived the life I wishing to lead at some point in the past. For instance, I cannot be too regretful about not living in a big city because I lived in big cities quite happily for many of my adult years and when I moved to the small, rural community where I live now I did so with the happy anticipation of being able to live out in the country on a farm. So the prompt set me off on a string of questions about life's regrets. What are those regrets, I wonder. How real are they? How deep?
I also like the flow of this poem, and so I thought it might be interesting to write a poem that mimics this poem.
So without further ado, that is what I am going to try.
Reflection, by Himanee Gupta-Carlson
I guess it's too late to become a yoga instructor.
I guess it's too late to move to India to study yoga.
I guess it's too late to start teaching yoga.
I guess it's too late to begin being a yoga instructor.
I guess I'll never be a yoga instructor.
I guess I'm too impatient to teach yoga.
I guess I couldn't afford the teacher training workshops anyway.
I guess we weren't all meant to be yoga instructors.
I guess I'll never teach yoga now.
I guess teaching yoga is not part of the plan now.
I guess my husband wouldn't like to be the spouse of a yoga instructor.
I guess I can't expect I'll ever teach yoga now.
I guess I'll have to give up my dreams of teaching yoga now.
I guess I'll never be a yoga instructor now.
I couldn't be a yoga instructor anyway though I know people who have done the teacher training.
Maybe someday I'll have a new yoga mat.
I guess teaching yoga is really out.
Showing students how to do yogic breaths and downward dog, walking between rows of bodies stretched out on mats
I guess teaching yoga is just too difficult.
I'll never teach yoga.
Too much work and still to be a writer and college professor.
Who are the professor yogis?
Was there ever a professor who earned a living teaching yoga?
All of the first yogis were learned people.
But very few yogis are real professors,
Perhaps some professors in the past were supporters of yogis.
I guess professors tend to think more critically
than the space of yogic breathing would allow.
You could never introduce a round of sun salutations into a regular class.
Or expect students with learning challenges or physical and mental disabilities to learn yoga in the way that I would like to teach it.
I don't want to be a yoga instructor, but my mother was right:
I shouldn't have forgotten about my Indian heritage. I should have remembered my roots.
I am among the diaspora Indians who feel uncomfortable in yoga classes,
taught by teachers with physical skills but uneducated into the systematic philosophy of yoga,
unable to understand the holism of the practice with life.
Steadfast as any philosophy and fixed in its precepts,
providing a navigational wheel to guide us through migratory cycles of life.
Here is the text, quoted from NaPoWriMo's site: "Take a look at this poem by Bernadette Mayer, a “New York School” poet whose highly influential book, Sonnets, was recently reissued by Tender Buttons Press. Like other poets associated with the New York School, Mayer pushed the boundaries of what poetry could be and could talk about, writing in a straightforward, highly vernacular style that belies the rhetorical complexity of the work. Mayer’s lamentation for the other lives we could have led is something we probably have all felt." .The prompt is to write a poem that begins with the opening line that Bernadette Mayer uses "I guess it's too late to live on a farm." Or, if you live on a farm (which I do), write from an opening line of "I guess it's too late to live in the city" or "on a boat."
I am intrigued by this poem because the poet titles it as an essay. I also feel like I heard a riff on this poem a couple of years ago at the Renesselaerville Writers Festival, where the poet was lamenting the fact that it was too late to ride a pony. I spend a great deal of my own time imagining ways to live the other lives that I do not actually lead. I also spend a fair amount of time comforting myself about the fact that even if I am feeling a strain of lament, I probably have lived the life I wishing to lead at some point in the past. For instance, I cannot be too regretful about not living in a big city because I lived in big cities quite happily for many of my adult years and when I moved to the small, rural community where I live now I did so with the happy anticipation of being able to live out in the country on a farm. So the prompt set me off on a string of questions about life's regrets. What are those regrets, I wonder. How real are they? How deep?
I also like the flow of this poem, and so I thought it might be interesting to write a poem that mimics this poem.
So without further ado, that is what I am going to try.
Reflection, by Himanee Gupta-Carlson
I guess it's too late to become a yoga instructor.
I guess it's too late to move to India to study yoga.
I guess it's too late to start teaching yoga.
I guess it's too late to begin being a yoga instructor.
I guess I'll never be a yoga instructor.
I guess I'm too impatient to teach yoga.
I guess I couldn't afford the teacher training workshops anyway.
I guess we weren't all meant to be yoga instructors.
I guess I'll never teach yoga now.
I guess teaching yoga is not part of the plan now.
I guess my husband wouldn't like to be the spouse of a yoga instructor.
I guess I can't expect I'll ever teach yoga now.
I guess I'll have to give up my dreams of teaching yoga now.
I guess I'll never be a yoga instructor now.
I couldn't be a yoga instructor anyway though I know people who have done the teacher training.
Maybe someday I'll have a new yoga mat.
I guess teaching yoga is really out.
Showing students how to do yogic breaths and downward dog, walking between rows of bodies stretched out on mats
I guess teaching yoga is just too difficult.
I'll never teach yoga.
Too much work and still to be a writer and college professor.
Who are the professor yogis?
Was there ever a professor who earned a living teaching yoga?
All of the first yogis were learned people.
But very few yogis are real professors,
Perhaps some professors in the past were supporters of yogis.
I guess professors tend to think more critically
than the space of yogic breathing would allow.
You could never introduce a round of sun salutations into a regular class.
Or expect students with learning challenges or physical and mental disabilities to learn yoga in the way that I would like to teach it.
I don't want to be a yoga instructor, but my mother was right:
I shouldn't have forgotten about my Indian heritage. I should have remembered my roots.
I am among the diaspora Indians who feel uncomfortable in yoga classes,
taught by teachers with physical skills but uneducated into the systematic philosophy of yoga,
unable to understand the holism of the practice with life.
Steadfast as any philosophy and fixed in its precepts,
providing a navigational wheel to guide us through migratory cycles of life.
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