Back, sadly

I did write over spring break. Perhaps not a poem a day, but I'm not flagellating myself about it. I'll post them as I get them typed, unedited and unpolished, as usual; mere sneezes on the page.

Spring Break

Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."

The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.

Today,

I am on spring break. Those words alone are poetry enough to my ears.

Yesterday's poem,

which I wrote (well, sneezed) yesterday, but which I could not post as I am without a computer right now. (Hard drive full; how can such a thing be possible?) I'm stealing some time on POM's laptop.

Maundy Thursday

Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.

Short one...zzzzz...

Four a.m.
comes early, ma'am,
and I must go to bed.

Hey, it's raining (yes, in SoCal)!

Today's prompt (actually it's tomorrow's, but being on the left coast has its advantages): List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame. If all else fails, write a list poem giving your old flames new names.

an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.

i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.

he ran away.

i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.

Late Poem

That's right, folks! We have everything here: highbrow, lowbrow, and whatever comes below that. I wrote this last night but was too sleepy to post it.

Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.

Of the moment

Not a NaPoWriMo prompt poem, but a poem nonetheless, completely rough and raw and essentially unedited, as are most of the poems I publish here.

Palm Dualities

He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.

What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.

My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.

On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.


[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]

Can I lie and say...

...it's a prose poem?

The Assignment:

Saturdays in my town people go to the hardware store to stock up on supplies for sprucing up their homes. Spring is a great time to apply a fresh coat of paint on old furniture, walls or maybe even a poem or two! Here’s the idea –- go to the hardware store (or an online paint store), and look up some colors you like. They tend to have evocative names, like white truffle or blackberry harvest. Maybe the whole idea of a hardware store makes you yawn, or worse, cringe. If so, head over to the make up counter, or browse the Clinique Eyeshadow store online. The idea is to find a color or two, write the phrase on a card, and then write down the associations you have with the phrase. Do a five minute free-write, and then turn your musings into a poem.

My Perhaps-Poetic Non-Poem

Why do so many makeup products come in various colors of nude? If one is going to approximate nudity, why doesn’t one just go nude and save the extra step? I also notice many variations on chocolates and berries and wines. But wouldn’t chocolate taste better than lipstick? And wouldn’t a berry stain last longer on the lips than lip-supposed-stick? And the process of coloring one’s lips with actual wine seems to be much more enjoyable than painting on a faint imitation of the real thing. And now I must make comment upon some actual colors (I believe these are from Clinique):
plum(b) nude – As we are all born, and my state for showering.
twilight nude – No, I take my showers in the morning usually.
nude beach – Hmmm, salacious! (Cover the kids’ eyes.)
creamy nude – Some are blessed, I suppose.
blushing nude – I would think so! I certainly would be, with an audience.
nude rose – Let’s hope! Why would a rose wear clothes?
metallic sand – Might hurt the toes
mochaberry – The dangers of genetic modification?
Lancome gets a little more creative, though their titles run to the prescriptive. Pink to the Club, one supposes, should be worn to a club…as opposed to the Pink in the Limo, which one presumes should be worn in the Hummer limousine. (But what if I’m not in a pink-y sort of mood?) One wonders at their Prune Drama Girl; pictures of a geriatric hysteric come to mind. Rock Icon Pink seems to explain itself. Brick House, not so much. I think my preferences run more toward the Urban Decay approach. Their lipsticks come in such rich, realistic titles as Indecent (pale peach), Gash (blood red), Hotpants (pink), Jailbait (nude, of course), Sellout (neutral), and Trainwreck, Pistol, and Buzzkill. At least they’re honest. And in the interest of honesty, I should add that I have not worn any form of makeup in about a decade.

Too sleepy to mean much

This is what comes of attempting poetry borne of sleep deprivation and after two of the most exhausting weeks ever (I blame teaching writing). This one should stay on the scratch pad as one of Annie Lamott's famed 'shitty first drafts.' But I'm on a three-day roll and it's too soon to quit, so I will click 'publish' anyway. Read at your own peril.

The prompt for today is “three in a row.” Write about how “three in a row” means you’ve won something, like a game of tic tac toe or a jackpot from a slot machine. Or write about the superstition about how bad things come in threes: deaths, injuries, failing household appliances. Wonder how a string of three represents both good and bad luck. Think about any sets of three you have in your life: cats, kids, husbands, anything! (For the record, I have six cats, three kids and one husband. How about you?) Explore what people mean when they say, “Third time’s a charm!” Consider a third place win, a trio, the trinity.

Tres

It’s the third day
of the fourth month (error!),
and I’m compelled to think
of threes.
The fallible ‘they’ say
celebrity deaths come in threes.
The egg is three but one,
like God.
Our cat household
just increased by three,
and my students still think
all essays must have just
three body paragraphs (error!).
The waltz beats three
(though the heart beats two);
a count of three begins the race
(ready, set, go)
(eins, zwei, drei).
When the evening and the morning
were the third day,
God made land and grass and trees;
and on the third day, He rose again.
The stoplight in red, yellow, green
says stop slow go.
A talisman, our prayers in threes:
lordhavemercyuponus,
christhavemercyuponus,
lordhavemercyuponus or
helpmehelpmehelpme or
damndamndamn or
nonono or
ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.
And my sleepstarved brain asks
so what, so what, so what?
And the universe delivers
Julian’s answer:
All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Amen.

First Yoga Class Ever...

...and I feel good! (Except I should not have eaten afterward. Just water would have done. Oh, well, next time.)

The Assignment:

“Stretchy Metaphors” -- It’s day two of NaPoWriMo, and we’re feeling fresh, invigorated, ready for anything, right? Here’s today’s challenge: find five verbs and five nouns from one subject area, and use them to write about another subject. My son had this assignment in his college poetry class, and he culled his words from biology and then wrote about technology. The idea is to create an extended metaphor in a short poem, of maybe ten to twelve lines.
Happy poeming!

The Product: comparing yoga practice to teaching high school English (hmmmm)

[Disclaimer -- It's not short. Oh, well. And it needs work. Oh, well.]

English Class: Namaste

Every class feels like
my first –
a veteran but always a beginner.

I am teacher and also student.
I bend and stretch myself
across the text as I ask them
to follow me
but still honor their own
bodies and minds
at whatever level they are today.

I demonstrate poses,
the literary sort,
teach them to breathe language in,
breathe language out,
put my hand on their shoulder
when they need help reaching
or keeping their backs straight
while twisting,
provide a block
when they need support or
can’t quite touch the ground
and still breathe.

Notice. Feel. Focus.

I ask them to focus
on their brain’s breath,
on the transitions
between inhale and exhale,
between stanzas and tones,
on change and
what it does to us.

I ask them to swan dive
to the bottom of an argument,
to fold themselves into a
character.

I teach them,
or try,
to feel the energy
in their voice.
I ask them to open
the front and back doors
of their heart.

Yeah, we'll see.

NaPoWriMo? I'm not gonna promise. No way. I'm doing well just to keep my Lenten vows, and those are made to God, for pete's sake! And we all know how well my photo365 went! But we'll see. I'll just do one today. And it's completely silly. Heh.

The assignment:

Welcome to National Poetry Month! We’re going to start off easy. Metaphor. The definition that I like best is “two disparate things yoked together to create new meaning.” Not sure where I heard that — might have been a professor, might have been a drunken poet… . Either way, it’s an apt description!

Right now, at this very minute, list five things in front of you. In front of you being a relative term: on your desk, on your arm, out your window … . Choose the two most disparate things and yoke them together into a fabulous metaphor. Now, use it in a poem.

* * *

These are my five things, except I can never follow rules, so there are six.

lamp
Wite-out
picture
bracelet
monitor
cat food

And here's my silly poem:

Cat food lamp

The cat food bin sits
three-quarters full,
a sign of hope
against the fear of not enough.

The lamp gives less than
ideal light –
harsh, glaring –
and still a sign of hope
against the fear of dark and void.

This month of spring,
this month, April,
a month of spring
break, and lighter
evenings, and
garden flower abundance –
my sign of hope
against the fear of not enough
against the fear of dark and void

a cat food lamp unto my feet.

It's April, and that means...

...it's National Poetry Month! I subscribed to the Poem-a-Day email from Poets.org, and today I read their first poem with my sophomore classes. It was an interesting little one by Jack Gilbert. I've decided my kids need more poetry in their diets; their poor souls are starving. Perhaps brief daily exposure to poems will help somewhat. If nothing else, it may make them realize that poetry is nothing to be afraid of (in a bad sense, anyway).