I Will Exercise Every Day

I will exericse my right
to feel human,
to be C__
and not Ms. G___.

I will exercise my ability
to move;
I will move my body, yes,
and I will move the
minds of my students,
hearts of my readers.

I will exercise my freedom
to sleep,
to sleep thoroughly and deeply
and, on weekends, long.

I will exercise the freedom
of speech,
my right to opine and whine,
to declare offense
and common sense.

(Didn't you resolve to swear less?"
a colleague asks.
No, I will exercise my right
not to make certain resolutions,
my freedom to retain
certain vices and
focus on others.
Therefore, I will
exercise my ability,
however unwise,
to say "f*ck.")

I will exercise my attitude,
give the old bitch a workout;
and I will exercise
my muscles of humility.
I will exercise the
ironic beauty of paradox.

Yes, in this new year,
I will exercise every day.

Poems and Photos and Rain

It's the first day of spring, and we are wind-whipped and rain-drenched, and I am not complaining one whit about it.  For Lent, I have been working through a contemplative photography course, offered by Christine at Abbey of the Arts.  You can see some of the images I've been receiving and reflecting upon at Flickr.  For this week, she gave us a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye (click here to read it), and what I took away from the poem, among its lovely images, was this line:  "Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us / we find poems."  Then I wrote one in personal response.


Poems Hide




The poem today rests

in my lower back, which aches from sitting to write too much

(too much sitting? too much writing?);

in the painful vein on the back of my thigh just above my knee,

a veiny area that feels it might burst;

in my wet cat, caught in the raingale,

dabbed dampdry with a half-used napkin from dinner;

in the attractive silvering hair of our tax lady,

with her black Volvo and black laptop;

in the alto deeps of Amy Grant on the iPod

whose albums have been on repeat for two months;

in the raindrops on the louvered windowpanes,

drops oranged by the sodium streetlight just outside

on the curb in which flow rainstreams with yellow pollen edges.

Tonight I reinvent the fwump and revving of the furnace motor

as it blows warming air only to the top floor of our home,

find the poem in the cornbread from a mix,

sweet like cake and crusty brown on the edges from cooking two minutes too long,

in the whiny mournful cat who does not want to go outside and does not want to stay in,

in the cooling wind that enters my inefficient home to blow the curtains and the edge of the rug,

in the chore of laundry that affords warm time for prayers as I fold underwear and socks.

Perhaps I will even find the poem in the ungraded papers that sit atop my table

and weigh me down with guilt and self-criticism.

I don't feel like being newsy

...so I attempted a quickie poem instead.  (This one is from a "line by line" prompt at WeWritePoems.) 


Writing Assignment

Sloth and frustration –
stacks of books unread, tall and tottery,
     my prison cell;
laptop, staring with accusing eye, shakes its head, disgusted,
     my jailer, glaring, taunts and jingles the keys of freedom.

When I was eight, my gift was a typewriter,
brown and plastic, cheap,
but the best, most official gift ever – I was a writer,
till I sat to spin yarns and came up with dust and drivel.

The sword of Damocles hangs by a thread overhead.
     Yes, again.
The dentist’s lead blanket of humid heat presses my chest,
I hate the pressure.
If only it were Christmas and cold
     (it’s never cold in L.A.),
I would write to the smell of cinnamon and fireplace,
and the eloquence would flow like winter hot chocolate.

Faithful Madeleines and Marys and Annies show up to work every day.
But the wrinkle in my time feels ironed in and permanent
and it’s hard to get up off the couch to walk the field
and I am so far from being a pilgrim of eventual grace.
I said I hate the pressure, but I lied;
that pressure seems my only hope.

In dreams, I fill twenty pages a day with pearls and sand,
     and smile to the interviewer and
     respond to mail with wit and
     declare my success to be born of just showing up to write
          – I just don’t feel whole if I haven’t written today.
My royalty checks would finance my coastal writer’s cottage
     in Mendocino or Maine, where the ocean salt would
     suck the words from my hands.

#22 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt was to use any or many of the words in this Wordle.  Here's my half-assed, last-minute, hoop-jumping effort:

dizzy with lack of sleep;
tomorrow my exhaustion
will reverberate through my day
and pepper my instruction
with gaps and rust,
and my colleague
will crow at lunch
about how she’s caught up
on all of her grading,
and I will smile
while a small fierce squall
inside my soul
rages,
my soul an emporium of
grading jealousy
and tired indifference.

#21 NaPoWriMo -- off-topic again

Too late a night spent grading
to work up a draft
to meet a prompt. 
So these impromptu
lines
will have to do.

***

The wind tonight
is steady and cold,
firm and fierce,
promising rain,
but sometimes
the wind lies.

#20 NaPoWriMo -- Just a little whining is all

Too tired for the prompt again.  This'll have to do:


warmth of heating pad on shoulders
soothe the tensions of the
millstone around my neck.

(excessive grading)

#19 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  lightbulb moments, eclat, epiphany, aha moments

This one is borne of the moment.  Very much so.


Dutifully I sit
to write my poem, when
the lurch,
the tremor,
the rattle,
the waiting…waiting
to see if it becomes something more.
In a frenzy of googling
the guru’s version of
postshake websanity,
I am struck
in fear and shame that
we still haven’t bought
the planned case of
water and Dinty Moore beef stew,
and when the freeway falls
and the houses split,
we will be woefully unprepared
--still--
and I am moved to make
public confession of my
sin of omission,
to my chagrin,
I a twenty-plus-year resident
of this shaky locale.

*The guru is CalTech’s Earthquake Center.

#18 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  Write a poem featuring the cat family, whether big or small.


lionize her
leonine grace,
the pride,
the language of the tail,
the purr of harmonic resonance,
the purr that heals;

quiet paws give pause
and so we hang a bell,
when we should worship
the ancient god instead.

a cat by any other name
would scratch as deep,
bite as hard,
shed as much,
disobey as often,
eat as many moths,
and knead and nudge and curl up around the heart

#17 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  Let’s be elemental. Fire, earth, water, wind. They touch our lives every day. Choose one that interests you, then take a point of view that is not so much your usual. Observe what interaction you’ve known, or not known, with this element. You might make it personal or take the element’s point of view (how might humans appear to you from that stance?) or wander where you may. Tell us something about your element that we don’t know. You’re welcome to make your own rules, and as always, the most important point is simply to write and share, however it comes your way! Have fun!

I try to stoke them
but they smother my light;
I come to refine them,
but they suffocate my heat;

Extinguish me, will you?
Even the largest trees
need my aid
to grow
and procreate;
I am healing and closure –
they call me destruction
for they have no sight
or knowledge;

sister earth only grounds them
and fattens them;
brother water washes dirt from them
and hydrates them;
uncle wind dusts them
and fills their lungs;
yet
I alone can give them
language and
thought and
impetus;
I alone can make them
bulletproof.

Foolish mortals,
come, hold still,
let me purify
and inspire,
let me lick you
and make you whole.

NaPoWriMo #16 (sort of)

Today's prompt is, "What's that smell?"

eyes droop
as I call to mind
scent of pine,
smoke (wood or cig),
rain-wet (paved or dirt),
citrus blossoms,
and grandpa’s coffee…and…
church incense…and…
the eyes shut,
just for a sec,
as brain shutters off
to dreams.

the better poem
will have to wait
till morning.

#15

I'm too tired to do the prompt justice tonight.  I'll cop out with a haiku which isn't much of a haiku:

nap on couch in afternoon sun
conscious thought lost in rest and dream
awaking to life

#14 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt is for a cleave poem, a new one I hadn't heard of yet.  I really like the idea of this form, but it's going to take me some time to write my first one.  Time is what I do not have this evening, along with the necessary energy.  So the cleave will have to wait till this weekend.  For today, a freeform tale:

At the pond
in the park
baby ducklings,
just-hatched,
heart-breakingly tiny,
clump in groups
dive in panics
scamper in pods
behind a mother duck,
but not their mother duck;
they are lost
and seeking refuge
with any grownup;
for good reason,
we learn,
as the black crowned night herons
begin their dusky quest
for ducky dinner;
one by one
the ducklings are scooped
gulped whole
for a sad supper
of nature red in tooth and claw,
though beak fits better here.

Across the pond
the little boys
spy the one remaining duckling;
look, mommy, it’s a baby duck!
(Don’t look, little boys;
life’s lessons are too hard for you today.)

#13 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  In his poems, Norman Dubie tells stories, sets scenes and paints landscape, sometimes lush and sometimes wretched. His writing is sure and vivid, and his language is beautiful. As you’ll see below, his similes are incomparable. If forced to compare him with anyone, I’d be more likely to pick a painter than another writer.  For this prompt, take a Dubie line to jumpstart a poem of your own. Your poem should be titled “Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie.”  (We were given a list of possible first lines to choose from.) 


Norman Dubie Starts the Party

The lights of the galaxies are strung out over a dipper of gin.

The music of the spheres rocks the house of cosmos.

The seven sisters dance in the tonic,

toes flicking juice of lime across the expanse.

Orion beats time on heaven’s floor with his bow,

and the bears, both major and minor, sway in a slow Russian step.

And I, tonight’s wallflower,
sit in the other room of the sky,
weep woe into my coffee
and complain about the grading
that chains me to a desk,
that keeps me from terpsichore’s task

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

So many ways to go on this prompt.  I tried two different directions (forks in the road).  I'm not happy with where I ended up with either, but it'll be food for ongoing thought.  I guess good prompts are like that. 

Today's prompt:  the choice we didn't make (or the thing we didn't choose).  Every day we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?  Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.  Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.  *As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.

Fork #1

I didn’t choose
to fall for your theology
then have you go crazy
--god complex and all,
a fifteen-foot deep-end dive.

I didn’t choose for you to
open your arms
then slam the door shut
on my trusting fingers.

I didn’t choose
to get on my knees
and open my palms for
life-saving bread
then have you kick
all of the kneelers in the teeth
and walk across their prostrate backs.

I didn’t choose
to join a vibrant communion
of artistic, godly souls
only to have you
depress the plunger
and send them to the winds.

I didn’t choose it
but it’s what I got.
At least I learned
how not to lead.


Fork #2

Dear Wild Fulfilling Life,

It’s long since we spoke
and yes,
I’m still with security,
ever since we split,
you and I
--and that was kind of the point.

I still firmly believe in
commitment,
but lately I’ve been reflecting
and I’ve begun wondering
if we could ever still have a chance.

I still think about you,
often,
dream about the days we spent,
reminisce the nights we made
when we stayed up forever.

Security has been good to me
but I miss the spice
of risk,
the danger
of yes,
the possibility
of what the hell.

What do you say?
You up for another go?
Perhaps just a tryst,
to see how it flows?
Am I stupid for asking?

Love (?), me

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  Pamela asks us to write about any celebration we have been to recently.  Write about a birthday party, a wedding, a baptism — any kind of celebration where you were with family or friends or both. Write about the colors you remember, the sounds (and how they made you feel) and the tastes you remember from any of those events. Did these things make you feel good? Did you experience any new foods? Did you meet any new people?  Sometimes, beyond our control, festivities can take a turn for the worse. Maybe that happened to you or someone you know. Whatever happened, be it great or not so great, let’s write about it!


Half Dozen Days

Church service with masses at mass,
jubilant hymns and
joy at the new-again possibility
of sweets and wine.

Adjourn to Mom’s
for ham
and casseroles with cheese
because everyone knows
protestant parties
are carb-based events.

Pastels of purple pink blue
and egg-yolk yellow
decorate the room
on eggs boiled
and eggs both peanut butter and plastic.

Mom steals Dad’s practice
of a too-long prayer
while stomachs growl
and peekers eye the
devil’s eggs and a
cousin’s billowy homemade rolls.

Tableware clinks,
refills resonate in too-small glasses,
a cousin’s resonant laughs fill his chest
and the table air,
complementing conversation
of gentle politics on eggshells
and army tales.

The earthquake strikes
during dinner,
a ninety-second roll;
we find we all prefer
our rolls slathered in butter
instead.

The cats who didn’t die by car this morning
(one did – Happy Easter)
lounge and flirt
and hiss and purr
and play highwire acts
on the uncleared table.

My own contributions are
photos and hugs,
two types of dessert and
merciful silence via nap.
He is risen…
and I will be, too;
just give me a minute.

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt was random.  I might work on this one some more.  Not sure if it's worth it, but I might work on it anyway.  Heh. 
Prompt -- Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to:
• Use at least twelve words from this list: flap, winter, torch, pail, jug, strum, lever, massage, octopus, marionette, stow, pumice, rug, jam, limp, campfire, startle, wattle, bruise, chimney, tome, talon, fringe, walker;
• Include something that tastes terrible;
• Include some part (from a few words to several lines) of a previous poem that didn’t quite pan out; and
• Include a sound that makes you happy.
Write a poem!

Mission: Spring Break

Good Friday’s iron talons leave marks in our palms
The Paschal torch now glows during Mass
These holy mysteries and his most patient life
have saved me from the lion’s mouth and
heard me from the among the horns of the unicorns.

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul.

It is spring break
but it is only a break from the daily routine bells.
I need a massage
someone to strum the hamstring, the heartstring
till my cat purr erupts
I march stiffly, like a marionette, to my doom,
climbing the summit of the grading pile,
these papers I’d like nothing more than to dump in a pail
and nurture a healthy campfire with
or issue into ashes up the chimney

In my quest for health and balance
I do yoga stretches and…nothing else
I startle to see in the mirror that I’m developing a wattle
a hated wattle, the kind I’ve always mocked in
aunties who shellac their hairdos into upswept bushes
that ring and fringe their heads,
as distasteful as biting into a caraway seed
and not knowing until the poison flavor spreads
and permeates the tongue’s buds

I vow to improve…again
I read helpful books and
I stow my tome until the meal is done,
grudgingly
but I am trying to become more mindful
and thereby more healthful
but…

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul
and I need help in this mission
I need a break from habit and self.