Elementals

As most US residents know, the Midwest is experiencing some massive flooding, mainly along the Mississippi River. Last Saturday I was driving from the airport in Kansas City to home (Columbia) on I-70 [part of the reason I haven't posted lately--trip to Denver] and saw this gorgeous fire-ball of a moon hanging over the flooded Missouri River. The sight just wouldn't leave my head, so I jotted down a few phrases in the dark as I drove [I don't recommend this practice] and then fleshed it out more when I got home (at 11.30 p.m., thank you). I'm sharing this rough draft online due to the timeliness of the subject and in hopes that someone will respond with helpful comments to improve it. At this point, dang it, I'm stumped with what to do with the dang thing. :(

Elementals

A fiery moon splashes
against an uninvited crest,
lipping, flirting with the edge of the road.
Beneath the canopy of small liquid mirrors
reflecting back orange rays,
an ocean of infant corn drowns;
another’s dream strangles
in the rising flood of the Missouri.
Scientists say the burnt hue overhead
results from fires in California
spewing ash into the air,
while the media relate
more levees broken under pressure
from rains further north.
Tonight, journeying home,
I ride a tight wire between elementals.
Do I succumb to the passion,
the promise of heat in the darkness,
knowing it might prove false,
a mere reflection of true ardor,
or do I yield to the serene,
the apparent guarantee of calm,
realizing I may suffocate
within its encompassing arms.
Instead, I continue on my course,
ignore the decision just outside my door,
and the moon slips away,
creeps over the horizon,
while the flood water washes
onto another shore.
Choosing neither passion
nor security,
my road continues on.

By the way, I'll post again soon with details and recommendations from my trip to Denver. It was a very good time, even though I was there to work (yuck). :)

Blessings

I wrote this poem exactly four years ago today. My dad had died the September before due to complications associated with a broken hip (it didn't help he had congested heart failure, Alzheimer's and Parkinson's). He was a dynamic man, almost larger than life. At the age of 42, he and my mom sold their hotel/restaurant business so he could enter the ministry. Since he didn't have even an associate's degree, we all lived on a minuscule paycheck while he attended college at Conception Abbey (a Benedictine monastery) and preached at two different churches. Within seven years, he'd earned his BA, MA, and PhD and built a new church. I miss him every day.

Blessings

My dad sang every Sunday
Before his sermon.
After visiting the Holy Land
He loved to sing, “I Walked Today
Where Jesus Walked”
For he’d felt a connection
Between place and time
And grew closer in his faith.
He had seen what Christ had witnessed,
Touched what God had molded,
Heard what the Father created.

This weekend, I kept expecting that mystical union
To miraculously come true for me.
Walking the steps of Conception Abbey,
I trod the paths my father
Had 30 years ago, saw the same trees,
Smelled the fresh country breezes,
Listened to raucous descendants
Of birds he’d heard in the 70s.
But
I wasn’t gifted.
I wanted a piece of the father I’d lost
Returned.
It didn’t happen.

This morning I rose with the nonexistent dawn,
Saw the fog obscure the scenic hillside,
And watched a quiet wren fly to and fro
Feeding his chicks.
Sitting on a bench under a massive sheltering oak,
I contemplated why numbness
Arrived in place of illumination.

Then
The bells tolled
Calling the faithful into home.
And I looked
Toward the Basilica
To find Joseph holding the Christ child
Peering over my shoulder
Reading my journal.

Heathen as I am,
I was blessed.
For a scant instant
A father’s love melted down
As droplets from Heaven,
Nourishing the earth,
Cleansing the air,
Renewing my soul.

“I walked today where he has walked and felt him standing there.”

There

I wrote this poem earlier this year after reading House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. The words and situation are taken directly from the novel, which details a girl's evolving attitude toward the house and street in which she lives (in a nutshell--the novel is really about so much more than that).

There

Before, I can’t remember…
Then Paulina
Keeler
Loomis—the third floor
Then…
Mango Street
We moved a lot
Each time we added one more
Mama Papa Carlos Kiki Nenny Me


The house on Mango Street is ours
Not the house we’d thought we’d get
No rent
No sharing the yard with people downstairs
Don’t worry about making too much noise
No landlord banging on ceiling with a broom
But still… It’s not the house we’d thought we’d get

Mango Street is not the way they told it at all—
It’s small and red with tight steps
Windows so small they’re holding their breath
Crumbling bricks and swollen doors
No yard, only four little elms
Small garage, but we don’t own a car yet
Everyone must share a bedroom—Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, Nenny, and me


You live there?
There…
Paint peeling
Wooden bars
You live there?
It made me feel like nothing.
You live there?
I nodded.

The house on Mango Street is not the house we’d thought we’d get, but
I live there.

Calico

Last weekend was my nephew's graduation. Since I stayed with my mother for the weekend and she doesn't have Internet access (she can't even work her VCR), no writing was posted last weekend. Sorry. Plus, she's been staying with me this week, leading to little writing being done by moi. Sorry, sorry. Thus, I'm posting a poem I wrote roughly two years ago. I was living in a much smaller apartment in a much smaller town. An alley dumped directly across the street from the picture window in my living room, and this mama kitty used the alley often, crying and wailing incessantly. Her plight, and my imagining living her life, inspired this work.

Calico

I hear her from a block away;
she’s crying in the alley again--
not the soft sob of a disappointment
but the despairing wail of a lifetime
scarred with broken promise.
Her life is marked by poverty—
children lost to babysnatchers,
malnutrition, abandonment, or just
the fender of a passing car.
She’s cowering near the garbage cans,
catching shelter from the rain
under a rotting eave.
Who knows where she’ll sleep tonight,
but for once I’m assured
that I won’t wake to her screams
under my window as the male
in her life takes out his pleasure.
Years ago, she was fine—
like a smoky Billie Holiday tune
or a warm brandy chaser.
She’d slink down the alley,
a purr in every step,
confident, satiated, sleek.
Each step was a symphony
of balance and grace,
seduction and purpose.
The fellas all vied for her attention.
I can only imagine the names
they called her then—
Baby, Sugarlips, Sweet Thang.
No longer.
She huddles, emaciated,
abused by the storm,
Society, the man up the street.
Her hair, where she still has it,
hangs in clumps,
dirty, snarled, mangy.
Tonight, after the storm passes,
she’ll look through my garbage,
find the shrimp I didn’t finish
and dine like a queen,
sit under the flickering streetlight,
and maybe look up at the moon
in wonder at something so beautiful.
Tomorrow or the next day,
sometime soon,
she’ll curl up in her safe place,
wrap her tail around her body,
and drift peacefully, I pray,
into the home of no yesterdays.

Stress

No poem or other creative writing this week. I'm attempting to finish projects due this week for school. Yesterday I worked all day on a lesson plan for using Second Life to teach a novel. It's still unfinished. Today, I must create a power point for my presentation tonight for my Talk in the Curriculum course (boy, will I be glad to have that finished). And so on....

I find it hard to sit at my computer where I can look outside onto my sun-drenched patio and concentrate on school work. The cardinals are calling to each other; the wrens are chirping away, and the geese meander by with a honk or two. Plus, everything is just so GREEN.

But...I have lots to do, and time is passing swiftly.

I am from...

Today would be my parents' 47th wedding anniversary. At the time of their marriage, my mother was a ticket agent for American Airlines in Nashville, and my father was a traveling salesman running from his destiny of being a minister. Both had been married before and had children. My maternal grandmother--and perhaps my snooty paternal grandmother--was not happy with Mom's involvement with Dad, so on May 6, 1961, Derby Day, Mom and Dad eloped to Kentucky. It was an inauspicious beginning. They stopped to eat on the way home, and both came down with food poisoning.

My dad loved the story of their wedding, even the illness. He'd say, "We eloped to Kentucky on Derby Day...and the race has been on ever since."

So, here's a little poem about the two greatest influences on my life.

I am from a southern magnolia,
transplanted long before my birth.
Hardier than her delicacy shows,
she yearns for that warmer soil,
but her roots are planted deep
in this Missouri dirt.
I wait patiently for her to bloom,
those sweet pastels drawing others in,
but just as the buds fully form,
a late snow shower frosts her limbs,
and she retreats in protection.

She’d like me to stay nested,
a reddened robin in her shelter,
but I am not like her.

For I am also of a drifting wind.
My father, a circuit rider,
Wandering was his soul.
He’d settle for a while,
give us time to acclimate,
gain a foothold in the arduous soil.
Then, the spirit would move us
to greener pastures,
through overgrown forests,
stopping sometimes on rocky outcroppings.
He liked the change, the challenge.
She always looked for ways to keep
her roots firmly grounded.

So, while I am from fixed beauty,
I hear a whisper in my ear say,
“Fly away, little bird. Fly!”
And as my feet lift off,
I ignore the knowing sorrow in her eyes.

Trunk life

Wednesday the Today Show had a segment on automobile tires. They said that even if never used, tires could still blow if they are six years old or older. Yikes! So, I checked my tires, and sure enough, they are six years old (there's a number right next to the rim that's four digits long, the first two digits are the week, the second two the year). So, I guess I'll add new tires to my list of money draining expenses this spring. Hooray!

Anyway, I was also reading Writing to be Read by Ken Macrorie this week for one of my seminar courses and thought I'd try a little of his advice. Originally, this poem was a series of three haiku (per Macrorie's advice), but I didn't like them. So, I switched it up. I'm still not thrilled with the piece so far, but I took a clue from Paul Valery ("A poem is never finished, only abandoned") and stopped tinkering with it. Ah, well....

Tires expire.
Of course they do
if driven 80,000 miles
with nary a rotation—
other than the obvious
round and round
to reach each destination.

Tires expire
from staying in storage
or languishing in cars’ spare vault.
They have a shelf life—
well, trunk life.

Wait, that’s untrue.
Tires don’t live.
They never toil in an office,
never hook up with others
at the local coffeehouse,
never birth a little Michelin
or a chunky Goodyear.

But if not removed from service,
replaced with a younger model,
recycled to another use,
tires will disintegrate,
even as the wheels continue revolving.

At a certain point in their career,
tires must retire.
If only that moment is recognized
and embraced entire.