Lurker pic

A few weeks ago I posted a poem about a mosquito hanging out on my patio door. Well, today one of his cousins paid me a visit, and I just had to get a shot of him. This exercise took a little bit longer than I anticipated and placed me way behind on my agenda for the day. I'm not complaining--he's a gorgeous little brute--but now I must work on my school stuff....and watch the Olympics (a girl's got her priorities--hello, Michael Phelps, anyone?).

Cowboys and Angels

This poem was inspired by an article from a British journal that discusses using email and other asynchronous online forums for counseling. The author, Jeannie Wright, mentions that online counseling is beneficial for people, who due to to geography or disabilities, cannot physically attend face-to-face counseling sessions. Why am I reading articles like this? Well, I'm doing some preliminary work for my dissertation on writing as therapy. Fun!

Cowboys and Angels

Beyond windowpane
snow drifts from slate clouds,
collapsing soundless
to cover earth, animal, barn, house,
anything left bare to the elements.
Endless expanses of Canadian prairie
rest dormant, waiting for spring to chase
negative temperatures, renew life, thaw hearts.
Sheltered from the cold night,
a rancher sits at his computer,
attempting to make a connection
that geography forbids.
He logs on, accesses through passwords,
and wanders from room to room,
chatting with others.
“Hw r u?”
“Gr8.”
Later, a woman reads
beauty in snow-topped mountains,
messages of loneliness and cold,
pride in ranching and surviving.
Through her open window
soft breezes tickle curtains,
rearrange ends of her hair,
cool flushes of interest
blooming across her cheek.
She doesn’t hear the ocean’s roar
just beyond glass and screen
or the ring of cell phone
as a man passes on the sidewalk.
In fact, she cannot hear
even the muted hum
her computer generates as she types.
But she can imagine the silence
the man up north describes,
the isolation it brings a heart.
She can convey the warmth
of a gentle word whispering
through her keyboard
and into the dark.
Despite space,
no matter disability,
they enjoy the relief
another soul brings.

Unwilling Lurker

Unwilling Lurker

He clings, desperate.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Summer is waxing;
days are long.
Temperatures should climb,
even at this early hour.
But, he’s cold,
too cold.
He cannot fly,
much less sweep to the arm
held so tantalizingly near.
He’s trapped,
limbs clamped to screen door.

His size, a full inch from head to tail,
cannot assist him here,
nor can ebony wings
marked with white design.
His needle,
dreaded torture device,
instigator of scratching ,
remains useless,
a prisoner against the mesh.

The sun will rise and warm him,
instantaneously bestowing flight,
but not if the woman sipping coffee
notices him lurking and swats,
killing the dratted mosquito.

Man in Black

This week in class, we listened to a Johnny Cash song ("Long Black Veil") and wrote down sensory images that the sound of his voice or the words in the song inspired. We were supposed to write images for each of the five senses and create a more formalized poem (i.e. each line beginning with a variant of "This song feels like..."). But, as usual, I didn't follow directions. For one thing, I don't usually catch smells or tastes on paper well. For another, I shy away from these really structured poems generally. So, combining found poetry (titles and/or phrases from Cash's songs) with mainly sight images, here's a listing poem.

Man in Black

Thunder, rumble in the dark
hum of a bear fresh from his den
cocaine blues wrapped in long black veil
humble stone waiting at open grave
noble, human soul consumed in ring of fire
drum of train, prowling side of mountain
ebon shadow, mumble in the night
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down
growl of diesel engine, primitive, unyielding
croon of swarthy lover, persuading wary prey
walk the line written in jet upon an onyx page
growl soaked in whiskey and smoke
howling to Folsom barbed wire
defiant, killing just to watch death soak the page,
wretched solitary man
desolate phantom immune to a lullaby
fear cloaked in midnight, wonder, and hurt
Ghost Rider,
Highwayman
hound of hell and redemption

The Slow Dissolve

I created the following movie about my dad for one of my doctoral classes. The course discusses critical literacy, basically how does one teach those who might be more concerned about survival (food, shelter, etc). We looked closely at Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire as well as a few other texts (Bomer & Bomer, Christiansen, Baol). When it came time for my project, I wanted to do something different--not a lesson plan or an in-service or stuff like that (those they are all good topics)--something creative. So, I put audio recordings of my father singing behind pictures of him and poetry that I wrote within the last two years of his life, the time that his Alzheimer's was at its worst.

Writing has always been a way for me to understand or at least think through a problem or an emotion. This project was no different.

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.

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.

Coupling

Sorry this is a day late (and here I am a dollar short--sorry, couldn't resist), but my sister came to visit this weekend. So, I'm a little preoccupied.

Coupling II

My breakfast is gone when
I notice honking at my patio door.
The geese that live in the complex
have made their daily migration to my abode.
They too seem to be paired,
their white-ringed necks creating hearts in mid-air,
a Hallmark greeting card just outside my door.
Geese mate for life.
Even if separated during annual migrations
they wait--sometimes years--for their partner
to return to the nest.
If one in a pair dies,
the other continues to live--
but not thrive--
for he (or she) does not re-mate.
Flocks have no singles’ groups
whereby unattached geese can find a new beau,
no ladies' night at the local pond.

Watching my flock hunt and peck
through the sparse brown grass under the elm,
I wonder...
Do some geese never find a mate?
Do some just join the thronging vee
hoping this year they'll find that lover
who makes their lives complete,
the one who gets them as none
other in the migratory pattern have?
Are there geese who watch as others find their mate
and yearly hatch their broods of goslings?
What does this single goose think
as her dark head turns grey?
Does she fear dying without notice--
alone, unmourned, easily forgotten?
Does she spend her nights yearning
the warmth of a body curled next to her
in the cold and forbidding darkness?
Does she watch each year pass
and realize the fading hope of meeting "the one"?

Holding my cup of Earl Grey between my hands,
my heart aches for that one soul
slightly apart from the rest,
hunkered, separate, not feeding.
Her bowed head swivels to observe the others.
She, unpaired, is spectator to their lives,
barely an actor within her own.

Coupling

This is part one of a two part poem. Weird as it is to say, I was inspired to write this while chasing my cereal around the bowl one rainy Saturday morning. I noticed that usually when one Cheerio was near another they seemed drawn to each other, like some magnetic force compelled them to one another. There's actually a scientific reason for this. Anyway, my writing group seemed to enjoy the first draft. I've worked on it some since then, so hopefully it's better. :) I'll post part two next Sunday.

Coupling I

How is it some couples seem to naturally pair?
Like the Cheerios in my breakfast bowl
they drift toward one another--
sometimes coasting into crowds
comprised of individual rings
but other times butting up in twos
to cling near the edge of their world.
Rarely do I find that solo Cheerio,
who, by the way, doesn't look so cheery.
Usually softened, maybe slightly misshapen,
he roams all over the ecru
surface of the skim milk,
He may occasionally hook up
with some group of o's,
but not for long.
He'll detach and wander away,
maybe because my spoon has come between
him and the object of his attraction.
Other times, he seems to bounce off
the others, seemingly repulsed,
or maybe he just enjoys his solitude,
his time alone to splash against the tide
of milk or laze away in the bubbles.
I call this lonesome rover "he;"
it could just as easily be "she."
Females can wander,
enjoy time apart from others.

Watching the rings lap lazily
at the sides of my white bowl,
a homogeneous group of like-visioned
individuals, I wonder if a rebel heart
buoys to the surface.
Does one beige cheerio ever long
to escape the green-rimmed white plastic
and dive into a fiesta red dish
bobbing with fruit loops?
Does she ever want to break
the chains holding her to the same place,
visit a wilder atmosphere,
chase a lucky charm?
Or will she eventually give up the dream,
settle in suburbia with the equally bland
but wholesome and slightly square
shredded wheat?
What will she do
before the thought of life
gobbling her up, one bite at a time
drives her to settle?
Or will she give in to self-absorption,
wallow on her own for a while,
and then eventually sink
to the bottom of the bowl?

Surviving the Ice

I wrote this piece earlier this year after visiting my sister and her family in northwest Missouri. In December a series of ice storms struck the entire area, leaving the trees just massacred. It was painful to see all these awesome trees just stripped of limbs. So, on this March 2, with the temperature in the mid-seventies, I thought it appropriate to post a poem about an ice storm. This is a ROUGH DRAFT, so please don't expect much. However, if you have suggestions, please let me know! I always welcome constructive criticism! Especially a better title.

They stand beheaded.
Broken limbs dangleat their sides,
while flayed skin, cracked
and rough, lays scattered
at their roots, clinging
deep into frozen earth.
The wind gusts, firing bullets
to encase their torsos
and yet unhacked arms.
Shivering, they rub against each other,
rattling a skeletal rhythm of nature.
Melting snow tracks tears
the arid wind wipes clear.
A slight burn remains
mute evidence of their trials.
Naked and abused,
they stand against the whitened landscape.
Broken and exposed,
an unknown vulnerability emerges,
but they persevere.
Their bark has seen worse storms,
colder winters, thicker ice.
Some may be damaged,
others may be bowed,
but come summer,
they will rise once again
from these icy flames
and join the verdant chorus
of triumph and a wondrous
woodland peace.