for D., who unwittingly donated the title
my friend says they like haste without hesitation
but how can i know my tongue knows where to go
which flies to grab and which flower (word)s to birth
if I don't stop and ponder the meander in the river
the giver gives us daily. what would it be like to
be (like a disco ball or worms in the ground)
multiply present, continuously in motion,
representing by embodiment the sinuous continuous
life verve of the multiply intelligent world?
not needing to conjure or configure but rather
consistently composed and having it all together,
illuminating or making more conditions for life?
or rather,
perhaps we already are.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
slapdash - Magnoon Moon
plum blossom pink Egyptian airspace/daffodil yellow slapdashes from Berkeley to Portland/Gulliver travels the hieroglyphic internet/Abdul barks back from the magnoon moon/ hail the people beneath the stones
hum
Wide hum thrum
sternum purrs, om old cat
My legs, torso, heart,
Feel the pulse
of blood stream stone silence
the way in the way
through the way forgotten,
re-membered through bone, not brain
through skin and tones
breath calling you home
calling you
home
where ya been girl? Kept a pot
on for ya just in case
this family of tones, vibration of this
simple thing yes
you can have this yes you can
be no need to everwhelm them
from the place they’re calling from
sternum purrs, om old cat
My legs, torso, heart,
Feel the pulse
of blood stream stone silence
the way in the way
through the way forgotten,
re-membered through bone, not brain
through skin and tones
breath calling you home
calling you
home
where ya been girl? Kept a pot
on for ya just in case
this family of tones, vibration of this
simple thing yes
you can have this yes you can
be no need to everwhelm them
from the place they’re calling from
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
One Fast Sonnet Later
"One Fast Sonnet Later"
Eisenglass tips. pantyhose rips. You count
to ten, and ten, and ten again. Babies
born, fourteen deaths. Empty bassinets bounce
between yesses, nos (nose) and all the maybes.
Well (Stone) people mimic the throes of rabies,
and the Sum's Sum never loses and ounce.
This is how (why) we love and fear the zanies—
always prepared (ready) to caress or pounce.
One fast sonnet later, turned one-forty
trying to grasp, lost in definition
assignment speed, patterns of woven yarn.
My prayer is this: so fast (predicted:) the tsunami
no time to lose count in the solution
and every crystal thread torn (breaks) into shards (shreds).
Monday, February 7, 2011
imagine that
you're flying above the clouds in the agonizing light
of a halo on the brow of a bullet-proof dove
bearing an olive branch straight for Noah's Ark
you're a blue lozenge cooling the sore throat of the sky
and i'm sitting here in the hail storm lonely as uranium
a piece of cast-off fiction yellowing on the street
one of the drowned ones spinning in turbulence
a swollen appendix about to rupture
I like to imagine us combusting all reason
praying in unison, prying the future apart
This Week's Prompt - SlAp DaSh
What if someone were holding a timer and you only had 75 seconds to write a poem, a kind of 50 yard dash with poetry, a kind of slap-dash. This is your week for shimmy-shimmy improv with word locutions. Brave the waters, race out under the disco ball, go all out. Hurry, right now, type it and hit the button "post"!From Orlando Gonzalez Esteva, In Praise of Scribble (translated by Peter Bush, 2005):
Scribbles are the lianas of the forest of our selves. Clinging to them, the primate still in us frolics free. Keywords: poem, slapdash, [poet's tagging nickname]
Saturday, February 5, 2011
60 life rafts
i tried to write a poem
that rhymes and spans
the monkey bars of complex
construction, times itself
by perils of scansion, but i failed.
as not so long ago, i flew off
the pull up bars
and found myself awake,
270 degrees away, facing
up from the ground to
the bold shout of bluesky,
body longly splatted
in rough sand. i'd fallen off
the structure that was meant for play
-- how it nearly killed me.
i know words can kill
me by how they've saved me.
even in this brief time together,
by the warming flames of
comradely diction,
storm-tousled metaphor,
and by how the hummingbirds
that hold our words
keep flying:
your poems are preservers.
you are weaving, pens as needles,
a durable raft
of creation
with every stanza committed
to the possible.
it might seem that since the poems
are online, that they waft in a virtual wind
that dematerializes the heft of them,
but don't be confused.
i have grabbed onto them at 3am
as have you. we have floated
safely on these words.
i have exercised my emotions
of surprise, gratitude,
revulsion, appreciation, anger
as these have brightly colored the durable
fabric of these poems.
i have been reminded how to be alive,
how to breathe, how to stand
at portalways of possibility
and walk courageously, traveling
into new senses with now-old
friends. whether lit by
light brights, baking sun,
or hidden in trees, whether walking
as faery folk, via birth canals, or by eating lemons,
we arrive.
birthing these 60 life rafts,
we craft a flotilla of peace,
a haven for all the people
whom poetry has saved.
praise be.
that rhymes and spans
the monkey bars of complex
construction, times itself
by perils of scansion, but i failed.
as not so long ago, i flew off
the pull up bars
and found myself awake,
270 degrees away, facing
up from the ground to
the bold shout of bluesky,
body longly splatted
in rough sand. i'd fallen off
the structure that was meant for play
-- how it nearly killed me.
i know words can kill
me by how they've saved me.
even in this brief time together,
by the warming flames of
comradely diction,
storm-tousled metaphor,
and by how the hummingbirds
that hold our words
keep flying:
your poems are preservers.
you are weaving, pens as needles,
a durable raft
of creation
with every stanza committed
to the possible.
it might seem that since the poems
are online, that they waft in a virtual wind
that dematerializes the heft of them,
but don't be confused.
i have grabbed onto them at 3am
as have you. we have floated
safely on these words.
i have exercised my emotions
of surprise, gratitude,
revulsion, appreciation, anger
as these have brightly colored the durable
fabric of these poems.
i have been reminded how to be alive,
how to breathe, how to stand
at portalways of possibility
and walk courageously, traveling
into new senses with now-old
friends. whether lit by
light brights, baking sun,
or hidden in trees, whether walking
as faery folk, via birth canals, or by eating lemons,
we arrive.
birthing these 60 life rafts,
we craft a flotilla of peace,
a haven for all the people
whom poetry has saved.
praise be.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Friend
You were clear. I had never met someone,
adult or peer, who meshed with her living
so purely. I called myself Banana-
Man, and you accepted. That’s why playing
with you was so fun. You dressed as a crone—
and became one. All our make-believing
was simply making. No hesitation.
We blurted without fear of mistaking.
Once we even tried to play serious.
It was a blast before we went brittle,
left the highway and broke just a little.
One of us raged, the other outrageous.
We passed one stormy night. But we are us,
so it’s no surprise we came full circle.
adult or peer, who meshed with her living
so purely. I called myself Banana-
Man, and you accepted. That’s why playing
with you was so fun. You dressed as a crone—
and became one. All our make-believing
was simply making. No hesitation.
We blurted without fear of mistaking.
Once we even tried to play serious.
It was a blast before we went brittle,
left the highway and broke just a little.
One of us raged, the other outrageous.
We passed one stormy night. But we are us,
so it’s no surprise we came full circle.
Mermaid's Lament
Not so very long ago
our songs would intoxicate
even the most resistant sailors,
lure them to the deck rails
where we would seduce them with
our kelp-filled gazes,
our luscious metaphorical breasts,
persuade them to abandon all,
to leap into our outstretched arms
and endure forever the icy waters
for the thrill of our embrace.
But now the great ships pass us by
and hardly one sailor in a thousand
will stand at the rail to gaze,
and those who do take photographs
seeing only seal skin, whiskers and blubber,
and call our songs 'barks'.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Ferry
Breathe
Yes,
Hurry up and sleep, we need
the pillows
A liminal start three nights
in a row, remembering
my Ruby slippers, clicking.
The way home is easy,
but somewhere back and back
I forgot the cradle
of my diaphragm,
its rocking
Now, my pedal to metal,
I can barely pause to tell you this...
last night I remembered
that crucial thing I’d forgotten:
my third arm,
or that I’ve always spoken Cantonese,
or that my flute master
is still waiting for me, twenty-three years later,
in her mahogany parlor
It slapped me awake, bright and insistent,
then hopped back onto the ferry, disappearing
with all of its rigging, into the mist
Across the night sky,
my mother rises
at 3 am, stumbles around the house,
every moment, now, a ferry she has just missed
trying to remember what she has forgotten,
crib sheets tucked into her sleeve
with the names of the children
who cracked open her rocking pelvis
seven times,
this boat too, taken back
downriver, this life, an overripe berry,
dissolving, on the tip of her tongue
Yes,
Hurry up and sleep, we need
the pillows
A liminal start three nights
in a row, remembering
my Ruby slippers, clicking.
The way home is easy,
but somewhere back and back
I forgot the cradle
of my diaphragm,
its rocking
Now, my pedal to metal,
I can barely pause to tell you this...
last night I remembered
that crucial thing I’d forgotten:
my third arm,
or that I’ve always spoken Cantonese,
or that my flute master
is still waiting for me, twenty-three years later,
in her mahogany parlor
It slapped me awake, bright and insistent,
then hopped back onto the ferry, disappearing
with all of its rigging, into the mist
Across the night sky,
my mother rises
at 3 am, stumbles around the house,
every moment, now, a ferry she has just missed
trying to remember what she has forgotten,
crib sheets tucked into her sleeve
with the names of the children
who cracked open her rocking pelvis
seven times,
this boat too, taken back
downriver, this life, an overripe berry,
dissolving, on the tip of her tongue
This Week's Prompt: Imunuri Round 1 Riff Harvest
Congratulations, we've crafted, provoked, and birthed over 60 poems!
As we bring the first Round of rousing writing with Imunurians to a close, plucked up in Autumnal Equinox 2010 and finding closure as Early Spring '11 next week greets us sweetly, here is an invitation for the final of writing in Imunuri Round 1 to be a praise-song or riff and inspiration. Write a poem sparked by a line that someone wrote this season. Or name some favorite lines. Or put favorite lines together in a new poem. Here's some picks to spark you, or dive in and pick your own:
"Sometimes I cough up a ziggurat built by germs,
a fever of tribes who all try to breathe and burn."
From Daniel's Poem "Lung Ghazal"
"Singularity becomes disentangled
and simultaneously also conjoined."
From Janice's Poem "Simultaneity Disambiguation"
"Bow to the stone people. There is a seat waiting for you. Take it./
Put the Spanish moss on top of your head. Not a peep from you."
From Cicada's Post
"check your blade for sharp up against the sun
any dull bit, too wide to splice light,
will glint and sparkle and needs attending."
From Pandora's Poem "A Sharp Remembering"
"This is not an island
of sirens, witches, giants, storms./
This is a place,
alone, to wait."
From TK's "One Stop from Warsaw"
"stir me, furnace of stars, see through my dense and transparent center.
generate something that shines in the night of me
opalescent, generative, possible."
From Scooter's "Coreshine"
"Walk across town barefoot
in search of the burning bush.
Gargle with baking soda,
brush your cat's teeth.
Wait for a moment when your heart is quiet,
then grab a pen and paper
and quickly scrawl"
From Ed's "How to Write a Poem"
An alternate prompt would be to write about this Imunuri experience. How you changed or grew or something you learned or realized. A new direction or insight. Let's raise our praise songs for this fabulous adventure!
Keywords: poem, riff
(thank you, door)
As we bring the first Round of rousing writing with Imunurians to a close, plucked up in Autumnal Equinox 2010 and finding closure as Early Spring '11 next week greets us sweetly, here is an invitation for the final of writing in Imunuri Round 1 to be a praise-song or riff and inspiration. Write a poem sparked by a line that someone wrote this season. Or name some favorite lines. Or put favorite lines together in a new poem. Here's some picks to spark you, or dive in and pick your own:
"Sometimes I cough up a ziggurat built by germs,
a fever of tribes who all try to breathe and burn."
From Daniel's Poem "Lung Ghazal"
"Singularity becomes disentangled
and simultaneously also conjoined."
From Janice's Poem "Simultaneity Disambiguation"
"Bow to the stone people. There is a seat waiting for you. Take it./
Put the Spanish moss on top of your head. Not a peep from you."
From Cicada's Post
"check your blade for sharp up against the sun
any dull bit, too wide to splice light,
will glint and sparkle and needs attending."
From Pandora's Poem "A Sharp Remembering"
"This is not an island
of sirens, witches, giants, storms./
This is a place,
alone, to wait."
From TK's "One Stop from Warsaw"
"stir me, furnace of stars, see through my dense and transparent center.
generate something that shines in the night of me
opalescent, generative, possible."
From Scooter's "Coreshine"
"Walk across town barefoot
in search of the burning bush.
Gargle with baking soda,
brush your cat's teeth.
Wait for a moment when your heart is quiet,
then grab a pen and paper
and quickly scrawl"
From Ed's "How to Write a Poem"
An alternate prompt would be to write about this Imunuri experience. How you changed or grew or something you learned or realized. A new direction or insight. Let's raise our praise songs for this fabulous adventure!
Keywords: poem, riff
(thank you, door)
Friday, January 28, 2011
Lung Ghazal
Eighteen thousand times a day, I breathe in and burn
without ever questioning: “Why breathe in and burn?”
I’m too busy to ask silly questions—or to
take a moment to thank the sky. Breathe in and burn.
Some days I feel cellophane-wrapped, crazed to inhale
for gasping, as though two flows vie: breathing, burning.
Sometimes I cough up a ziggurat built by germs,
a fever of tribes who all try to breathe and burn.
Or maybe out the window, I see white herons
in their patience as they hunt, eat, fly, breathe and burn.
The substances that sustain us all kill us, too.
The factions of ours bodies fry, breathe in and burn.
The tasks we take in coming to vibrate are to
oxygenate and oxidize: breathe in and burn.
My name is Ari, and I’m addicted to air.
Let’s all share a collective sigh, breathe in and burn.
without ever questioning: “Why breathe in and burn?”
I’m too busy to ask silly questions—or to
take a moment to thank the sky. Breathe in and burn.
Some days I feel cellophane-wrapped, crazed to inhale
for gasping, as though two flows vie: breathing, burning.
Sometimes I cough up a ziggurat built by germs,
a fever of tribes who all try to breathe and burn.
Or maybe out the window, I see white herons
in their patience as they hunt, eat, fly, breathe and burn.
The substances that sustain us all kill us, too.
The factions of ours bodies fry, breathe in and burn.
The tasks we take in coming to vibrate are to
oxygenate and oxidize: breathe in and burn.
My name is Ari, and I’m addicted to air.
Let’s all share a collective sigh, breathe in and burn.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
breathe deep
in the sucking depths at the tickertape
of my lung sacs, the little bitty ends
that are like clouds on mountains
inside me
in this interchange where the soup
we walk through daily
turns into little cup holders
and cups of air in the soup
of my blood
at this little cash register of oxygen
a convenience store counter where
product becomes energy
(and people buy cheetos relinquishing small
green spotted cloth squares)
at this matrix
of creation,
where we make peace with our ocean origins
no more womb-gills to replenish us
in this ruddy suckup
inward, i acknowledge
my defiance of ocean origin
and my terrestrial, upright
upstartdom
with this deep breath, i praise my defiance
my land-living, earth-stalking strangeness
and my body glories as it
passes the little coffeecups with lids on
of prana at the corner stores overloaded with
micro super grandes of air
carrying them through the blood
to the thrilled cells and
their vitalizing membranes
this is a coffeeshop of air
i cannot resist,
not too picky, shade grown or organic,
pastoral or cityfumed,
a requisite addiction
life-giving, animating
this
deep
breath
Scooter Cascadia
of my lung sacs, the little bitty ends
that are like clouds on mountains
inside me
in this interchange where the soup
we walk through daily
turns into little cup holders
and cups of air in the soup
of my blood
at this little cash register of oxygen
a convenience store counter where
product becomes energy
(and people buy cheetos relinquishing small
green spotted cloth squares)
at this matrix
of creation,
where we make peace with our ocean origins
no more womb-gills to replenish us
in this ruddy suckup
inward, i acknowledge
my defiance of ocean origin
and my terrestrial, upright
upstartdom
with this deep breath, i praise my defiance
my land-living, earth-stalking strangeness
and my body glories as it
passes the little coffeecups with lids on
of prana at the corner stores overloaded with
micro super grandes of air
carrying them through the blood
to the thrilled cells and
their vitalizing membranes
this is a coffeeshop of air
i cannot resist,
not too picky, shade grown or organic,
pastoral or cityfumed,
a requisite addiction
life-giving, animating
this
deep
breath
Scooter Cascadia
Monday, January 24, 2011
Request
Pardon me, ma'am. Would you mind too much
if I took one deep breath
of your fresh laundered blouse
that smells so sweetly of the sea?
Or if I buried my nose into your damp hair
so recently rinsed and shampooed
and clinging to your neck in lovely ringlets?
I've been standing in this crowded commuter train
for three long hours now
in tight black shoes
with nothing to read but
a red computer manual
and could use a little reason
to live.
if I took one deep breath
of your fresh laundered blouse
that smells so sweetly of the sea?
Or if I buried my nose into your damp hair
so recently rinsed and shampooed
and clinging to your neck in lovely ringlets?
I've been standing in this crowded commuter train
for three long hours now
in tight black shoes
with nothing to read but
a red computer manual
and could use a little reason
to live.
Friday, January 21, 2011
This Week's Prompt: Deep Breathe
My friend Noël coaches me to write in shorter sentences, that to read the writing of run-ons is like listening to someone speaking who forgets to breathe. It is exhausting. Only unlike conversation, we don't know they've stopped listening to us. They just close the book or click on a different link.
Let's use this week of Sun moving into Aquarius to breathe in the water-bearing circulation of the air realms.
Write about or write as if
spaciousness and breath
filled the lung
of your voice
and
the breath of your
pen - How can
your writing
billow
and breathe deeply?
Tags: poem, breathe
Let's use this week of Sun moving into Aquarius to breathe in the water-bearing circulation of the air realms.
 |
| Artwork by Melanie Weidner - Listen for Joy |
spaciousness and breath
filled the lung
of your voice
and
the breath of your
pen - How can
your writing
billow
and breathe deeply?
Tags: poem, breathe
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Sonnet Inspired by the Oxygen Concentrator: Ocean Home
I was with my mom writing poems and the sound of the oxygen machine dominated our poetic silence. Here is a poem inspired by an oxygen concentrator, a sonnet also, so for me, doubly completely different.
Ocean Home
Seahorse glides to glittering bottom
where float, like ships in space, long velvet rays
softly, darkly zooming in abysm's craize:
stately descent to Neptune's tomb.
Imagine the sultry depths filled with gloom,
mermaids with fangs guiding our kelp-filled gaze.
The looming, lurchless, steady downward laze
into the lapping gravels-- velvet, subsumed.
The mesmer of oxygen concentration
is a different kind of submarine.
Our bronchioles are round fish in a roundly swarm.
They love pure breath as culmination:
A voyage in darkness. Or are lungs
and ocean depths secretly bright and warm?
Ocean Home
Seahorse glides to glittering bottom
where float, like ships in space, long velvet rays
softly, darkly zooming in abysm's craize:
stately descent to Neptune's tomb.
Imagine the sultry depths filled with gloom,
mermaids with fangs guiding our kelp-filled gaze.
The looming, lurchless, steady downward laze
into the lapping gravels-- velvet, subsumed.
The mesmer of oxygen concentration
is a different kind of submarine.
Our bronchioles are round fish in a roundly swarm.
They love pure breath as culmination:
A voyage in darkness. Or are lungs
and ocean depths secretly bright and warm?
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The View, the Ride, this Home Inside
Between Dr Suess and Human Design,
I woke up this morning feeling just fine.
My mind had been racing as minds often will do,
it had gotten all tied up, frustrated, and blue.
My mind was saying, "Watch out! You must!
"If you don't control where we're going, we simply might bust!"
Sometimes I suffer my mind being Queen
and I a lowly subject, her demanding I clean,
"Clean up this mess, the mess you've made of this life.
You simply must listen and take my advice!
"We wouldn't be in this mess if you'd surrendered to me.
And now look, it's as if you are stuck up a tree.
"You've no way out now, you're out on a limb.
You must listen to me, I'll guide you back in."
But something in me felt, "No, don't buckle under!"
It was a still clear sense that filled me with wonder.
It was if as it said, "Just wait and you'll see,
things will unfold, although quite differently."
So I waited, just me, just as I am,
waited one...
waited two...
waited three...
~
And wow, did things happen!
No one else might have noticed anything happening, you see,
because it was all happening to everything while inside of me!
Within what once had me hopeless, confined, and upset,
things disappeared, effortlessly shifted, dissolved
and before I knew it, I felt again resolved.
So the moral of this story, if moral's the word,
"Find the type of knowing that lives in just you
and don't buckle under until you have That in view!"
For the Queen or King of your mind will certainly have other plans,
but plans are not made of the living stuff of life.
Life is being lived as we relax and find ourselves, even admist strife.
And, anyway, my mind really has something important to do!
She's just not here to run my life, she has her own significant ware,
there is creativity, unique awareness, inspiring insights to share!
~
My still clear knowing, the one that is true,
lives in the listening tissues of my body and is ever new.
I celebrate that today with the help of this poem,
as I recognize on shifting ground that within me, I am Home!
Reader, thank you for reading, for rhyming with me.
And may your own ride finds its unique vitality.
Thank you Dr Suess and Ra Uru Hu,
the gifts you have proffered have opened up this View!
I woke up this morning feeling just fine.
My mind had been racing as minds often will do,
it had gotten all tied up, frustrated, and blue.
My mind was saying, "Watch out! You must!
"If you don't control where we're going, we simply might bust!"
Sometimes I suffer my mind being Queen
and I a lowly subject, her demanding I clean,
"Clean up this mess, the mess you've made of this life.
You simply must listen and take my advice!
"We wouldn't be in this mess if you'd surrendered to me.
And now look, it's as if you are stuck up a tree.
"You've no way out now, you're out on a limb.
You must listen to me, I'll guide you back in."
But something in me felt, "No, don't buckle under!"
It was a still clear sense that filled me with wonder.
It was if as it said, "Just wait and you'll see,
things will unfold, although quite differently."
So I waited, just me, just as I am,
waited one...
waited two...
waited three...
~
And wow, did things happen!
No one else might have noticed anything happening, you see,
because it was all happening to everything while inside of me!
Within what once had me hopeless, confined, and upset,
things disappeared, effortlessly shifted, dissolved
and before I knew it, I felt again resolved.
So the moral of this story, if moral's the word,
"Find the type of knowing that lives in just you
and don't buckle under until you have That in view!"
For the Queen or King of your mind will certainly have other plans,
but plans are not made of the living stuff of life.
Life is being lived as we relax and find ourselves, even admist strife.
And, anyway, my mind really has something important to do!
She's just not here to run my life, she has her own significant ware,
there is creativity, unique awareness, inspiring insights to share!
~
My still clear knowing, the one that is true,
lives in the listening tissues of my body and is ever new.
I celebrate that today with the help of this poem,
as I recognize on shifting ground that within me, I am Home!
Reader, thank you for reading, for rhyming with me.
And may your own ride finds its unique vitality.
Thank you Dr Suess and Ra Uru Hu,
the gifts you have proffered have opened up this View!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
"Junk Drawer"
Revised...
I saved a couple coals from a significant fire. Some unusable keys
remain on photo keychains, freebies from Las Vegas weekends
long past.
Boxing gloves rest on top with “HITMAN” written on them in
Sharpie.
The gloves float
on old journals, several tarot decks, a box stuffed with at least
a thousand fortunes from cookies,
some mushroom-shaped ceramic stands, a banana-shaped pipe
for pot—
I have two cubic feet of such things, each with an invitation to
wait here.
Even the motes
settled into the bin’s bottom corners
have their stories.
This is what I call a junk drawer.
The one near the kitchen is the utility drawer with its markers,
tools, pushpins, flashlight, scratch paper and keys.
The keys are the telling detail: those in the junk drawer have lost
their doors.
I don’t know why they’re still around. This may mean
it’s time for the ritual. With a junk drawer, you have to visit
every so often, recommit to the objects you’ll keep.
You have to adjust
the collection you retain to guard your secret identity.
With a trashcan on hand, you redraw the boundaries around
those miscellaneous matters of trust.
Maybe some you save for your son or granddaughter.
It’s poem-like, how you must
decide what to abandon and which things to contain in their rust
I saved a couple coals from a significant fire. Some unusable keys
remain on photo keychains, freebies from Las Vegas weekends
long past.
Boxing gloves rest on top with “HITMAN” written on them in
Sharpie.
The gloves float
on old journals, several tarot decks, a box stuffed with at least
a thousand fortunes from cookies,
some mushroom-shaped ceramic stands, a banana-shaped pipe
for pot—
I have two cubic feet of such things, each with an invitation to
wait here.
Even the motes
settled into the bin’s bottom corners
have their stories.
This is what I call a junk drawer.
The one near the kitchen is the utility drawer with its markers,
tools, pushpins, flashlight, scratch paper and keys.
The keys are the telling detail: those in the junk drawer have lost
their doors.
I don’t know why they’re still around. This may mean
it’s time for the ritual. With a junk drawer, you have to visit
every so often, recommit to the objects you’ll keep.
You have to adjust
the collection you retain to guard your secret identity.
With a trashcan on hand, you redraw the boundaries around
those miscellaneous matters of trust.
Maybe some you save for your son or granddaughter.
It’s poem-like, how you must
decide what to abandon and which things to contain in their rust
Friday, January 7, 2011
Something different
Happy turn of the year, IMUNURI. For this week's prompt, throw yourself a curve ball. Try something you don't usually do or something you have never tried before. Write your poem in a different notebook—or a different language. Take a perspective you never take. You can go in many directions with this. You could write a poem called "Something Different," or write a poem about how there is nothing new under the sun.
You might put yourself in a space where you've never written a poem before and then write a poem there—on a Ferris wheel, while stuck in traffic, in total darkness, on the comments page of a political website... Or your direction may be subtler, such as trying a poetic form you've never tried, or writing in rhyme when you hardly ever do, or writing in prose.
Consider sharing your process in the comments section after your poem.
Labels: poem, different
"And now for something completely different."
You might put yourself in a space where you've never written a poem before and then write a poem there—on a Ferris wheel, while stuck in traffic, in total darkness, on the comments page of a political website... Or your direction may be subtler, such as trying a poetic form you've never tried, or writing in rhyme when you hardly ever do, or writing in prose.
Consider sharing your process in the comments section after your poem.
Labels: poem, different
"And now for something completely different."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Quiescent Bless
Morning rain, rose mist for face and spirit,
morning, sitting with all that has come before
open to quiesence of self, bless self seen,
bless, touch, and cherish all self unseen.
The cycle of work, support, listening, attending
to all those needs, finding a voice for someone
else's words and vision with care and respect,
this is coming to a close; there are soon endings.
This past work calls for blessings, needs cherishing,
as do I, that self, pining at quiescence, still bleeding
of misbegotten wendings and woes. Now
touch heart and ground, lay it down, close.
These years in the making, years seen or honored
by the other impartially; not wholly evident to me.
Is this but a razzle dazzle afront by that one, who
clearly knows from behind the scenes, emptiness ~ all.
morning, sitting with all that has come before
open to quiesence of self, bless self seen,
bless, touch, and cherish all self unseen.
The cycle of work, support, listening, attending
to all those needs, finding a voice for someone
else's words and vision with care and respect,
this is coming to a close; there are soon endings.
This past work calls for blessings, needs cherishing,
as do I, that self, pining at quiescence, still bleeding
of misbegotten wendings and woes. Now
touch heart and ground, lay it down, close.
These years in the making, years seen or honored
by the other impartially; not wholly evident to me.
Is this but a razzle dazzle afront by that one, who
clearly knows from behind the scenes, emptiness ~ all.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Last Hours of 2010 poem
Every regular day as I leave home,
some faint tongue of fate whispers, “Accidents
happen.” There’s my daughter in the window,
waving goodbye, voice faint behind the panes.
Is it life or my perception that slows?
Somehow that moment crossing the flagstones
fills with such longing and love and regret
as though every tragic, comic, mundane,
epic journey of the Mandelbrot set
of life grows from each goodbye and hello.
Still I go and come in a bittersweet
ballet with many storylines wending
where they may. A world blooms when the car starts,
its fragrance accidentally undoing
all other worlds for now, for today. Then
the day transpires, and soon I’m returning
home safely. (My wife asked for this ending.)
some faint tongue of fate whispers, “Accidents
happen.” There’s my daughter in the window,
waving goodbye, voice faint behind the panes.
Is it life or my perception that slows?
Somehow that moment crossing the flagstones
fills with such longing and love and regret
as though every tragic, comic, mundane,
epic journey of the Mandelbrot set
of life grows from each goodbye and hello.
Still I go and come in a bittersweet
ballet with many storylines wending
where they may. A world blooms when the car starts,
its fragrance accidentally undoing
all other worlds for now, for today. Then
the day transpires, and soon I’m returning
home safely. (My wife asked for this ending.)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
darkness
1.
when i think of light
i think of nuclear bombs
a dazzle so bright
capable child of our technologics
lit, it melts our eyes
2.
the nun from africa
talks about how
it is too hot mid-day
sun is a menace
where she lives
night is the balm there, night the time
for getting things done
night, the cool, receptive darkness
enswirls her, a time of conversation
and connection,
laughter and action
3.
because of sky god confusion
some burn their eyes in upward glances
defying earth
4.
i will gladly receive
the gifts of worm duff and leaf goo
the rot of earth
which birthed
this toasted hazelnut rice stuffed squash
these little leaves of thyme
minting my tongue
some sun, sure, but remember
the greater embrace of clay (volcanic molten ash balls long ago
lobbed to our now, capable of holding water and so many minerals)
and the endless dundering sundering
rock tumble of pangaea and glacier
across geologic aeons which gives
us this fertile
dirt:
earth
5.
down into the dark caverns in earth belly
down the earthworm superhighways
down the muckpiles and festering fresh rot
fungal beloveds and mycelial mushroom muscle
down into the cunt of the earth, the earthwomb,
the throbbing life always in labor and always in birth
somewhere fallowing elsewhere nourishing
beyond our projection of terror given by birth-stealing
religion (pretense of fecundity)
beyond our learned aversion to mystery and
glorification of cause-effect
beyond our recent primacy on sight and
loss of low light or night
movement
6.
we can still walk the night path, a life
giving chant on our earth loving tongue,
gently receiving the moist cool linger
a kiss of darkness to bless our way
7.
as we learn to stop poisoning the earth and it becomes
impossible for corporations soon denuded of their false bodies
to profit short term off of long term poison
as we lose our fear of the wild rampage of life
and reconnect with our inner wilderness
our sex high howling pleasure and savoring succor
8.
i will give you back your sky gods and internecine
nuclear fire shatter; you give me back the earth
9.
no need to ask or give; we reinhabit.
daily
in slither and wriggle,
dance and shout
in organic dill and dogwood blossoming
this gorgeous, fertile
larger body,
arm of our arms,
leg of our legs,
planet supple
huge and healing
dark and moist
depth revealing
we-earth
we-earth
we-earth
26 Dec 42010
when i think of light
i think of nuclear bombs
a dazzle so bright
capable child of our technologics
lit, it melts our eyes
2.
the nun from africa
talks about how
it is too hot mid-day
sun is a menace
where she lives
night is the balm there, night the time
for getting things done
night, the cool, receptive darkness
enswirls her, a time of conversation
and connection,
laughter and action
3.
because of sky god confusion
some burn their eyes in upward glances
defying earth
4.
i will gladly receive
the gifts of worm duff and leaf goo
the rot of earth
which birthed
this toasted hazelnut rice stuffed squash
these little leaves of thyme
minting my tongue
some sun, sure, but remember
the greater embrace of clay (volcanic molten ash balls long ago
lobbed to our now, capable of holding water and so many minerals)
and the endless dundering sundering
rock tumble of pangaea and glacier
across geologic aeons which gives
us this fertile
dirt:
earth
5.
down into the dark caverns in earth belly
down the earthworm superhighways
down the muckpiles and festering fresh rot
fungal beloveds and mycelial mushroom muscle
down into the cunt of the earth, the earthwomb,
the throbbing life always in labor and always in birth
somewhere fallowing elsewhere nourishing
beyond our projection of terror given by birth-stealing
religion (pretense of fecundity)
beyond our learned aversion to mystery and
glorification of cause-effect
beyond our recent primacy on sight and
loss of low light or night
movement
6.
we can still walk the night path, a life
giving chant on our earth loving tongue,
gently receiving the moist cool linger
a kiss of darkness to bless our way
7.
as we learn to stop poisoning the earth and it becomes
impossible for corporations soon denuded of their false bodies
to profit short term off of long term poison
as we lose our fear of the wild rampage of life
and reconnect with our inner wilderness
our sex high howling pleasure and savoring succor
8.
i will give you back your sky gods and internecine
nuclear fire shatter; you give me back the earth
9.
no need to ask or give; we reinhabit.
daily
in slither and wriggle,
dance and shout
in organic dill and dogwood blossoming
this gorgeous, fertile
larger body,
arm of our arms,
leg of our legs,
planet supple
huge and healing
dark and moist
depth revealing
we-earth
we-earth
we-earth
26 Dec 42010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Bonus Razzle Prompt for Winter Stills - Favorite Words/Scrabble Poem
I am imaging us at a winter table, sipping tea. We are enjoying a mellow evening of poem making with scrabble tiles near a roaring fire. Some of the words I might use would include quiescent, quaff, blooming, razzle, bless, sail, and gloaming. Please feel welcome to make a poem with some of your favorite words (or you could use some of these). Your poem could be spare like a leafless tree or frolicsome as your mood depends. You can write your poem in tiles or letters, evocative haiku or splendid word-fountain, laser beam or galaxy, your choice. Holiday blessings from : ) Scooter near Solstice 2010
Label: Razzle, Poem
Friday, December 17, 2010
Winter
like a clock of sunrises,
somewhat cloud muzzled,
winter comes, spreading her cape
of dead plants and twigs,
birds in droves
of pippery, and deep
fallows. the core of me slows
to a crevasse, a whisper,
not even wind in this
valley. the only snow's
inside, but that's enough:
to be wiped clean to nubs,
nibbled by those
who aren't fully asleep--
and slumbering in the slow breath
of those who are.
a time of bedazzlement
if sun peaks through to the smile in me.
but mostly blackness wombs me
in winter.
winter rings
the almost full moon
in a circle of light, a glowsphere miles out
from her fresh gaze, accentuating the fathomless
blanks of space.
deep in clearing the heart
of me, that deep in
these moonportals of cold white
embalm the night in me.
these inner snow flurries
this cold
winter.
somewhat cloud muzzled,
winter comes, spreading her cape
of dead plants and twigs,
birds in droves
of pippery, and deep
fallows. the core of me slows
to a crevasse, a whisper,
not even wind in this
valley. the only snow's
inside, but that's enough:
to be wiped clean to nubs,
nibbled by those
who aren't fully asleep--
and slumbering in the slow breath
of those who are.
a time of bedazzlement
if sun peaks through to the smile in me.
but mostly blackness wombs me
in winter.
winter rings
the almost full moon
in a circle of light, a glowsphere miles out
from her fresh gaze, accentuating the fathomless
blanks of space.
deep in clearing the heart
of me, that deep in
these moonportals of cold white
embalm the night in me.
these inner snow flurries
this cold
winter.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Season’s undoings
Great earth snakes change guard
over tiny us, slide in in new skins.
Winter pours from the ground
to lay across the woolen world
in cool, nest-sitting repose.
It abides, eating my certainty.
The shapes of summer’s purposes
melt in its smooth belly.
I can’t guess what I knew
in fall or spring. For now,
just walking to that chair and
sitting down seems the only thing.
over tiny us, slide in in new skins.
Winter pours from the ground
to lay across the woolen world
in cool, nest-sitting repose.
It abides, eating my certainty.
The shapes of summer’s purposes
melt in its smooth belly.
I can’t guess what I knew
in fall or spring. For now,
just walking to that chair and
sitting down seems the only thing.
Its Own Wonder
i.
The dark left as itself
impresses upon me a whole,
a depth incomparable,
a wonderment beyond
what typically is taken
as the simple absence of light
For the dark is itself
a deep nourishing, a salve
to my bones and beingness as
I walk in the dark, sampling
this exquisite treat of the
unnameable senses
True would be the loss
to suffer nyctalopia*, although
many do without knowing
this condition is theirs,
we've become so blind
within the hierarchy of light
ii.
Dusk finds the ground within
such that surfaces dissolve
give way to the softer core heat
This communication begins
its emanation, naming each
thing anew as dark arises
In contrast, intentioned light
overshadows and can carelessly enter
the exquisiteness of the dark
where naturally listening things
recede into their essential
incognito. The dusk is that listening
iii.
What do we have in common
with the dark? Are we not dark,
dark in our marrow, in our quiet,
in so many yet to be
realized ways?
And how are we similar to a flame?
The flame, kin to the dark, is it not
ever tender to the shadows?
Lighting a flame, our dark
dances within, with, and around us.
iiii.
As a sweet melancholy
unlike anything
I am drawn to take to the dark,
an exquisite entry
A prescription unique,
a remembering
timeless
walking forward looking deeply
eyes open and open again,the vastness of the dark field,
to deeply see
what cannot be seen
what cannot
be perceived
through a different wonder.
*nyctalopia |ˌniktəˈlōpēə|
noun ~ the inability to see in dim light or at night. Also called night blindness .
The dark left as itself
impresses upon me a whole,
a depth incomparable,
a wonderment beyond
what typically is taken
as the simple absence of light
For the dark is itself
a deep nourishing, a salve
to my bones and beingness as
I walk in the dark, sampling
this exquisite treat of the
unnameable senses
True would be the loss
to suffer nyctalopia*, although
many do without knowing
this condition is theirs,
we've become so blind
within the hierarchy of light
ii.
Dusk finds the ground within
such that surfaces dissolve
give way to the softer core heat
This communication begins
its emanation, naming each
thing anew as dark arises
In contrast, intentioned light
overshadows and can carelessly enter
the exquisiteness of the dark
where naturally listening things
recede into their essential
incognito. The dusk is that listening
iii.
What do we have in common
with the dark? Are we not dark,
dark in our marrow, in our quiet,
in so many yet to be
realized ways?
And how are we similar to a flame?
The flame, kin to the dark, is it not
ever tender to the shadows?
Lighting a flame, our dark
dances within, with, and around us.
iiii.
As a sweet melancholy
unlike anything
I am drawn to take to the dark,
an exquisite entry
A prescription unique,
a remembering
timeless
walking forward looking deeply
eyes open and open again,the vastness of the dark field,
to deeply see
what cannot be seen
what cannot
be perceived
through a different wonder.
*nyctalopia |ˌniktəˈlōpēə|
noun ~ the inability to see in dim light or at night. Also called night blindness .
Friday, December 10, 2010
This Week's Prompt: Dark
Darkness.
The Dark.
Darkening.
Pitch dark.
Dark chocolate with dark beer.
Darkrooms.
Dark matter.
Donnie Darko.
Dark field.
Dark eyes.
Crepuscular.
Benighted.
Aphotic
Make the absence of light your field of exploration this week, or find light within the dark.
You could even write your poem by candlelight or flashlight if you wish.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The days of paper routes and phone books
We would sit in the cherry tree,
high up on thin limbs that could barely hold a breeze,
looking for fruit that had ripened yet somehow escaped the squirrels.
We would sit under the bushes,
inside the bushes in fact, where grown-ups would never think to look.
We would hide inside cabinets and closets,
sometimes hide so well we wouldn’t know
the others had given up seeking and turned to snacks.
We would haul the dog up to the tree house
and pretend we didn’t hear our parents calling.
There were screens on the windows, of course,
but just the one screen in the house,
the size of a sheet of loose leaf,
and we were forbidden to watch its black and white opinions most of the time.
The phone was attached to the wall,
which was fine because people rarely called,
certainly not during dinner.
We didn’t think it was idyllic.
It wasn’t. It was just the suburbs
and kids came home from Vietnam in boxes
or ended up like Uncle Ray, pumped full of lithium
in Pilgrim State for trying acid or being gay or both.
The girl next door got picked up for breaking in
and stealing mom’s jewelry while we were on vacation
and suddenly the cat was missing an eye.
A microwave was merely some mystery of radio relay,
so dinner was more likely to be cold...
and it wasn’t called domestic violence yet
even though the churches were full of folk music.
We would hide under the eaves.
We would crawl beneath our beds.
We would sit inside the bushes,
bitten by brambles, bleeding from needles and thorns.
But it was quiet there, secret and safe,
and no one could find us for hours at a time.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
a sharp remembering
I.
you don't have to teach me
i said
once two hands are on,
and my fingers close around
the scuffed, oil honed snath
curving
into angled reaping lance
i am gone, can't hear you anyway
II.
in the morning we are quiet as harvest begins
gruff greetings as each arrives
animals provisioned, cow milked
get ready for a long day now
that the sunrise has boiled over
from all that madness
into a bend of pure blue,
and the dew has all returned to heaven.
now even the birds have begun
attending to everyday chores.
check your blade for sharp up against the sun
any dull bit, too wide to splice light,
will glint and sparkle and needs attending.
your back stays straight, arms as well
arc your torso a stiff hip twist
follow the elliptic side to side
with every full swing
as if your pelvis were the earth.
III.
i go in and out of believing in human past lives,
sometimes ancient antiquity
is tirelessly thronging with my people,
my blood kinned to so many of history's helices,
that i rest confidently cradled
in the long learning journey i ride.
the rest of the time it is obvious
that mostly i have been dirt, tree limbs, stones.
and that is that, beautifully.
until i pick up a scythe. or a sickle.
and then god plucks me,
the ground cracks and swallows me
and with instantaneous precision
drops me directly onto a sweat painted field
into the metered beat of swinging tools
the whole farm full out to help.
metal flying close to the ground
without knocking rocks
grain sundered into swaths
braced to be banded
and stacked in stooks.
i am content here
as regular as breathing
as familiar as the smell of my bed
reaping by hand
the wedded cells of sky earth and water
united in biological matrimony
a million times over
in each golden stalk, each budded head of wheat
that sways in the rosy acreage
as one breathing thing
which we have come to bow, fell, level
and lay down to dry
for a snowy night's worth of bread.
you don't have to teach me
i said
once two hands are on,
and my fingers close around
the scuffed, oil honed snath
curving
into angled reaping lance
i am gone, can't hear you anyway
II.
in the morning we are quiet as harvest begins
gruff greetings as each arrives
animals provisioned, cow milked
get ready for a long day now
that the sunrise has boiled over
from all that madness
into a bend of pure blue,
and the dew has all returned to heaven.
now even the birds have begun
attending to everyday chores.
check your blade for sharp up against the sun
any dull bit, too wide to splice light,
will glint and sparkle and needs attending.
your back stays straight, arms as well
arc your torso a stiff hip twist
follow the elliptic side to side
with every full swing
as if your pelvis were the earth.
III.
i go in and out of believing in human past lives,
sometimes ancient antiquity
is tirelessly thronging with my people,
my blood kinned to so many of history's helices,
that i rest confidently cradled
in the long learning journey i ride.
the rest of the time it is obvious
that mostly i have been dirt, tree limbs, stones.
and that is that, beautifully.
until i pick up a scythe. or a sickle.
and then god plucks me,
the ground cracks and swallows me
and with instantaneous precision
drops me directly onto a sweat painted field
into the metered beat of swinging tools
the whole farm full out to help.
metal flying close to the ground
without knocking rocks
grain sundered into swaths
braced to be banded
and stacked in stooks.
i am content here
as regular as breathing
as familiar as the smell of my bed
reaping by hand
the wedded cells of sky earth and water
united in biological matrimony
a million times over
in each golden stalk, each budded head of wheat
that sways in the rosy acreage
as one breathing thing
which we have come to bow, fell, level
and lay down to dry
for a snowy night's worth of bread.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
This Week's Prompt: Time Machine
Enter the poet's time machine, 100 years before now or 100 years hence. What are you doing? What are you dreaming? What do you eat? What do you think about? Who or what do you care about?
Whether you're in a Jetson's flying zip or a horse-drawn carriage, channel your poet-ancestors or poet-progeny from across the deep rumples of time.
If you feel inspired, you could even invent or revisit poetic forms in the time machine.
Welcome to the rifts and wild adventures of timespace!
This week's keywords: "poem, time machine"
If you feel inspired, you could even invent or revisit poetic forms in the time machine.
Welcome to the rifts and wild adventures of timespace!
This week's keywords: "poem, time machine"
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Junk Drawer
Floorboard time capsule spy stash treasure chest,
secret identity told in tchotchkes,
smudgy paraphernalia sitting chaste,
where are the doors opened by all these keys?
Yesterday’s faded clarities have chased
postponed questions from this walkie-talkie:
Why shouldn’t I eat up the cold, red plums?
What messages live in these inky streaks?
Who speaks from the holy medicine steam?
This drawer collects the whimsy of your choice.
Decant the junk onto the floor. Vacuum
off the layer of homogenous dust.
Now you have to winnow, to make more room—
so meet each object anew and adjust
the boundary between preserved and decayed
memories. Then close your shrine to sweet rust,
your miscellaneous matters of trust.
secret identity told in tchotchkes,
smudgy paraphernalia sitting chaste,
where are the doors opened by all these keys?
Yesterday’s faded clarities have chased
postponed questions from this walkie-talkie:
Why shouldn’t I eat up the cold, red plums?
What messages live in these inky streaks?
Who speaks from the holy medicine steam?
This drawer collects the whimsy of your choice.
Decant the junk onto the floor. Vacuum
off the layer of homogenous dust.
Now you have to winnow, to make more room—
so meet each object anew and adjust
the boundary between preserved and decayed
memories. Then close your shrine to sweet rust,
your miscellaneous matters of trust.
How to Write a Poem
First off, give up trying
to write a poem.
Just give it up!
Do something else instead:
basketball with a homeless kid,
laundry, taxidermy, nap.
Send roses to the obese neighbor
in the blue house up the street.
Email your dead mother.
Call three friends and make fun of them.
Walk across town barefoot
in search of the burning bush.
Gargle with baking soda,
brush your cat's teeth.
Wait for a moment when your heart is quiet,
then grab a pen and paper
and quickly scrawl
your soul's most recent dream -
not a poem, not a poem.
to write a poem.
Just give it up!
Do something else instead:
basketball with a homeless kid,
laundry, taxidermy, nap.
Send roses to the obese neighbor
in the blue house up the street.
Email your dead mother.
Call three friends and make fun of them.
Walk across town barefoot
in search of the burning bush.
Gargle with baking soda,
brush your cat's teeth.
Wait for a moment when your heart is quiet,
then grab a pen and paper
and quickly scrawl
your soul's most recent dream -
not a poem, not a poem.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
why there is still hope for us to reconnect with our source-body-self-earth
with thanks to the online etymological dictionary
these are my sins: (and their true meaning)
sin (with; truth)
sincere (of one growth, sound, pure, whole, with the crescenting moon)
sinecure (without care)
since (in the evening)
sine qua non (an indispensable condition)
sinews (to bend)
sing (voice, oracle, incantation)
single (individual unbroken)
singular (remarkably good, unusually rare)
singultus (a sob)
sinister (more useful, more advantageous, veering leftward)
sinuous (curving)
no no i mean these are my syns:
syn (together with)
syncopate (to shorten)
synergy, synergetic, synergistic (to work together, cooperating)
syncopy (to cut through)
scintillate (to spark)
synaesthesia (sense with)
synapse (clasp, fasten, junction)
synaptive (connected, copulative)
synchronistic (simultaneous)
synchronized (same timing)
sinclinal (to lean together)
syncretic (reconciling different beliefs)
synagogue (to gather together)
syndic (publically advocate)
synecdoche (part for whole)
synechia (continuity, to hold with)
synonymous (having the same name)
synopsis (to see all together)
syntactic (ordered, arranged with intention)
synthesis (put together)
succulent (to suck the juice)
snuffaluffagus (shaggy lumbering goddess)
sesquiquadrate (two celestial bodies separated by 135 degrees)
cinquant (fifty; homonym: 5 aunts)
cinq (five)
(-with-)
please praise my sins/syns/scins/skins, for they are magnificent and holy, praising creation
these are my sins: (and their true meaning)
sin (with; truth)
sincere (of one growth, sound, pure, whole, with the crescenting moon)
sinecure (without care)
since (in the evening)
sine qua non (an indispensable condition)
sinews (to bend)
sing (voice, oracle, incantation)
single (individual unbroken)
singular (remarkably good, unusually rare)
singultus (a sob)
sinister (more useful, more advantageous, veering leftward)
sinuous (curving)
no no i mean these are my syns:
syn (together with)
syncopate (to shorten)
synergy, synergetic, synergistic (to work together, cooperating)
syncopy (to cut through)
scintillate (to spark)
synaesthesia (sense with)
synapse (clasp, fasten, junction)
synaptive (connected, copulative)
synchronistic (simultaneous)
synchronized (same timing)
sinclinal (to lean together)
syncretic (reconciling different beliefs)
synagogue (to gather together)
syndic (publically advocate)
synecdoche (part for whole)
synechia (continuity, to hold with)
synonymous (having the same name)
synopsis (to see all together)
syntactic (ordered, arranged with intention)
synthesis (put together)
succulent (to suck the juice)
snuffaluffagus (shaggy lumbering goddess)
sesquiquadrate (two celestial bodies separated by 135 degrees)
cinquant (fifty; homonym: 5 aunts)
cinq (five)
(-with-)
please praise my sins/syns/scins/skins, for they are magnificent and holy, praising creation
Friday, November 26, 2010
The View from Cold Mountain
We lay our own traps,
pay handsomely for the privilege,
borrow, in fact, more than we’ve ever had
just to slip our necks inside the noose.
Yep, we cook our own goose,
fry up golden eggs while we’re at it
and invite our friends to dine
as if it’s a joyous occasion.
We buy objects that no one needs, in bulk,
unpack them into cabinets, cavernous,
and lovingly recycle the plastic bags
by tying them tightly around our necks.
We shop so carefully for our poison,
hire experts to help us estimate
exactly how much to consume each month
so we can die alongside the neighbors,
lawns as perfect as cemetery plots.
We buy our chains. We buy our locks.
We save our pennies in a box,
fretting about where it’s cached
while dreaming of a larger box.
pay handsomely for the privilege,
borrow, in fact, more than we’ve ever had
just to slip our necks inside the noose.
Yep, we cook our own goose,
fry up golden eggs while we’re at it
and invite our friends to dine
as if it’s a joyous occasion.
We buy objects that no one needs, in bulk,
unpack them into cabinets, cavernous,
and lovingly recycle the plastic bags
by tying them tightly around our necks.
We shop so carefully for our poison,
hire experts to help us estimate
exactly how much to consume each month
so we can die alongside the neighbors,
lawns as perfect as cemetery plots.
We buy our chains. We buy our locks.
We save our pennies in a box,
fretting about where it’s cached
while dreaming of a larger box.
A mortgage is literally a pledge to death
for each and every debt is less
a measure of pleasure in present tense
than memory of a past defense
against that which awaits each of us
regardless of interest or last address.
for each and every debt is less
a measure of pleasure in present tense
than memory of a past defense
against that which awaits each of us
regardless of interest or last address.
One breath
Breath
Held through two rock valley,
past the nude sheep and singing lambs,
through shafts of light offered only
after the dead have fallen away,
past deer carcass, skunk, barn owl,
offering, as they must,
roadkill married to moment’s glory.
It is never one thing
in the aching span between
in and out, pausing
at the tip of the tongue before
creation, again, saying,
Here,
How about this?
And this?
And then this?
One breath, shotgun wedding of truth
that this is your life, choice
to linger at the nectar of nothing,
the intermezzo before another starts,
the making of worlds
in the bellows of your sweet accordion
Held through two rock valley,
past the nude sheep and singing lambs,
through shafts of light offered only
after the dead have fallen away,
past deer carcass, skunk, barn owl,
offering, as they must,
roadkill married to moment’s glory.
It is never one thing
in the aching span between
in and out, pausing
at the tip of the tongue before
creation, again, saying,
Here,
How about this?
And this?
And then this?
One breath, shotgun wedding of truth
that this is your life, choice
to linger at the nectar of nothing,
the intermezzo before another starts,
the making of worlds
in the bellows of your sweet accordion
This Week's Prompt: Palimpsest
During this time of reflection and gratitude, revisit a prior prompt or finish something you started before. This is a fallow week as winter deepens.
Think of it as a kind of palimpsest:
Wikipedia: A palimpsest is a manuscript page from a scroll or book that has been scraped off and used again. The word "palimpsest" comes through Latin from Greek παλιν + ψαω = (palin "again" + psao "I scrape"), and meant "scraped (clean and used) again." Romans wrote on wax-coated tablets that could be smoothed and reused, and a passing use of the term "palimpsest" by Cicero seems to refer to this practice. The term has come to be used in similar context in a variety of disciplines, notably architectural archaeology.
Keyword labels: poem, palimpsest
Think of it as a kind of palimpsest:
 |
| Example Palimpsest: Codex of Ephremi |
Keyword labels: poem, palimpsest
Thursday, November 25, 2010
heart lantern
come
bring your candles
bring the lantern of your heart
and strike the flame high
we are beloved friends, so long
warming each others' homes
come I will kindle the coals of you
and you will flare the fire of me, my life, my heart
lantern
this is the truest gift, vibrant, brighter
than spring air or bloom—
in the middle of cloud lid and winter's promise
of silence, of grey quiet,
we break out in lanterning, in frolic
this is why they call it housewarming.
friend the gift of your presence is a lantern
whose light will stay with me,
heart gladdening,
ever resuscitating, alive,
a beacon in memory and
kindling the skin, the fiber of me
my heart and health,
a full moon smiling, then wax and waning,
ever replenishing, visit and visit again,
brighter than bright and wholeness creating,
bright and beaconing again,
infinite and warm.
providing guidance, surefooted, dancing.
ever replenishing, visit and visit again,
brighter than bright and wholeness creating,
bright and beaconing,
infinite and warm.
excerpt, r2
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
engaged in this
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
what comes is what brings itself to this
what rests there and what moves on
these are both a part of the same stuff
the stuff of emergingrecedingpausing
bring your feeling sense to what I am
pointing to if you will, if you feel to
there is an ‘empty’ state or open, spacious,
receiving, nothing being grasped for or at
that pervades the formerly preoccupied
ground such that ground becomes being
being breathes just as awareness is quietly
cascadingshoweringbathing itself ever anew
things get done yet no doing ~ on and on
spontaneously refreshing, involuntarily,
with and without innocence both
nothing you can or need to do about it
but be in and as the receiving,
the flowering of this, engaged in this
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Freeform homage
If I were you,
I could snap open the moment,
an impatiens seed pod ejecting dozens of tiny eyes
into the corners of this personal sensation
sitting here
as it happens now
one eye to watch a sky so inviting
through blinds beneath the eave,
an aching toward sunshine and the way breezes
open the throat to drink,
and colors rise in my face
one eye to fly up, to see the rolling surface
of land and sea, two to sink
into the depths,
drift from eddies to roots
to sky again,
dancing between terrestrial chambers
like blood through the heart's mansion and
the hallways between moments,
the causeways that plant you in plains,
and bog me in the marsh for now,
and roll us all up again
into one skypod
and the longing, the longing
the impossible
throat longing as though
to emerge burstingly
having burst,
to what?
to sky beyond sky,
to your seeing
and to seeing beyond you,
to the reverse of shutting,
to swallow, to stare
stretch and plode
proto-birth verb spasms
plosion
puls
pel
...
One Way of Looking at a Blackboard
Amontilado twenty-fourno snub mountain ash,
Theo onomastic moving picture thingamabob
Wash theo eyeball ofay theo blackboard.
[This poem was composed by taking each word from the first stanza of Wallace Stevens' "Twenty Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" and replacing it with the very next word in the dictionary.
"Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird."]
Theo onomastic moving picture thingamabob
Wash theo eyeball ofay theo blackboard.
[This poem was composed by taking each word from the first stanza of Wallace Stevens' "Twenty Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" and replacing it with the very next word in the dictionary.
"Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird."]
Friday, November 19, 2010
Thanksgiving Week Prompt: Poem After Poem
IMUNURIans, for this week of gratitude, let's explore our connection with other poets and our poems' connection to other poems.
Choose a poet or a poem and write a new poem in response, homage, reply, rebuttal, compassion, echo, revision, update, addition, multiplication, highlight, shadow, unbridlement, connection, personalization, recasting, bronze, merlot, counterpoint, synergy, elevation, elephants, cinnabar, scouring pads.... what was I saying?
Please indicate the poet or poem you are referencing as part of your post or as a self-comment.
Explore the connections and shared energies among all poeming. You might pick a poem by another IMUNURI poet and offer a harmony part. You might take an ancient poem from another language and translate/update it. You could make a solemn or a playful nod to the entire body of work by a poet who has influenced you. Or Google "poem," find some random sample and delve into what you find there. There are as many possibilities as there are poems, or maybe more.
Explore the connections and shared energies among all poeming. You might pick a poem by another IMUNURI poet and offer a harmony part. You might take an ancient poem from another language and translate/update it. You could make a solemn or a playful nod to the entire body of work by a poet who has influenced you. Or Google "poem," find some random sample and delve into what you find there. There are as many possibilities as there are poems, or maybe more.
Thank you!
Labels: response, poem
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
scorpio dream: tarantella
in the dream i dance the tarantella
with a red and black thin-legged monster.
i am protecting a young cross-eyed girl
from the dream spider's scorpion whiptail.
she is screaming and scared, it's on her head
in invisible, quick, lethal gestures.
it comes after me, mad now, tail poised up
only thing not moving, graceful arrow
of death. i begin to skittle skattle
as if quicker than death: i'm not. in greece
they danced to sweat out poison, a rite
of exorcism for the convulsions of the bite.
now in italy a dance entrances:
whether bit or not, we become spider.
but in the dream, i am not fast enough
(and that's saying a lot).
is being a workaholic like dancing
tarantella 24/7? i wake
to the poison of this day, brightly
and innocently, calm light proclaiming all
is well, dream's over, whether it is or not.
with a red and black thin-legged monster.
i am protecting a young cross-eyed girl
from the dream spider's scorpion whiptail.
she is screaming and scared, it's on her head
in invisible, quick, lethal gestures.
it comes after me, mad now, tail poised up
only thing not moving, graceful arrow
of death. i begin to skittle skattle
as if quicker than death: i'm not. in greece
they danced to sweat out poison, a rite
of exorcism for the convulsions of the bite.
now in italy a dance entrances:
whether bit or not, we become spider.
but in the dream, i am not fast enough
(and that's saying a lot).
is being a workaholic like dancing
tarantella 24/7? i wake
to the poison of this day, brightly
and innocently, calm light proclaiming all
is well, dream's over, whether it is or not.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Where does that hallway lead?
The architecture of my dreams: hallways.
Red velvet or broad as betting parlors,
the spaces signal transition—always—
and sometimes I come to a subtle door
that opens into a dark and small maze.
It’s familiar but not particular.
I begin squeezing down the labyrinth.
It is as wide as I am. Yellow earth.
Unease rises. I crouch. Ahead, the depth.
I know the secret—I have all my days!
I backtrack from the anonymous earth,
shut the basement door, return to the hall.
Hors d’oeuvres. The opera. No way to assert
what was...where I went. Must wake to recall
the dark, the door, the secret I forget.
Through that grave, I wonder if there’s a caul.
I think through the nothing there is the all.
Monday, November 15, 2010
This area may contain assassins
You sauntered up, all legs, and calmly said,
“Just dance,” so I held you close,
head high, hips sly, tossing off bon mots
while keeping your sleek body
between me and that goon with the gun.
I ignored the nuns in the casino,
letting you sit in my lap for luck and black jack,
snapping your garter with each new card,
a surreptitious little superstition
that made you smirk
but quickly attracted the eye in the sky.
“Slide the winnings in a suitcase and fetch my car,”
I told the cage, flipping the dealer six chips as a tip
while surveillance cameras swiveled
to see the seams on your stockings
strut out to the street.
It’s remarkable anyone could drive
after all that cognac and champagne,
yet such a relief to know
you’d never slip something in my drink,
except maybe an organic lychee.
I went straight back to the cave,
not bothering to blindfold you
or take fake turns or
even worry about a tail.
Sure, they chewed me out the next day —
but I knew what I was doing.
The boys down in the motor pool
keep filling in the bullet holes and banging out the dents.
The lab has scrubbed the interior so many times,
our history could be told in a series of cigar stubs
and strands of hair in tiny, labeled plastic bags.
They even installed that baby ejector seat in back.
It’s been a long road,
with our share of ugly scenes, bad dialogue,
and more than a few continuity errors,
yet you’re still there
when I have to drop the top and hit the gas.
And before I even ask,
you’re elegantly passing me the pistol from the glove box.
You freshen your lipstick. I talk to my watch,
then we exchange familiar grins.
It’s going to be fine, baby.
It’s going to be just fine.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Dream While Driving
I fell asleep again today, this time while driving.
I dreamed I was awake, and driving
on the very same freeway
on the very same day
and every driver in every other car
knew me and waved as they passed.
Some honked their horns and smiled.
Small children pressed their faces against the windows
and gestured wildly.
It felt good to be known and recognized.
Everyone drove safely,
and gave me lots of room.
I did not recognize a single man, woman, or child
though they seemed to know me very well.
I wondered - had I known them in some other life?
A taxi driver wearing a turban
rolled down his window
and motioned for me to exit.
I pulled off at the next freeway offramp.
I found a place to pull over beside
a field of golden barley.
I waited for him to come to my window.
It took a while, for he had but one leg
and he had to walk with crutches.
"Do you remember me?" he exclaimed,
smiling broadly but with tears in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember you at all."
"I am Mansi, your son in law," he said.
"I married your daughter."
"I don't have a daughter," I said.
"Your daughter Gloria, with the beautiful voice."
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember a thing."
"It's okay," he said. "Remembering
isn't everything."
He embraced me then and I woke up.
I was still driving, but on an unfamiliar highway
that seemed to stretch on forever
between foggy rice fields
without another car or farmhouse in sight
and no way to remember
from where I had come from
or where I was going.
I dreamed I was awake, and driving
on the very same freeway
on the very same day
and every driver in every other car
knew me and waved as they passed.
Some honked their horns and smiled.
Small children pressed their faces against the windows
and gestured wildly.
It felt good to be known and recognized.
Everyone drove safely,
and gave me lots of room.
I did not recognize a single man, woman, or child
though they seemed to know me very well.
I wondered - had I known them in some other life?
A taxi driver wearing a turban
rolled down his window
and motioned for me to exit.
I pulled off at the next freeway offramp.
I found a place to pull over beside
a field of golden barley.
I waited for him to come to my window.
It took a while, for he had but one leg
and he had to walk with crutches.
"Do you remember me?" he exclaimed,
smiling broadly but with tears in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember you at all."
"I am Mansi, your son in law," he said.
"I married your daughter."
"I don't have a daughter," I said.
"Your daughter Gloria, with the beautiful voice."
"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't remember a thing."
"It's okay," he said. "Remembering
isn't everything."
He embraced me then and I woke up.
I was still driving, but on an unfamiliar highway
that seemed to stretch on forever
between foggy rice fields
without another car or farmhouse in sight
and no way to remember
from where I had come from
or where I was going.
This Week's Prompt: Dream Poem
O Poets of Imunuri, at this time of thin veil between worlds, take your inspiration from one of these ideas: Write about a dream, as if in a dream, or through the image of a recent dream.
Write of a nightmare or an image of sanctuary.
Or write the poem as a dream interpretation, as if you are each of the characters in a dream.
Loosen your edges, defy gravity, roll between realities, as dreams do.
Tag with "poem, dream"
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Camp
The camp pool glowed green once the sun blew out.
Guys with clipboards herded us into teams.
My team, the Ravens, chose me to start.
My mission: to hold my head submerged
longer than any other teenage fool.
At the whistle, I plunged into water
cold as space, silent
as a whale's womb.
How could I not taste death?
My team shouted words from far away.
Loneliness embraced me like a ghost.
I hid there for what seemed like hours
beneath the stones of duty
until my lungs heaved, grew wings,
lifted me back
to the world of the living.
One other child endured Sheol
two seconds longer than I.
I felt deeply for her.
Guys with clipboards herded us into teams.
My team, the Ravens, chose me to start.
My mission: to hold my head submerged
longer than any other teenage fool.
At the whistle, I plunged into water
cold as space, silent
as a whale's womb.
How could I not taste death?
My team shouted words from far away.
Loneliness embraced me like a ghost.
I hid there for what seemed like hours
beneath the stones of duty
until my lungs heaved, grew wings,
lifted me back
to the world of the living.
One other child endured Sheol
two seconds longer than I.
I felt deeply for her.
This Poem Starts with a Deep Breath
"Take a deep breath," my doctor said
in a strong Korean accent.
His stethoscope pressed cold against my chest.
In a frame on the wall, his medical license
butted up against a print
of the lovely Mona Lisa.
"Why is she smiling?" I asked.
"Why is who smiling?"
"The young woman in the painting," I said,
"on the wall behind your back."
"I can't stand that painting," he said.
"Everytime I walk into the room
it's as if she's smirking at me.
She's thinking, 'You call yourself a doctor?
You're just a quack."
"Well, are you?" I asked
as he looked into my ear
with a strange device.
"Well she sure thinks so," he said
in a brusque physician tone.
"She's the Mona Lisa. She must know."
From an examination room across the hall
I heard an old man scream.
The doctor tapped my kneecap
with a tiny rubber-tipped mallet.
"I don't think you're a quack," I said.
"I think you're very competent.
You did a great job on my ruptured spleen."
"Do you really think so?" he said.
"And remember that band saw accident last year?
I thought I'd never write again.
And here I am, on my third novel."
"You're very kind," my doctor said.
"I need more patients like you.
What color bandaid would you like?"
"I'll take green," I said.
"I want to prescribe some medication
for your invisible nose," he said.
"Whatever you think is best," I said,
although I'm okay with it, actually."
By the way," I said, as he wrote my prescription down,
"why don't you replace that painting
with something a little more uplifting?
Leda and the Swan, perhaps,
or maybe something by Warhol."
"I've considered that," he said.
"But at this point in my life
I just don't want to make big changes.
And besides," he said,
"Mona Lisa keeps me humble."
in a strong Korean accent.
His stethoscope pressed cold against my chest.
In a frame on the wall, his medical license
butted up against a print
of the lovely Mona Lisa.
"Why is she smiling?" I asked.
"Why is who smiling?"
"The young woman in the painting," I said,
"on the wall behind your back."
"I can't stand that painting," he said.
"Everytime I walk into the room
it's as if she's smirking at me.
She's thinking, 'You call yourself a doctor?
You're just a quack."
"Well, are you?" I asked
as he looked into my ear
with a strange device.
"Well she sure thinks so," he said
in a brusque physician tone.
"She's the Mona Lisa. She must know."
From an examination room across the hall
I heard an old man scream.
The doctor tapped my kneecap
with a tiny rubber-tipped mallet.
"I don't think you're a quack," I said.
"I think you're very competent.
You did a great job on my ruptured spleen."
"Do you really think so?" he said.
"And remember that band saw accident last year?
I thought I'd never write again.
And here I am, on my third novel."
"You're very kind," my doctor said.
"I need more patients like you.
What color bandaid would you like?"
"I'll take green," I said.
"I want to prescribe some medication
for your invisible nose," he said.
"Whatever you think is best," I said,
although I'm okay with it, actually."
By the way," I said, as he wrote my prescription down,
"why don't you replace that painting
with something a little more uplifting?
Leda and the Swan, perhaps,
or maybe something by Warhol."
"I've considered that," he said.
"But at this point in my life
I just don't want to make big changes.
And besides," he said,
"Mona Lisa keeps me humble."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
17 words out of breath
(fast walk)
office computer blacks out—walk then
even as the static rain glazes
what’s now a perfect day
(Richmond, U.S.)
insomniac worry how health
is worth the price, but now
before the phone call,
a snoring family
(cost per inhalation)
return on investment.
save on breath in bulk—Dow
Jones in dust
real average
down some points
(backstage)
curtain freakout
heart suffocating staccato as though
wrapped tight in comforters
on! on!
panting for the call
(afterglow)
sculptor knows how i feel—
painter, dancer, engineer,
horse, axlotl, plumeria tree—
job done and done well
(dance)
pump pant dance and sore
wild wind on the floor
shoe magic:
shoes are on—and gone
(upsetting dream)
door wide open hinges
on faces, feet, dirt—
the hallway from here
to the dimly lit room
(four-year-old)
she burns energy
like gunpwder on blacktop—
the gates open
the highway to the sun
never ends
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
rush of air
you take it for granted,
just a regular sweet motion,
waves lapping on a lakeshore
aura light blue, you don't even notice.
until there is a jagged tear
or the timing goes all wrong,
breath too slow, too quick
startling the birds from the trees.
like if you lose your pregnancy
in an 8 hour rush of blood
all by yourself on a long road trip
soaking through five pairs of pants,
pooling the seat into a red lagoon of despair
and your air comes in a panicked rush inoutinoutinout
trembling all your appendages for lack of oxygen,
transforming everything into the wrong world of crimson.
but there is nowhere to stop -
you can only
slow your lungs into the draft of a warrior,
and drive.
breath is the umbilical to spirit they say,
which is how we know
that your body is part of every god
since breath is umbilical also
to your very earthly life.
best to notice it
while everything is right in the world.
just a regular sweet motion,
waves lapping on a lakeshore
aura light blue, you don't even notice.
until there is a jagged tear
or the timing goes all wrong,
breath too slow, too quick
startling the birds from the trees.
like if you lose your pregnancy
in an 8 hour rush of blood
all by yourself on a long road trip
soaking through five pairs of pants,
pooling the seat into a red lagoon of despair
and your air comes in a panicked rush inoutinoutinout
trembling all your appendages for lack of oxygen,
transforming everything into the wrong world of crimson.
but there is nowhere to stop -
you can only
slow your lungs into the draft of a warrior,
and drive.
breath is the umbilical to spirit they say,
which is how we know
that your body is part of every god
since breath is umbilical also
to your very earthly life.
best to notice it
while everything is right in the world.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Ragged
Running, in bodies no longer built for
running, in wing tips, in heels, gasping for air,
uncertain even if we’re running away
or running after something, sitting,
merely sitting at desks and
drowning in our chests,
running, we suffocate in stress.
An entire office inhales and holds its breath.
An entire industry, afraid to exhale.
Running toward deadlines
with nothing save adrenaline for lunch,
running to stay ahead,
and a million brilliants coming up behind,
running on and on in electronic sentences,
sitting only yards apart and never speaking
except to scream. Running out of time.
The system is running but fragmented
and prone to fatal unexpected error.
Shut down. Restart. Running,
at last stumbling into the street.
How did it get so dark?
Running for cabs and buses and trains
still dealing with messages and claims,
running toward a receding line,
legs twitching helplessly,
lungs grabbing at nothing,
how is it that we're still singing,
as the life runs out of us,
singing for more, more, more?
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Simultaneity Disambiguation
Simultaneity
These are times of listening within
along with the expanding out,
into the field where all things
pure and clear. Our familiar states
we stop on in mid-air
to move, no other option. How do
when our true state of pure beingness
the very ground, the matter and
every breath and non-breath.
and simultaneously also conjoined.
Disambiguation
These are times of listening within
along with the expanding out,
Sometimes we need to remind ourselves
which is always there,into the field where all things
of the very thing that is ours
are available and free,pure and clear. Our familiar states
because there is no yours or mine.
are those small platformswe stop on in mid-air
Can you feel how that is so?
when we perceive we have no roomto move, no other option. How do
We land again and again and again,
we agree to remain in those stateswhen our true state of pure beingness
such that landing just is, with no landed.
has never been anywhere else but here,the very ground, the matter and
And from that which is not static,
substance of all seeing, every action,every breath and non-breath.
we return, without need of returning,
Singularity becomes disentangledand simultaneously also conjoined.
to ourselves, whole, unique, individual.
Friday, November 5, 2010
This week's prompt: Out of Breath
Write an "out of breath" poem.
As with any prompt, this is what you make of it to support your own poeming process.
You could do something aerobic and then write the first words that come to you as you're still panting.
You could explore the biological/spiritual/metaphorical aspects of breath.
You could write about speech and the sounds and meanings that literally come out of one's breath.
IMUNURI waits to read your poems with baited breath...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
waiting
anticipation's letter came right on time
vaulted me sideways
clickety clack track wise
into a hurried suitcase jumble,
don't even know what is in it
(all the wrong clothes, a smooth red stone,
two napkin poems and a wind's worth of autumn leaves)
cancel everything
and off to the station
to wait
for a whir of metal to wild me away.
now paused,
i am jetsam on a leaping wave, forth and back
between a nimble rise into
the nectarine taste fuzz on her almost cheek
and the visceral return clunk
to this echoing room, someone's cigarette dank jacket,
the blue news hum stare of wayward strangers.
but, wait for it....
another minute and gone again,
lifted all the way to cirrus clouds -
on a wing of future touch
belly butterflies fly in formation,
eagerness drinking deep
of this
train station limbo
between very right here
and oh so soon.
vaulted me sideways
clickety clack track wise
into a hurried suitcase jumble,
don't even know what is in it
(all the wrong clothes, a smooth red stone,
two napkin poems and a wind's worth of autumn leaves)
cancel everything
and off to the station
to wait
for a whir of metal to wild me away.
now paused,
i am jetsam on a leaping wave, forth and back
between a nimble rise into
the nectarine taste fuzz on her almost cheek
and the visceral return clunk
to this echoing room, someone's cigarette dank jacket,
the blue news hum stare of wayward strangers.
but, wait for it....
another minute and gone again,
lifted all the way to cirrus clouds -
on a wing of future touch
belly butterflies fly in formation,
eagerness drinking deep
of this
train station limbo
between very right here
and oh so soon.
Welcome Aboard
Today you will be removing your clothes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Captain. Seat belt.
Carry-on luggage. Overhead bin.
Be sure to wear socks that don’t have holes.
Flight attendant. Mobile phones.
Navigational equipment. 10,000 feet.
Choose shoes that slip off easily.
Tampering with. Disabling.
Prohibited by law.
Select an outfit without a belt.
Television monitor. Seat pocket.
Full attention. Safety features.
You will be undressing in front of other people.
Metal fitting. Loose end. Strap.
Release. Buckle. Turbulence.
They won’t care much how you look.
Emergency exit. Floor lights.
Inflatable slide.
They won’t slip tips in your waistband.
Air pressure. Decompression.
Firmly over your nose and mouth.
Just strip quickly and move on.
Unlikely event. Cushion.
Life vest. Pull firmly on the cord.
Keep nothing in your pockets.
Uniformed crew member.
Inform you when it’s safe.
Present your documents and think before speaking.
Seat backs. Tray tables.
Full upright position.
Avoid being ethnic.
Departure. Cross-check.
Relax. Enjoy.
None of this is personal.
Prohibited Items for Travelers: An Airborne Luggage Ode
Box Cutters. Ice Axes/Ice Picks. Knives -
except for plastic or round-bladed butter knives.
Meat Cleavers. Razor Blades.
Sabers. Scissors. Swords.
Baseball Bats. Bows and Arrows.
Cricket Bats. Golf Clubs.
Hockey Sticks. Lacrosse Sticks.
Pool Cues. Ski Poles.
Spear Guns.
Ammunition. Compressed Air Guns.
Firearms. Flare Guns.
Flares. Gun Lighters. Gun Powder
including black powder and percussion caps.
Parts of Guns. Pellet Guns.
Starter Pistols.
Axes and Hatchets. Cattle Prods.
Crowbars. Hammers.
Drills and drill bits. Saws.
Tools (greater than seven inches in length).
Billy Clubs. Black Jacks.
Brass Knuckles. Kubatons.
Self Defense Sprays -
one 4-ounce (118ml) container of mace or pepper spray is permitted in Checked Baggage provided it is equipped with a safety mechanism to prevent accidental discharge. Self Defense Sprays containing more than 2% by mass of Tear Gas (CS or CN) are prohibited in Checked Baggage.
Night Sticks. Nunchakus.
Stun Guns/Shocking Devices. Throwing Stars.
Blasting Caps. Dynamite. Fireworks. Flares (in any form).
Hand Grenades. Plastic Explosives.
Realistic Replicas of Explosives.
Aerosol. Fuels. Gasoline. Gas Torches.
Lighter Fluid. Torch Lighters.
Strike-anywhere Matches.
Flammable Paints. Turpentine and Paint Thinner.
Realistic Replicas of Incendiaries.
Chlorine for Pools and Spas.
Fire extinguishers and other compressed gas cylinders.
Liquid Bleach. Spillable Batteries -
except those in wheelchairs.
Spray Paint. Tear Gas. Vehicle Airbags.
Gel-type candles. Gel shoe inserts.
Flammable liquid, gel, or aerosol paint.
Snow globes and like decorations
regardless of size or amount of liquid inside,
even with documentation.
except for plastic or round-bladed butter knives.
Meat Cleavers. Razor Blades.
Sabers. Scissors. Swords.
Baseball Bats. Bows and Arrows.
Cricket Bats. Golf Clubs.
Hockey Sticks. Lacrosse Sticks.
Pool Cues. Ski Poles.
Spear Guns.
Ammunition. Compressed Air Guns.
Firearms. Flare Guns.
Flares. Gun Lighters. Gun Powder
including black powder and percussion caps.
Parts of Guns. Pellet Guns.
Starter Pistols.
Axes and Hatchets. Cattle Prods.
Crowbars. Hammers.
Drills and drill bits. Saws.
Tools (greater than seven inches in length).
Billy Clubs. Black Jacks.
Brass Knuckles. Kubatons.
Self Defense Sprays -
one 4-ounce (118ml) container of mace or pepper spray is permitted in Checked Baggage provided it is equipped with a safety mechanism to prevent accidental discharge. Self Defense Sprays containing more than 2% by mass of Tear Gas (CS or CN) are prohibited in Checked Baggage.
Night Sticks. Nunchakus.
Stun Guns/Shocking Devices. Throwing Stars.
Blasting Caps. Dynamite. Fireworks. Flares (in any form).
Hand Grenades. Plastic Explosives.
Realistic Replicas of Explosives.
Aerosol. Fuels. Gasoline. Gas Torches.
Lighter Fluid. Torch Lighters.
Strike-anywhere Matches.
Flammable Paints. Turpentine and Paint Thinner.
Realistic Replicas of Incendiaries.
Chlorine for Pools and Spas.
Fire extinguishers and other compressed gas cylinders.
Liquid Bleach. Spillable Batteries -
except those in wheelchairs.
Spray Paint. Tear Gas. Vehicle Airbags.
Gel-type candles. Gel shoe inserts.
Flammable liquid, gel, or aerosol paint.
Snow globes and like decorations
regardless of size or amount of liquid inside,
even with documentation.
One Stop from Warsaw
The city slips away in the wrong direction,
a breath-stealing, helpless realization
that takes place too late,
like discovering one’s manners
vanished with one’s drink.
Having boarded the incorrect train,
leaping off at the next station
is not always the best solution…
Yet eager to rectify an error,
who stops to think?
The reward for decisive action:
a desolate platform, the squat, dark stationhouse.
Shattered windows, dangling doors.
No schedule of future arrivals, no one to ask,
no relevant vocabulary even given the chance.
Disembarking is as momentous
as departing — or should be —
but we heap the glory
on an audacious beginning, and on the journey,
taking for granted a safe, if haggard, return home.
Tar-dipped telephone poles,
now wireless, recede into humid thickets.
The afternoon buzzes
with a pilgrim’s silence,
alarming to any still in transit.
Solicitous, suspicious, hostile, indifferent,
the entrance of any eyes would be welcome,
would likely dictate the day’s outcome,
except the only occurrence more intuitively improbable
is the blessed spitting of another train’s brakes.
Rash decisions can leave one stranded
in burgs served, revenue permitting,
by a limping, subsidized local.
At best.
Prop up the legs of that splintering bench.
This is not an island
of sirens, witches, giants, storms.
This is a place,
alone, to wait.
Which may be the most fearsome adventure yet.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Flight 7507, Thursday, near All Hallow's Eve (Rondeau)
Before the long last breath, on planes
bound far to south, at height of cranes,
and higher still, our oared bird flew.
To my core all sundry selves drew
in hope of flying whole, no strain
greater than ancestors' refrain:
"bring us back to earth" - in great pain:
the roiling clouds, cumulus brew,
before the long last breath.
The sky opens. Sudden and plain:
a blue coherent height. We gained
ancients on wing, steadfast, and grew
to thousands, passengers and crew.
Ghostly, winged, by window framed,
before the long last breath.
Scooter Cascadia
Near Hallowmas 42010
bound far to south, at height of cranes,
and higher still, our oared bird flew.
To my core all sundry selves drew
in hope of flying whole, no strain
greater than ancestors' refrain:
"bring us back to earth" - in great pain:
the roiling clouds, cumulus brew,
before the long last breath.
The sky opens. Sudden and plain:
a blue coherent height. We gained
ancients on wing, steadfast, and grew
to thousands, passengers and crew.
Ghostly, winged, by window framed,
before the long last breath.
Scooter Cascadia
Near Hallowmas 42010
Tonight's flight
When we arrive at the station—
we stop. Smoke anticipation
butts. Pretend to read. Check the screen.
Everyone sits paused mid-careen
toward disparate revelations.
We pine for our destinations—
homecomings or recreations—
clutching our phones and magazines.
When we arrive
beyond immobilization,
all thoughts of our hesitation
will stay here for the time being
to sit with all who pass between
now and the gratification
when we arrive.
we stop. Smoke anticipation
butts. Pretend to read. Check the screen.
Everyone sits paused mid-careen
toward disparate revelations.
We pine for our destinations—
homecomings or recreations—
clutching our phones and magazines.
When we arrive
beyond immobilization,
all thoughts of our hesitation
will stay here for the time being
to sit with all who pass between
now and the gratification
when we arrive.
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