As mentioned in the previous post, today’s prompt involves recording all the details of your day and generating a poem from that material. To make the poem interesting, you probably do NOT want to just list out everything from the beginning of the day to the end. But then again, you could prove me wrong on that–list poems can be very effective and engaging when done right.
As far as myself, here’s what I came up with today on my way up from Tennessee to Ohio:
“We woke up and fell asleep”
“Sleep pretty darling–do not cry–and I will sing a lullaby.”
-the Beatles “Golden Slumbers”
We are born every morning
with or without the ones we love.
She smiles and tells me the world
can wait before we walk the dog.
Then, we dress and go to church.
Faith is surrender, says the pastor.
We are all raised from the dead.
She hands me her pen when I can’t
find mine. We sing a few hymns.
Then, we eat lunch. Surrender is
lying on my back and listening
to her write; surrender is driving
north as she heads south mouthing
I love you.
*****
I hope everyone had a great weekend. And I’m proud of everyone who’s made it this far in the challenge. We’re now 20% of the way there!
Day 6 prompt – details from a day
Whatcha Doin?
The compulsion is upon me
I have to write it out
It makes me feel subversive
It makes me want to shout
I cannot put the pen down
I can’t control my mind
My ink seems automatic
Who know what thoughts I’ll find?
The weather’s been described
The TV news reviewed
I wonder what I’ll write down next
Start detailing my mood?
My mood? Who know what that is?
Mercurial to say the least
So dark it’s black, now light again
No way to tame this beast
Now someone comes to look here
To peek upon my page
It makes me feel so foolish
But it also feeds my rage
Don’t ask me, “Whatcha doin’?”
And glow all innocence
I can’t think up an answer
And don’t care to make sense.
S.E.Ingraham
Sorry, playing catch up. Java Joe should be for the song prompt. Day 6 poem is here:
Cleaning Day
Wake up early, make the beds,
Brush my teeth, cleanse my face,
Eat breakfast, start to clean the place.
Load the towels into the washer,
Scrub the tub and scour the sink,
Toilet disinfectant kills the stink.
Wipe the tiles until they shine,
Fill the bucket, grab the mop,
Rid the floor of any slop.
Unload the towels, load the dryer,
Move on to the living room.
First I dust, then vacuum.
Clutter on the coffee table
Is no longer there.
Fluff the pillows on the couch and chair.
Take the warm towels out now,
Fold them, put ‘em on the shelf,
Then I cook lunch for myself.
Finish eating, look around
And know what I must do.
I’ll have to clean the kitchen, too.
First the stove and then the counters,
Sink, cabinets, and floors.
As I finish my husband’s at the door.
He seems to be amazed
That there’s not dirt to find.
But soon he’ll discover…
I have a dirty mind.
Java Joe
She said she preferred
her men like her coffee,
hot, strong, and black.
That he was indeed
so we nicknamed him
Java Joe,
though he didn’t know.
How she loved him.
Every time he flashed
his pearly whites
it made her melt.
And his body.
She’d drink espresso
all day
so she could
play with it
all night.
In the morning
she’d lie there,
her pale skin
like cream against
his dark skin,
wanting another
taste of him,
wanting to consume
of him every day.
Marriage thoughts
were brewing
in her mind
until she discovered
he was having
tea parties
on the side.
Now when she
sees him
see still thinks
the coffee is hot,
but the cream
has gone sour.
Here it is, May 6th! I finally got all of my poems in…all of them! However, I messed up Day 6 by a mile. I slipped into auto-pilot, as is often the case when I write; poetry or prose. I was happy with it and sent it. Hours later, as I am dropping off the cliff to the sleep state, it hit me! OMG! I was supposed to do ONE Day and it went from one to four or five. I need to fix it so I can live with the feeling that as far as I know, I met the prompt requirements. If this goes unfixed, it will gnaw at me. So, even if this never gets read by human eyes, I will rest in the knowledge that I gave it my best shot…
Day 6
day’s events
Daze Events
The morning is as always
Coffee, graham cracker
Let the dog out
Clean the kitty litter
Clean the rat’s home
Check the email
Today the morning included
the demise of
a sick kitty
Gentle Joseph
Elderly
Having walked in circles
Crawling into spots
that were too tight
He who never meowed
Cried
He was afraid
I held him tight
He settled in
I gave him Reiki
He relaxed
I called the vet
He saw him
It’s an infection, or he’s going blind, or it’s a brain tumor
don’t really know
They kept him for observation
and a strong course of antibiotics
He got sick and threw it up
Three days
Lots of tests
Brain tumor
“If he were mine, Linda, I’d let him go.”
Today I let him go
My heart broke
Did you hear it?
The rest of the day
and night
mean nothing
I can’t recall
the events
I am in a daze
Day 6
day’s events
Daze Events
The morning is as always
Coffee, graham cracker
Let the dog out
Clean the kitty litter
Clean the rat’s home
Check the email
Today the morning included
a sick kitty
Gentle Joseph
Elderly
Walking in circles
Crawling into spots
that are too tight
He who never meows
Cries
He is afraid
I hold him tight
He settles in
I give him Reiki
He relaxes
It’s lunch time
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich
My favorite
Check my email
Try to write
Can’t focus
Joseph
Still going in circles
In a Daze
I call the vet
They will see him
It’s an infection, or he’s going blind, or it’s a brain tumor
They keep him for observation
and a strong course of antibiotics
He gets sick and throws it up
Three days later
Lots of tests
Brain tumor
“If he were mine, Linda, I’d let him go.”
I let him go
My heart broke
Did you hear it?
I am in a daze
and the rest of the day
means nothing
A Mother’s Day
My day begins bright and early,
with a cup of coffee, hot and creamy.
Kids get up, must be fed
and dressed, ready for school.
School is where my kids are
and sometimes I substitute, too.
On other days, I write and clean,
shop for food, fold clothes and cook.
In the afternoon, when the kids get out,
homework must be done.
Then its off to dance,
sports and scouts,
and tutoring one on one.
Dinner, I must prepare,
then help with baths,
read books and watch TV.
My life as a mom is busy,
but there is nothing I’d rather be.
Routine
Got up, pillow head
Threw back covers from the bed
Fed the dogs, potty time
Read some email, poetry rhyme
Take a nap, feed pups again
More email, where will it end
Dress for a meeting, meet at café
Dragging computer, bad rainy day
Critique her story, zombies abound
She reads my article, revisions are found
More café coffee, brownies as lunch,
Thunder in distance, time is a crunch
Head for the home front, play with the dogs
Open computer, write up a blog
Feed critters dinner, sandwich for me
Start up some laundry, now some time free
Play with collages, digitally
Make them look pretty, electronically
No messy glue sticks, no snips of paper
Just a few mouse clicks, then I just savor
Potty for dogs now, take a long bath
Bedtime for Lin, tomorrow I get up
Do it again
Details of a Day
Oatmeal for breakfast.
Mom says,“We won’t need to eat now until dinner.”
And I think, “Well yeah. You, maybe.”
Sheets flap in my face,
Wooden clothespins, clutching my shirt sleeves.
Dog gets underfoot.
Lazy on the sofa with my red pencil, yellow highlighter.
Willie Nelson sings about a “red headed stranger.”
Nice bass.
Mom knits, finishes a dishcloth for Emily
And needs a darning needle.
Have none in this house. Sorry. Don’t darn.
Peel a banana. Raid the larder.
Shower. Dress. Makeup.
Start the car and turn on the A/C, pleeease.
Find your hat.
Where’s the camera?
Pack the car.
Presents
Balloons
Purses
Bags.
Drive through the barrio,
Kids jumping rope, kicking ball, chasing dog.
Mmmm….chicken stand open, smoky smell in the air. Mmmm….
Pass the bus, dodge the pothole, navigate the traffic bump.
Ah, the beach.
The sand.
Cuba Libres,
Margaritas,
Cervezas fría.
Coco runs down up and down the sand.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Fish in the ocean.
Fish on the table.
Sobremesa.
Oohs and aahs, lovely gifts.
Party’s over.
Coco on Daddy’s shoulder.
School tomorrow.
Drive home.
Lock the gate.
Ramble
It’s late.
We’re framing asteroids
Of oil pastel, spray, and varnish.
He assembles the kit,
Holds a slightly rotted board
Upon his lap as a base.
Once it was a joist or a bedframe.
There’s a tiny plastic piece
That fills the neutral place.
When you hammer it,
It turns to pigment.
The adhesive, milky and waterproof,
Dries in curds on canvas.
Fingers stuck with pins,
Crept into by loss.
His tumour felt like a planetary accretion,
Attracting more matter like a magnet,
Now opposites repel, carbon unformed
Denser disks, replete with debris.
Church was the fifth thing I did today…
after devotions, writing, eating my cholesterol-busting oat-
meal, and running.
Church was hard to take today…
after prayer, uplifting praise songs, and friendly greetings
from other worshipers.
Church welcomed a guest pastor today…
after having done his research, he shared survey results.
Church, as viewed by the demographic group of 18-30 year olds…
after taking notes on the results, I am re-evaluating.
Am I really hypocritical, insincere, contemptuous of those who
are different, boring, old-fashioned, out of touch with
reality, unconcerned about social justice, prideful, and
quick to find fault with others?
I don’t have an answer.
#6 Events of the day
Up early and walk briskly to class,
To my band of eager students.
What a pleasure.
On the way back I linger,
To savor the soft air,
The sunshine, the bird song.
spring was so late this year,
So this is a pleasure.
More students at home
Keep me on my toes.
My spouse is home for lunch
—aren’t we lucky he also works so close?
Then a long amble to return our weekend movies
One so inspirational—
"Monsieur Ibrahim".
Life is hard for some, but often
There is a way out.
Hi to a neighbor
Then decisions about supper.
Not too late, not too fancy
Cos this is a week night.
But always fresh and cooked from scratch.
we try to keep healthy.
Cat Must Be Silenced
Can’t ever keep track of how many times I hit the snooze-bar
Solitary rituals of preparation,
Times however many skipped breakfasts
Add the screeching cat
And his sweet kiss "g’bye"
Makes like a vitamin shot in this tired commuter
Every day
At the appointed hour
I get up first
And take a shower
Then I wake my daughter
We both get dressed
I’m rushing her
She gets stressed
I drop her at school
And I’m off to work
Pushing my pencil
I’m an office clerk
Then home again
It’s my turn to fix dinner
Pick something quick
And pray it’s a winner
So we’re winding down
The day comes to an end
Cause when we awake
We’ll do it all again
(For Richie Darling. Yeah, I know. It’s his fault. He’s the one who turned me into a sap.)
The alarm goes off
And I hit snooze.
You roll over
And cuddle up to me.
I kiss your cheek
And you smile,
Making my heart soar.
A couple more snoozes
Before we get up.
We get on the road
And I take you to school.
Whispers of kisses
And Words of love.
All is my ideal morning.
Legion
"This bvilding," says the tablet,
is "a memorial to the men
and women of this covnty
who served in the Great War."
/Before there was a greater war/,
I think, sitting on a wood-framed
loveseat in the front hallway
of the American Legion, waiting
for my sister to emerge
from her dance class upstairs.
I imagine the dark wood halls
in a busier, more stately past,
filled with young soldiers
returned from the battlefield,
occasionally jot words
whose sounds I like
into my notebook for safekeeping
and future use: /pompadour/,
/brocade/, /argyle/, /genuflection/.
The gray-haired gentlemen
who must pass me to exit
bid me good-night
with such kind courtesy
in their voices, I sit up
straighter and laugh more
gaily than the occasion warrants,
still in my workout clothes,
hair falling out of my ponytail.
—–
I used /these slashes/ for italics since HTML isn’t allowed in these comments.
Watching Time
Morning anticipation
Break routine
Expected calls
Everything proceeds
Too slow
All day restlessness
Try to distract
Research and writing
Anything to not think of whom I lack
Time is crawling
So I sit waiting
As time approaches near
It’s time now
Time to see you, my dear
Anxiety
Behind a camera
But I can still see your face
We talk briefly
You make my heart race
Now I want time to stop
It’s time to go
It ends too soon
I walk away sadly
Into night, beneath the moon
Wishing time to turn back
Day #6
Behold a man clothed in Rags…a great Burden on his back…John Bunyan
St. Mary of Egypt//
make him a her/
The rags seductive skirts/
pilgrim stays though she is unaware/
approaching the icon of the Theotokos/
when the invisible gate shuts/
her out into literal desert/
the Sinai, alone, no men/
paying for favors, just her praying/
forgiveness/
now her finery reduces to rags/
she speaks with desert birds/
as I scatter grain for those same/
travelers/
in this New Mexico desert/
praising the day given me/
offering penance of my own/
penance unmatched by hers/
though I’ve already received/
submersion in Holy Water/
only to witness my burden return/
grow while hers lifts/
just before her scrawny death/
the pilgrim priest returns/
to fill her last request/
Posting late – been traveling and been sick, but mostly been keeping up.
REPORT (MORSE CODE)
- — -.. .- -.– .. ..-. — ..- -. -..
.-. — .- -.. -.- .. .-.. .-.. .- .–. — … … ..- –
… -.- .. -. -. . -.. –. ..- – - . -..
–.- ..- .. -.-. -.- .-.. -.– … . .- .-. . -.. — …- . .-. .-
-.-. .-.. .- -. -.. . … – .. -. . ..-. .. .-. .
-.- .. -.-. -.- . -.. -.. .. .-. – — …- . .-. – …. .
.- … …. . … — — …- . -..
.- –.- ..- .- .-. – . .-. — ..-. .- — .. .-.. .
-… . ..-. — .-. . . .- – .. -. –. .. -
.. -. .- … ..- — .- -.-. –. .-. — …- .
…- — — .. – . -..
-… ..- – …. . .-.. -.. .. – .-.. — -. –. . -. — ..- –. ….
- — .-. . — . — -… . .-.
-.- . . .–. …. ..- -. –. . .-. .- – .-
-.-. .-.. — … . .-. . — — …- .
- …. . .-. . … – — ..-. – …. . -.. .- -.– ..
… …. .. …- . .-. . -.. .– .. – …. -.-. — .-.. -..
.. — .- … – ..- .-. -… .- – . -..
- — -.- . . .–. — -.–
-… — -.. -.– .. -. …. .- .-. — — -. -.–
that’s my report
all anyone needs
tomorrow
I should reach the border
with new papers
I woke hearing your voice and I smiled,
Rolling over on the feather bed,
I pulled the pillow back under my head,
Hid my hand from the cat, and thought about you.
Drowsy with contentment,
I sank into my blanket cocoon.
Rising at last, I run to get my old dog outside,
Stopping at the sound of birds singing.
They are nesting now and have no fear of us.
Another rebirth, I saw the first crocus bloom
I thought of you and smiled
Sunday
Slept in, but seven o’clock still came too early.
Coffee and comics punctuated with a breeze through the five-star Sudoku.
Then to work.
I am one with the computer.
I will turn this marketing blather to meaningful English.
There is no verb form of advantage.
Nor of incentive.
In English we don’t capitalize every noun.
Let’s take a break and have some fun at Home Depot!
We need to get the house ready to sell!
Decking at $1.39 a linear foot. Maybe I should do a stone patio instead.
Why are we making our house a better place to live in order to sell it
when we didn’t do it to live in it?
Little tiff.
Back to work while the darling wife sleeps off the rigors of "Designing to Sell."
Why is every sentence an entire paragraph long?
Can’t I put a period in here someplace?
Theatre!
"Life is a Cabaret old chum. Come to the Cabaret!"
Speed shop or we won’t have food for breakfast.
Back to work while family gracefully retires to bed.
Did I already edit this chapter?
It sounds exactly like chapter fourteen.
How long is this document? Thirty-six chapters?
Too tired to work, too wound up to sleep.
1983 action/sexploitation movie.
All these ex-Playboy bunnies are as old as I am now!
Barely an eye-open for the grim look of determination
on a naked spy killing her lover.
Too sad to stay awake.
One o’clock and I crawl — cold and tired — into bed.
Two o’clock before I close my eyes.
Working Out
Today
I read essays online
with a lavender clay mask drying on,
my lips slathered in a balm of
the labor of bees and lemons
and herbs tweaked, symphonic,
eat your heart out, Estee Lauder:
here in my nightgown, in the living room,
listening to the conspiracy channel,
with truffles and green tea by my side,
I am happy as a sunflower
living through my computer,
making a living, diva-nerd, a library mule.
Maria Jacketti
Today was just a regular day–
I woke up feeling nothing much,
Hobbled through classes on a crutch
When all I wanted to do was play
Around a little, have some fun.
But instead, got an essay done
(Didn’t say what I wanted to say);
Had more work than I wanted to
But that’s never been something new.
At least I had a moment away
To help me keep on movin on
(Sweet moment it was, till it was gone).
Then forward to sleep, in bed I lay
while my day misted slowly to gray.
Sorry, I had to travel out of town for a test and was out of computer contact for a couple of days…better late than never, eh?
Sunday Afternoon
Even after the bitter
words of morning, he
canceled his plans
and drove back to me,
just so I could leave
him. Again. He put
away shotguns and shells
then opened the hood to
see what made the "check
engine light" ignite
before I made it to the
end of our road. Me busy
transferring bags and
books from one vehicle
to another, then dumping
dog paraphernalia back
inside. A brief kiss,
a serious look, and "I’m
sorry to ruin you day."
"It happens. Drive safe.
Call me when you get there."
The day’s events
I’m running late,
always running late,
my sleep schedule precludes
that I wake up
ten minutes before
time to leave,
my alarm clock singing
an alt-country crescendo.
I never remember my dreams,
if they are black and white
or in color,
but my hair’s still wet
when I lock my front door,
drive through the construction
zone that blocks the entrance
to this complex
like yellow and orange steel
dinosaurs guarding piles
of dirt and rock.
Everything is a music video
coming through my windshield,
moving to the soundtrack
of my car stereo
in a strange but oblivious
synchronization of sounds
and motions, every person
a character in someone else’s novel
writing their own story,
to the tone and mood
of whatever I happen
to be listening to at the time,
all extras in my own movie
in the minutes between
my trips to and from work.
These are the dreams I remember,
the daydreams.
Hours slip by like liquid
pouring through the cracks
in the dam of mortality,
walking in circles
on a polished tile floor,
watching the interplay
of strangers and thieves,
the subtle dance
of eyes and hands moving
in a language of their own,
digging tunnels
to the truth.
After work, I wait til midnight
for the release of oil and blood
and genius in a plastic disc,
I talk to an obscene troll
of a man,
he says he’ll give
a quarter
if she’ll take her pants off.
I need a drink.
the pink one is too big
she smiles anyway
making the best of it as she always does
time to look at the shoes
deliberately she scans for what she likes
too young she is forced to worry of the cost
she finds her pair
black with a pink stripe
the salesman is little help
knows nothing of the fitting
her confidence convinces me
to the balls again
pink still too big daddy?
yes but only for a few more years
too precious few
pink shingaurds too big and too small
she settles with a smile
something i fear she does too often
and i have precious short minutes with which i can change that
before daddy is phone call not a holler down the hall away
Back in DC
I woke up alone again with a bloody
nose on a fold-out couch
to the sounds of NASCAR.
After I showered, we drove
to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.
We parked near the Capitol
and walked the length of the Mall,
my Mall (I hadn’t been gone so long)
with my museums and my trees
and my sculptures and grass and life.
In the sunshine, we wandered
around the Tidal Basin, snapping
pictures with the other tourists.
Sometimes, we’d catch a whiff
of the flowers on the breeze
and sniff like dogs to find it again.
We walked back through the city,
down Penn,
and I found my buildings
there, warm but still imposing.
That night, we barbequed hot dogs
and hamburgers in Alexandria,
and I hugged all my old friends
and tried my best
to welcome
their new ones.
Adrenalin Rush
Anticipation makes me wake before the alarm
For a thirty mile bike ride along Cherry Creek
With respect to responsibility,
I prepare the night’s meal in the slow cooker
Helmet, sunscreen, sunglasses and a huge bottle of water
Ready to ride,
Wind from the southeast and a long gradual uphill
Causes burning muscles and rapid breathing
Break time at the halfway point
Sitting on a bench in front of a tiny waterfall
Figuring out a word puzzle
Return trip, wind at my back
Speeding along on the concrete
My plan to spend the remaining part of the afternoon
Reading an updated version of the Kama Sutra
Early bed time, tired muscles
My honey offers me a massage
And all I can think of is the lotus position
To stretch my legs
I wake up before him, quickly switching
off the alarm. I make him breakfast, thankful
for the microwave oven at 4am. Getting him
up, ironing his clothes, pushing him out
the door; each day begins pretty much the
same. I try to do some housework, usually
surrendering to the TV at some point. I write
poetry, prose, emails. Having dinner ready
when he gets home from work, so he can
quickly eat, grab his books, and head to
class. A typical Monday since I lost my job
(Sigh – mate’s been sick so a bit behind, but better late than never, yes?)
Contentment
4/9/08
Empty space where my mate should be
Radiates a cold that slowly seeps into my consciousness
Until the ache of missing his warmth
Compels me out of the bed to seek him out
With his ready smile and kisses,
Chuckling at being the first one up.
We sit together, back to side
As we reach out to distant chosen family
Leaning over to touch, to caress, to kiss,
A constant dance of reassurance that yes,
This is Home and yes,
You are really still here, and yes
I love you more today than yesterday.
Brief interruptions for food
And adventures with exes, children and sunny over-run playgrounds
With a trip to the suburban mall thrown in
Contrasting color to the fabric of the day
But here is where it starts and ends
Home.
Antique Hope
Found the cabinet on craigslist—
white, antique, perfect—
at least according to the photo.
Sent an email to inquire,
dash to the gym, home again,
now clean, check on my find.
It would fit, just barely, so I reply—
I’ll take it, just need transport—
I would do the happy dance
but I’m late for work.
Hours spent on my feet
while I sell to mallrats.
Rush to the ball game,
catch the last inning, the win!
Grab a bite to eat then home
to see about a ride for my cabinet.
No, they can’t help, and wait,
another wants it—a couple—
and they have transport
and cash. Oh well,
it was mine for the day,
but it wasn’t meant to be forever.
April Meander
O brilliant day for a walk!
Pitter-patter above breaks my slumber
Wardrobe – ugh
Any old thing will do,
Meandering to the community hub not all-consuming
Greeted smiling faces, swapped sordid stories
(Woe if the boss finds out)
I’m their prize patron, yet again
Went for a quick snip, alas, the door is closed!
No matter, rapid steps on my way
to blue shores and sandy waves
Breath-taking horizon fills my view,
plus a brief history lesson
THUNK-unk, THUNK-unk
Less crashing than a rudimentary drum lesson
Strolled to the outskirts (discovered a potential new abode)
hidden in the back, gem of discovery
The robin convention is in town
Russet bellies puffed and saffron beaks pecking
Worms fear the invasion
Stop to admire the regal, sunshine, misty crocus
Poking timid heads into a world new-warm
Laze, advantageous youth
Into the slumber-ready even
One day, at peace
What I Did Today
This day
happens to be Sunday
Doesn’t matter anyway
I work almost everyday
except Monday
So I did what I do each day
Tuesday
through Sunday
I worked today
but for me this day
is like a Friday
so since I’m off the next day
I guess I like Sunday.
Alarm rings,
But the birdies still sing.
The shower runs,
Oh, this is getting fun.
Getting ready,
Nice and steady.
Breakfast is quick,
The commute makes me sick.
I walk to the door,
My feet already sore.
Inbox full,
but surprise, a project that is kind of cool.
Lunch at the park,
A genius spark.
The day’s getting better,
Until I get a letter.
“Dear Author,
This wouldn’t fit well into our line of books.
Keep trying.”
And if I said this didn’t bother me
I’d be lying!
But the sun is setting,
No more fretting,
Tomorrow’s another day,
And I bet it will be perfect in every way!
Aug. 6th
Wakeup. Wakeup. He’s poking
me, and saying it’s noon, and I spent
all the sleeping hours pushing
his face to my chest, or throwing him
from one side of the bed
into the other and besides the museum
closes at four and that only gives us–
Shower. Dress and redress into the cuter thing.
Eat. The wax figures don’t look
anywhere with their eyes, and their dress
is out of a BBC historical special. Try climbing
into the cockpit that real fighters
use to train them for the real thing.
The simulated seat with the simulated eject
button. A video and pizza with no pork
because it’s unclean. What about tofu made to taste
like pork? Morningstar Brand is just like the real
stuff. "It tastes unclean,"
he says, but I say, you’ve never tried it.
He says, "Yeah, but I have faith."
4 A.M. I flick on the light in the bathroom
instead of relying on the nightlight
so I can see what I look like, eye to eye.
She’s grave, I think.
I awake to the quiet, humbled voice
of an Iraqi military leader who had
just been released from being a hostage.
The poverty, he says, I had no idea.
I realize now what we need isn’t “security”
but jobs, supplies, food, schools. Time to fight
for peace, he said, and economic security.
I can hear the struggle in his heart.
He’s open, I think.
I am moved. My life has changed just a
fraction, enough to rattle the puzzle pieces
I keep trying to assemble, trying to see,
What do I look like?
The day flies by.
Turning out the light early
and rolling over to my side
I think of the pain in the Iraqi’s voice,
how his life has changed forever.
Now he can begin to do some real
good, I think to myself.
So foolish to be gazing at oneself
in mirrors.
Elizabeth Keggi
The Happenings Of My Day
I woke up this morning,
wondering what I could do.
Did I want to go shopping,
or just stay home with you?
I fixed us a nice lunch,
then we watched some TV.
We sat outside later on,
beneath a tall oak tree.
After we finished supper,
I grabbed my book and read.
It was nearly midnight,
before I finally went to bed.
The electric siren alarms me. 7:00 a.m. I do not resist. I make it stop.
The loft bed first – tickles, snuggles and coaxing. Bathrobe and a lift to the floor is offered. Then, under the wispy canopy, a back scratching invites consciousness: it’s time to get up. Reluctantly, with shuffles and yawns, we all proceed. Educational tv warms up the logical minds while they wait for breakfast usuals.
And then business as usual: off they go.
Quiet now. Time for thinking, but I’m not remembering.
Today there’s an extra job to do. I get the phone call. Driving from this borough to that one is easy. Chatting with the 80 year old patient is delightful. He has pleasant news to report.
I get back home in time to get myself half way ready for the other work before I pick up children, feed them, supervise homework, and take them to the appointment. Status gets evaluated and progress is made. We go back home.
Now, I don’t have much time before my night work and feel suddenly in desperate need of sleep: the place where I can plan my lessons and feel somewhat rejuvenated, prepared for them and their expectations and excuses and, sadly, the horrible stories they have to tell.
It seems that the local shootings have personal connections to two of my students and a third student has a friend who was shot a year ago, but only just succumbed to death last week. I know a man was found shot to death on Thursday last week; he was found on the street by a jogger. And has there been another one? Another local shooting . . . My mind is full of The Declaration of Independence and Martin Luther King’s dream right now; ask me about ethos, logos, and pathos; I don’t know what to do about the guys you went to high school with; I don’t know what to do.
I go home and kiss warm sleepy cheeks good night. I take off my war paint and prepare to sleep, but I have trouble. I do not resist, but I cannot make it stop.
Dreading work, I awake
eyelids feeling like lead sheets
Superman could not penetrate
How much longer can I
sacrifice my creativity
to a graveyard shift without reward?
Kiss the family goodbye
everything feels sepia
like I won’t be returning
Work proceeds apace
nothing new
nothing exciting
Boss still disappointed
wants even more hours,
but he’s leaving early
How much longer can I
sacrifice my creativity
in order to be a cog?
Exhausted, arrive home
family out of focus,
going to the doctor
prescriptions in hand,
we’ll all be ok
if I can just get some sleep…
How long can I
sacrifice my creativity
before I’m intolerable?
Try to write a
worthy poem
not today, brain still fuzzy
Not only am I in a job I hate
Not only do I make my family wait
But I myself I cannot tolerate
How much longer can I
sacrifice my creativity…
When can I again
be me?
-Justin M. Howe
04/08/08
Red Bike Ramblings
It was red,
As red as the firetrucks I rode it behind in every Memorial Day parade,
And it had an orange radio/headlight that I had gotten
At Link’s Christmas party.
Its spangled red banana seat would shimmer,
Catching enough sunlight that my mother always knew
When I had left it outside.
It was my first tool of freedom,
My first possession that wasn’t a hand-me-down.
Oh, for the days when the amount of air in those bike tires
Was life’s greatest concern.
A razor near the tub,
a tiny blood smear on the wall
and suddenly the poignant
movie with friends has
no real importance in
my life. Instead, the
sturdy twelve year old,
suddenly dwarfed by his emotions
with a cross-hatching of surface
scratches across his upper arm
boldly screaming his need
has taken full center stage.
Oversleeping and missing church
does not start my day or week
like clockwork. Delays my
breakfast and now my lunch.
Run some errands that could
have waited just to find a
new bedspread for my upstairs
room. Could not pass up the
grocery store to pick up some
odds and ends to then rush
home and start my dinner
the meal that finally was
on time.
Susan
April 6
Day 6
"My Day"
My day started when I awoke and just laid there watching them sleep.
My beautiful two year old son and his dad, lay peacefully without a peep.
I sat up softly, as not to wake my light sleeper of a son.
I had a lot to do, and a short time to get it all done.
I walked to the kitchen and took out a paper to make my grocery list, as I was still in my bed attire and with my hair all over the place.
I reached for a pen and in the mirror caught a glimpse of my horrid, no make-up face.
But, I went right on with what dreadfully had to be done.
I made that forever long grocery list; my routine had begun.
When I finished writing down the very last thing, here he came arms outstretched for me.
I sat down my pen, picked him up, gave him a kiss, and sat him on my knee.
I gave him some drink and another kiss before getting him ready to go.
I told the other children to get ready and not to be too slow.
I went to wash my hair and make myself pretty once more.
Then woke up my husband and thirty minutes later we headed out the door.
We got our groceries, paid our bills, even donated some items to the needy.
When we got home I cooked our supper, the kids were so hungry they got greedy.
My husband went to work and so did we, cleaning up that mess of a house.
It took us all evening, now they are asleep and here I am up with the mouse.
It would have been a perfect birthday, your birthday.
Lazy Sunday morning, I made breakfast for you while you took
calls from your family, opened your presents: bright scarves, a new bellydance CD, we spent the afternoon at a concert,had dinner with friends. Then, at the end of the evening, you discovered that you had lost your hat, the hat I gave you, the one that everyone comments on: soft, rich velvet black and royal purple, with sequins and stars. A perfect birthday but for that small loss, it’s just a hat, just an object. How do we invest these material things with so much meaning. Yes it was a gift but I can give you another, yet we drove back to the Theatre, retraced our steps, looked around the rain-wet streets, to no avail. We all looked, we all felt loss, we all hoped the hat would re-appear. It was your hat you lost, not your head,
not your heart. A gift given with love
but luckily for us there’s more
where that came from.
Chaos Supreme
I woke up this morning
With a plan and a purpose
Tasks to be done
Complete they must be
But I was thwarted at every turn
Power outage
Turning my alarm to stone
Then to drive
Without much gas
With weary peasants
In no hurry
Unable to yet rest
When I came to the castle
Of all that’s good and right
I found it in chaos
Leftover from the storms of the night
And even the lordship
Paced to and fro
Thwarting all plans
With the end of his toe
And below the foot
Invisible to all
Sat a little lady bug
Who had reached her last straw.
~Details of the Day~
Early to rise
though sunday it is
up with the kids
for breakfast must be made
like every other day
once feed satified they where
off to play they ran
a bit of down time for me
as I tried to get the migrain
to pass and leave me be
the phone rings
a suprise call it was
looks like I’m needed at work
to close ready for work
and off I went
I fall into the regular
hustle and bustle
that I’m accustom to
as I fight to mask the pains
that kept growing in intensity
at every passing hour
my hands get shaking
and I begin to trip
pains ripple low in my back
we call in another employee
to cover for me
I call my sister for ER
was where I needed to be
I get admitted quick
Sometimes I’m too good at masking
my pain and pushing myselt to far
I’m dehydrated
fluids on order
blood tests too
8 PM becomes 11 PM
to home I can go
with antibiotics and orders
to stay off my feet for a day or two
I couldn’t wait for this day to end.
Our Days Were Different
We missed our teenagers, away all day,
Busy preparing for a play,
Lots of activity.
They came home, tired, to rest.
Excited about tomorrow.
They held their tiny infant and admired him.
The baby cried, was caressed and comforted,
And then slept peacefully.
But he didn’t wake up.
Oh, agony of grief!
We looked forward to seeing how our kids would do,
And they did a wonderful job,
Remembering every line and delivering it well.
We truly are proud of them.
But somewhere is a couple we don’t know.
Whose baby will never grow up,
Will never be in a play,
Will never do the many things in between.
I pray they will hold on to hope.
That one day they will sit as we did
And watch their grown kids in a play,
Having known the many things in between.
Up early
sun shines
warmest day
in six months
Eggs for breakfast
not to runny
the way i like them
toast too
Walk the dogs
chat the neighborssome household chores
and time to read
Shop for groceries
cook the dinner
chicken and rice
that’s all you need
Then a movie
share the laughter
finish the laundry
time for bed
Sunday passes way too fast
but it’s important
to bring some balance
back into our crazy world
Not as tight as yours, but at least it’s about food:
A Day of Resting
It was a Sunday, a day for food
and minor distractions,
like clipping the cat’s claws
after coffee, and making
carrot salad after a trip
to the poetry bookstore.
Blue cheese burgers and red wine
with a friend up from California,
talk of Green & Green
before Champagne and cheese,
lamb stew with Christine.
Then, when the house cleared,
leftover ice cream, honey and thyme.
I woke up thinking
I had a box of ashes
to pick up
18 years of catnip loving
and fishy foods
reduced to dust
kept in fine cherry wood
I spend the rest of my day
lazy
lazing
Holding my living cat;
I remembered she had a checkup
I only hoped I didn’t bring her back in maple
Two Days After the Dentist
Before I even got out of bed,
I took Darvocet on an empty stomach.
Stupid.
Dizzy and queasy all morning,
I spent the afternoon munching tiny bites
of mac and cheese and watching NASCAR,
ate my third Wendy’s frosty–chocolate–
and dreamt of meat.
Today, I do not want to get up
I do not want to, but I know I must.
I shower and get ready for church.
I sing praises to My Lord.
I never tire of hearing the sermons,
I am reminded of why I’m here.
I return home to a beautiful sunshiny day,
I know the Lord has given me.
We plant the strawberries we ordered.
We cook us each a steak on the grill.
We enjoy the the little girls from next door.
We go pick up our handsome young grandson from his dad.
We thank the Lord for our family and friends, and for the church and our church family, the beautiful sunshine, and another gloriuos day.
We go to bed tired, from a day full of joy.
sea of bayonets
a mole in my company
that took me through my passes
i thought i had a dear friend
that introduced me to every grave danger
he ran me through the english channel
bombared me with heavy artillary
but my real test of will
wasn’t till my pass through
the great sea of bayonets
i rallied my entourage
scraped, bit, and fought the enemy
by the end of the day
the guilding knew the correct way.
SUNDAY
Waking Peacefully
His warm body
Entwined in mine
Smiling Sleepily
As we kiss our morning awake.
The bed is cold
As he leaves for work
So I upend myself
And start a long day
Of Dozing in the sun.
I read, I sleep.
I search for inspiration.
I save my cat from
A death-defying branch leap.
And I wait.
For him to return.
I console, I dream.
I write, I feel.
I laugh with
A friend
Drink coffee
And put on calories.
Then walk them off.
I smile as he greets
Me once more.
I share my knowledge
I listen intently.
I share my body,
He gives me his.
We envelop each other
And drift off
To end the day
How we started.
I awoke in the middle of the night in a cramped and crowded position,
On the loveseat I inexplicably curled up in,
Rubbing my aching neck and upper back,
And removing the hard plastic kitty ears I bought for laughs,
I stumble sleepily towards the bed
I have left behind in my move.
Waking up again later in the morning,
I stick bare feet into old moccasins and brave the cold for a short walk
Around the neighbourhood I have left behind in my move.
I go to my parent’s house, where I eat a warm bagel with melted peanut butter
And read the Sunday comics,
Which I used to read once a week,
Both old habits I have left behind in my move.
I watch some horrifying movies
About people being killed for money
And transgendered people being killed out of ignorance,
And I feel the old anger flare up inside me,
The ideas for an avenging golem who will make everything right again,
But I fall asleep on the sofa
Which I have left behind in my move.
I pack plastic bags full of necessary possessions
To bring to my new home,
And create piles of unwanted books to donate,
So that I can gradually leave this apartment behind in my move.
I get a ride to the ferry, where I wait an hour for the boat to come,
Struggling with the bulky bags, I hail a taxi
And explain to the driver that I’m going to Brooklyn,
And he’s lost and confused,
And we’re in a weird situation where I’m directing the cab driver
Instead of sitting back and enjoying the strange meandering ways
They get from point A to point B, exposing me to new and unknown streets.
While heading towards
The place I left everything behind for.
This is two versions of the same day.
Interesting? Maybe only to me. I am finding it harder to create poetry based upon other’s thoughts and ideas than on my own. However, it is discipline even if it does not seem too poetic. My guess is there is too much of a rush before bill paying and taxes, but I’m hanging in there anyway.
A Typical/Atypical Lord’s Day
Getting up late
wolfing down rather than
slowly enjoying my
pancakes and eggs.
Running to catch up
with my husband and
hoping to catch the bus.
Loving the sermon
about Jesus helping
the woman at the well transition
from material world to spiritual world
Taking time to
snapping pictures of a split log
by the river.
quiet afternoon before
buying six birthday cards and milk
fixing deviled eggs before crashing into bed.
Deviled eggs, birthday cards, and a twisted split log
combined to create a typical/atypical Lord’s Day for me.
Early morning frustrations
of wolfing down pancakes
and running to catch the bus
gave way to a sermon
contrasting the material
and spiritual world.
I crashed into bed
awaiting an outing tomorrow.
Sunday Worship
Off to church alone,
as I’ve made hubby mad.
We warm up in the balcony,
Director says,
“Sopranos, skip the descant, you sound timid.”
I move down to the sanctuary,
To sit with Jim and Kim.
Where’s dad?
“Grumpy!” I answer.
It’s a good sermon,
But all at once it seems long.
And then it’s time
to go back to the balcony to sing.
Pastor says,
“Be seated.”
I sit. “Not you!” gets hissed at me.
It’s our time to sing, now!
I go back downstairs after we sing.
It’s time for communion.
The usher lines us up too early.
We stand, embarrassed, and wait,
and wait, and wait for our turn at the railing.
We sing some post Easter songs.
Alleluia, Christ is risen!
Suddenly, all the mistakes mean nothing.
Jesus lives! God loves us!
Life is good!
Awoke
Words from yesterday’s poem in my head
Rolled over for my laptop
To pour them down
In a friend’s house
A grown-up slumber party
Our circle of four
Stretching nearly 10 years back
Multiplying with babies and spouses
Gathering as we’re able
To re-enter an unbroken connection
Moments with my dad
Driving
Conversations
And lunch: the crackle of chips, flare of pepper tomato salsa, crunch of green, flag of too-much anchovy
A neighborhood walk
Future dreams cast
A toy chest found for future play
Dinner preparations
Broccoli chopped
Potatoes glistening in their oil coat
Ham in the oven
Friends arriving
A flight across country tomorrow
Last moments of relaxation
Basking in familiar, laughter, conversation
The last long-time girlfriend time
For a while
Topics walking amongst us freely
Brownies and mint chocolate-chip ice cream and laughter for dessert
A baby’s bath
The final wind-down
Laptop on the last guest bed
Home tomorrow
Return, reality, resiliency replenished
Asleep
Keeping the Sabbath
Soft veil of Sunday silence lingers,
Even village church bells too far away to hear.
We drink coffee and watch.
The ladies come down the hill,
All brown and golden, white tails flicking,
A wildlife ballet across the creek
Into the deeryard to browse.
After the wild turkeys, hens and jakes and
Two great toms, wander back
Soundlessly sinking into the trees.
More coffee, Sunday papers read in
Monastic quiet;
A walk to check the snow melt then home
To wiping muddy paws and
Sharing take-out dinner.
Little conversation. We’ve been
Mind-reading too long to need many words
Anyway.
Day of rest.
###
Shirley T.
This poem was hard for me. I have a very boring life, so here it goes.
The Dog Awakes
Someone started my day out with a smile, a lick, a wag and loads of excitement. What a way to start the day. Let him out to do his deed, put clothes in and dishes too. Just relax and enjoy the day, oh no. I’ve been called into work, its not to bad. My work is done now time for fun, BBQ with a close friend, end my day making love to someone very special. What an incredible day,not too boring after all.
A Visit
The sunlight fogging through the curtains wakes me
Brighter than I’m used to
My daughter still sleeps
I try,
But restlessness finally gets me up
I putter a bit, clean here and there
Decide to go for a walk
Her neighborhood is so different from mine
The houses are old, some with character
Some dying and strewn with trash
But the trees here are lovely
Lavenders and pinks
Leaves line the sidewalks, left from fall
Even though it’s now spring
I take note of the turns I make
So I won’t get lost
I make it to her house again
She’s just stirring
We have cofee
Grapes and slices of the delicious bread we purchased
at the cafe yesterday
Then showers ensue
And brushing of teeth
And we’re off in the rain
The bookstore was closed
But the Asian store is open
We splurge on cheap necklaces, candle holders and a five-dollar purse
My son and daughter-in-law join us for lunch
Soup and sandwiches
As we sit on pillows
Around the new/used coffee table
We catch up on news, we converse, we joke
Then off in the drizzle we disperse
Goodbye until next time
I drive the back roads
In the pouring rain
To my suburb
Four hours away
Back to the place
I’m not sure I belong
Going back and filling in for the days I was away from the computer…
Toddler Science
he insists that the trees
make the wind, imagining, perhaps
tiny pursed mouths exhaling on each leaf
great trunkfuls of waiting air pushed
out by rhythmically beating branches
the trees: Earth’s respiration
he says that the bird’s nest
visible from his bedroom window
is full of eggs we should take and eat for breakfast
and also full of baby birds that will soon fly
but the eggs have nothing
to do with these baby birds
eggs are eggs and birds, of course, are birds
he contends that reading is impossible
without speech, reminds me disdainfully
that you have to say the words
to read, that word and sound
are inexorably bound
Sunday
Sleep unhindered and I’m awoken
With soft light on my pillow
And his breathing
Changing as he awakes as well
Coffee and doughnuts herald the day
I’m sad to leave for errands with Mom
But I go and hope to return before dark
Chatting with Kim along the way
And at the gardening taxman’s before we know it
Getting taxes completed with bonus planting tips
We arrange our groceries in the trunk
Ready for lattes because they still have pumpkin spice
Coffee-warmed fingers have her groceries away in a hurry
But I must be away just as fast
With a hug and a promise to call over my shoulder
Down the stairs, in the car, to the post office
Then I’m back home, arms laden with those groceries
To be shelved in my kitchen or made ready for dinner
The XBox calls us while the chicken grills
But his lullaby, the TiVo, rebels; it didn’t record right
So sleep is hard-won for him and a long way off for me
As I finish my levels and creep through the dark house
Hindered sleep and awake ’til one
The Visitors
Special guests are coming
I pull out my best linens
Floors are mopped and swept
Furniture shined and dusted
I break into a sweat
Struggle to reach the cobwebs
All the toys are in the toybox
The clutter out of sight
In the end it won’t matter
The guests will dismantle it tonight
The visitors are my grandchildren
Who won’t notice all my effort
Tearing apart the house
In search of their latest interests
These items soon discarded
In a huge pile of refuse
Making chaos out of order
Forgiven with a hug
“And it’s going to be a day.
There is really no way to say no
to the morning. “
Dan Fogelberg’s lyrics sing in my
Sunday-morning head
and I’m grateful to be alive
grateful for another morning
a soak in the tub
a late brunch with Michael
"nothing" things become
"everything" things
quiet uneventful days
phone call connections
couch time, time to touch,
time to create, together time
“Yes it’s going to be a day.
There is really nothing left to say but
Come on morning.“
Visiting The Frist
A day at the Frist
Viewing Monet & Dali
Vivid strokes of color
Every hue imaginable
Portraits and landscapes
Visually stimulating
Mentally overwhelming
One struggles to take it in
Such masterpieces formed
With a canvas and a brush
Complex works of art
Even more intricate histories
Taking exit from the museum
Contemplating my legacy
The Days Events 4-06-08
Church bells chimed, friends greeted,
rows of pews and we all are seated.
Prayers are said and songs are sung,
mothers and fathers hush the young.
Pastors speak trying everyone to reach.
Some listen, others dream of a sandy beach.
The sermon is over and now we depart,
with God anew in our heart.
First, I am glad to be walking in the woods.
Cool spring day, but the warm sun makes us soon shed jackets.
Then, since we must veer off trail to avoid puddles,
A thorny branch hauls back and lashes my face.
I flail and yell for a while till detangled.
Next, crossing the field, a large bird of prey swoops
Past the bird house and lands on the electric transmission tower,
Sits waiting, staring, focused
While we warily walk underneath.
Just as we are below it takes off.
I put my arms over my head.
It passes us by, aims instead across the field,
At some smaller prey.
Back home, we start spring cleaning.
Sunday as Usual
The morning sun poured, in angular glow, through the window.
Since slotted back in my usual time zone, I stretched to the shape of the bed
And got up. There was still coffee in the carafe from before our trip
So the new brew overflowed. I poured oat Os onto the tray fixed to
The chair and tied the baby in. The cat got meat squares in a ceramic circle.
In church I sat in my pew box (the Boy was asleep in his crib) and watched
you preach freedom from your wrought metal rostrum.
cat kneading
I awaken
I need too
coffee brewing
kids awaken
I brew too
kids are eating
coffees done
I eat too
husband kissing
work is calling
I kiss too
washers cleaning
kids are playing
I clean too
clock is ticking
kids are hungry
I tick too..
lunch was fast
kids are napping
I work faster too
kids are running
outside playing
I am running too
laundrys’ ready
dryers’ beeping
I am ready too
husband dragging
kids collapsing
I drag too
dinner finished
kids are bathed
I’m finished too
cat is purring
house is quiet
I.. purr.. too
5:30 and I awaken, take a shower
and I listen to the gentle snores in the spare room.
My son and wife are home for the weekend
And we are so busy I seem to mainly see my son sleep.
I have a deja vous moment as I listen to his sighs.
Peeking in on him when he was a teen.
Watching him while he slept, knowing I could
whisper things then that I could not say whenever
He was awake. I love you can be said out loud
But not all the flowery things Mother’s tend to want to add
Like I am so proud of you, you are so handsome,
I cry whenever I see you take communion
Because you did not want it said in front of friends
And the only time you did not have friends was
Whenever you were asleep and even then you had sleepovers.
You are going hunting at 6
I am getting ready for early church
Where I have to teach and ready the classrooms
My busy day has begun.
I will see you at church son and at dinner with your wife.
To tell you how very proud I am of the way you have matured
And the person you have become.
Better yet, I will IM you or send you a text on your cell.
They are for your eyes only and you will enjoy them.
See you later son and "I love you."
But You’re Not Here
I rose not at the crack of dawn
but at the static just off station
of the radio on your side of the bed
where I now lie.
I rattling around in the kitchen,
putting something on for lunch,
brewing three cups of coffee
just for me.
I would have made more
but you’re not here.
I grab a quick shower then stare
into the closet for something warm
but not quite wintry.
Any other day I’d crawl back
into bed for five more minutes,
just a quick snuggle.
Maybe I would
but you’re not here.
At church I slide into our pew
Leaving room for you–a habit’s
hard to break. I’m ready
if anyone asks
why you’re not here.
I grab a bite; what I eat
can hardly be called a meal,
just a few bites taken standing up.
Then dragging in the never-empty
well-traveled bag of student papers
from the trunk of the car.
I lug it to the couch, spread out
the folders, rubrics, find a pen
under the cushion where I sit.
Then I spread the Sunday paper
right on top, read what’s new in
Arts and Books. You’d tell me not to
Work the LA Times crossword puzzle
in pen–if you were here.
Even procrastination fails
as the clock chimes slowly,
needing to be sound–
Something you would do.
But you’re not here.
At least a dozen phone calls,
one wrong number, no one here
by that name, and no call from you.
The Sunday evening blues slide
in my windows underneat the doorjamb.
Friday evening’s promise not quite met.
I move from my place to yours,
leaning back in the chair that bears
the imprint of your body.
I feel its chill
since you’re not here.
Finally back to bed, not quite
to sleep, piles of unread books
and papers scattered on the covers.
I slip undercovers on your side of the bed
Since you’re not here.
Nightclubs
We embrace twilight
as music illuminates
night sky.
Prairie violins plucked
600 miles away from home
sweetens the whiskey.
I am going to get some rest tonight
on old bed springs, a warming
bath will feel good at any distant.
Sunday Morning
The clock rings its chime
We roll over
wishing
for five minutes more time
to snuggle
knowing
that if we do
we’ll be late.
Getting up we go
to Worship
The Lords Supper we take
and reflect on our lives
and the Giants we make.
Afternoon we relax
have some lunch
take a nap
Then I’m off to
lead youth
play some games
and relate
Gods Word to our teens
’till a quarter past eight
when I’m home again
with my lovin’ man
sharing thoughts
of our day
over coffee
and quiet
’till the clock hands
hit ten
and we can snuggle again
goodnite….
Marguerite
A cold Sunday in April
2008 on the Canadian Prairie
we went to the theatre to watch a play about Marguerite
the last woman hanged in Canada.
Later we cooked Linguine with Shrimp
in our little kitchen
and read the brochures for our cruise
the one we plan to take to the Panama Cana.
I thought of Marguerite in 1953
as I poured the wine
wondered why some live for love
while others die for the same cause.
good poem robert!
Wasting Sunday
Cleaning for the cleaning people
that’s what I do
I am my mother’s daughter
too
I am one person
but have mail for a small village
I have to sort it
before I go to the dump
I cannot afford to have
my identity stolen
that’s what one of the flyers
tells me
a tree had to die to tell me that?
outside the weather disappoints again
or is the weather man who is such a let down?
I want sun and sixty degrees
I got gloom and forty
Four trips to the car
with sorted garbage
plastics in the pink beach tote
cans in the giveaway tote from
the company picnic
papers in the canvas bag
I got for switching insurance
Martha Stewart would have colored
bins with neat lables on them
what is that stain at the bottom
of my mail bag?
The dump
cathedral of waste
coldest place on the North Fork
of long island
seaguls hover as if
they’re going to miss out
on the good stuff
Ginger chicken wraps
for dinner
it’s decided
as I toss empty juice bottles
into the air watching them float
and then land with a thud
on the pile of plastic
inching it’s way toward me
Crap
work is tomorrow.
(reposting from yesterday because it belongs on Day 6)
(Day 6 Poem)
Two, Forty, Eighty-three
Two-year old spots small frog
Thinks: frog is little like I am
Pokes frog which falls over
Concludes: something is wrong with frog
Two-year old doesn’t get that frog is dead
Forty-year old walks into surprise birthday bash
Thinks: oh lord I’m forty
Nudges friends for surprising her
Figures: I will smile for them
Forty-year old feels the next decade moving in
Eighty-three year old stumbles
Thinks: damn cane makes me look fragile
Jabs ground that’s unsteady under his feet
Concludes: I am fragile and ready to be done
Eighty-three year old welcomes the day he does not wake
Sonny Days
I awake to the Sun
I kiss my son,
He’s hungry
my day’s begun!
I run
I leap
I feed him something to eat
As soon as I take a seat
He’s hungry again.
I turn on the TV
to babysit for me
He picks out
His favorite DVD.
We laugh and play
dumb games I’ve made
He’s mad if it doesn’t
go his way,
so I grin and let him win.
He’s happy it seems,
I give him something to eat,
as soon as I have a seat
the phone rings
It’s time for him to leave.
The Sun sets
I kiss my son on the forehead,
‘I love you’ he says
‘I’ll see you next weekend!’
We sponge and rake the grass and dirt
in an attempt to play on a field
thats soaked,
So far,
it seems the rain never comes unless
it isn’t needed.
Just as it seems questions of need are lost,
as underdogs begin to beat
the undefeated.
The rising hope for dreams and glory,
in the throats of those
who wish to wear the World Series ring,
I just sit back and pray
that if ever I forget the smell of summer,
I’ll always have baseball in the spring.
Everyday
As I step onto the porch
I fear that each step
Would be my last
I jump down the stairs
Without any care
That I might slip
And fall
Everyday,
My question is,
"Will I survive?"
What does it really mean?
Everyday, I think,
"What does it mean?"
I woke this morning feeling lazy,
My head is cloudy and a bit hazy.
I get my cup of coffee after I stumble out of bed,
I really feel as though I have a big head.
I go to the living room and sit on the couch,
For most of the day, I am just a grouch.
I did finally get up and made brunch,
The morning flew by and it was basically lunch.
I stared at the clothes lying on the floor,
Thinking to sort through them is just a big chore.
I decided to work on my writing on my laptop,
I am sure that my hubby would like me to stop.
He’d rather have me do something with him,
But outside it’s dreary and chances for sunshine is really slim.
My son called me and we talked for a while,
That was the only thing that made me smile.
The next thing I knew it was suppertime.
The lasagna was baking and I mixed up the salad in the meantime.
We ate our supper and it was really good,
I still felt so lazy while at the kitchen sink I stood.
I flipped through channels,
While, I lit up the candles.
I sat and quietly read my writers magazine,
While Tom played games on the WII, I continued to be down right lazy.
When it was nearly 8 O’clock,
We found a movie on TV and we weren’t in the mood to talk.
We went to bed shortly after it was over
But Harley was so completely hyper.
It took some time to calm him down,
He finally settled from acting like a clown.
We went to bed and fell right to sleep,
The dreams I had were so incredibly deep.
"Resting"
Sounds too loud for a 7th
My worry relieved
by a Brazilian in England
Coffee and sweets
and a sighting of Jays
Consumerizing
before a freeway jaunter
A splurge
but enjoyable nonetheless
Enjoying the future
and a dash of rodents
Nothing can compare to blood.
Day 2 Night
waking up to the sound of bacon sizzling in the pan
light hitting my eyes from the sun through my open blinds
i float from up to down…
looking to feed my senses
the clock brings me back to the reality i wasn’t ready for
rushing not to be late…
..and failing to be that
the class begins and there i sit…
..till the next sunrise
My Day
Woke up early to write my racial autobiography
For my Teaching for Social Justice class
Too many references must be included
Not only of my past
But from my past readings on racism
I want to include my passion
But it gets in the way
Nothing seems good enough
To express my outrage
That racism still exists
A couple of paragraphs condensed information
Went out with my husband after breakfast
Drove to Vallejo to drop off medical equipment
To Kaiser Hospital
Came back to City by way of Napa
Beautiful drive
Had lunch in Mill Valley at the Depot Café
Bought a book of quotations by Paulo Coelho
Drove back to the City
Took a nap in the car
Stopped at home to change for work
Arrived at Zuni Café
For my dinner shift serving upstairs
Good workout going up and down stairs
Best gluteus maximums in my life
Waited on former coworker
Good to see familiar faces
Feeling good about bringing a smile to people’s face
Finished late almost midnight
Got home
Brushed teeth
Gone to bed to wake up early again to finish my
Racial autobiography that is due on Monday.
LAZY DAY
the day tried to start at 9:00
I pushed it off until 2:00
the sheets were a web
that i didn’t want to unravel
back and forth
up then back down
to the laptop to write
too much organic cereal
more love from the sheets
then up for good to start the day
to the store to prepare for the week
a late Sunday night feast with a lover
stomach blown up like buddah’s
sleep again in different sheets
not any excitement
just more of the same
the lazy day came
and called me by name
sun rose again
so i rise
to more and less
less and more
i grow
more or less
trials and tribulations
awake on cue confirming life
hope never sleeps
i create the path
i walk tall on
flowers at noon
on a sunny day confirm beauty
small arms around necks
confirm hope
evening falls like a lazy lover
I snnugle under covers
Sweeney
We buried ourselves
In dripping blood
Feasting on fleshly pies
Laughing and singing
All along
We took on our own disguise
TK Kietero
Nothing ever happens to me
especially on Sunday.
On Sunday after I fetch the paper
out of the gutter
my day is pretty ordinary.
It is my day to sit outside
in the garden and read
maybe catch up on emails
avoid the streets
Other than the cats
strewing litter all over
the bathroom floor,
nothing happens to me on Sunday.
A Day in the Life
We curl close and warm,
talk a while, get up and have coffee
in front of our screens, breakfast
at the dining table, where we read.
He goes back to bed, sleeps,
doesn’t wake when I leave the email,
go in and shower. Our grey cat
is curled up with him
at the foot of the bed.
At the other end of the house
my son Steve is silent until
at 11.40 I take him coffee, grab mine
(a new cup) and we talk till lunchtime –
late lunchtime, nearly 1.30.
He says it’s exhausting
proving to me that I’m not a poet.
Not, that is, as some fundamental
core of my self, but rather
something programmed in,
a way of winning approval
even now, from my dead father.
This is unpalatable, and I’m hungry.
I go to make lunch and find
Andrew’s now up and dressed.
I go in and make the bed.
Afternoon and evening,
between food and work, rain and shine –
between wind and thunder
and walking down to the shops twice
and putting out the rubbish and bringing in
the empty bin – my son forces me to see
unhappiness I live with and pretend
isn’t there and refuse to fix. I end
by watching TV with tears leaking.
Then I phone my best friend Linda
to wish her Happy Birthday.
She tells me that her only son
has been in a terrible accident
and is now quadriplegic. He’s 38.
I’ve known him since before he was born.
Now my tears overflow.
My son, 39, gives me coffee.
I go on the computer to beg for prayers
and healing for my friend and her son.
My husband and I sit down
in front of the telly again.
We watch Andrew Denton explore
living with mental illness:
the voices of angels and demons
all day, invading your head.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008
I drag my sorry self from bed
too little sleep has fuzzed my head
I was most surely home in time
but then into the bed I climb
and realize the floor is shaking
someone’s partying and making
noises with a thumping bass
so much for sleep and so I brace
myself for hours of futile turning
when I rise my eyes are burning
do not test my temper now
you will regret it I avow
Sunday, a Day of Rest?
Waking up early ready to start the day
Knowing all the work coming my way.
First it’s off to Lowe’s to pick up supplies
Then to Mom’s with still sleepy eyes.
The work starts as soon as we arrive
Hammering and sawing like music to the Fab Five.
As the project takes shape and the day grows late
We see what wood, hammer and nails can create.
Steps off the deck to the green grass below
Is what Mom’s been wanting for as long as I know.
With our day of work finally complete
We pack up the tools and in the car take a seat.
Our journey at the end of this day exhausted to the bone
Ready for a bath and sleep cuz we’re finally home.
Daily Chaos and Order
Today
I woke up to disorder-
boxes everywhere, that no longer fit.
First I made a bigger mess,
pulled everything out to look,
then consider, sort, file, collate, discard-
and tidy all away
into its’ new order.
What happens when you add a new element to the mix-
boyfriend, job, piece of furniture?
Later,
I made meatballs-
took carefully packaged ground beef,
one smooth, oval, perfectly-shelled egg,
spices from clearly- labeled, glass jars in an orderly cupboard,
tossed all together in a bowl
with bare hands,
then, rolled it into little balls
and popped them into a hot pan.
Out of neatly ordered ingredients,
chaos,
that shortly became a satisfying meal.
April 6th
Sunday morning.
Reach across the bed for
a warm weekend hug.
Cats moan about the hallway
Looking for a seafood treat.
Eggs, bacon, pancakes
for the two-legged folks.
Endless rounds of dishes
but
time for writing poems
Ten words, forty-eight hours,
write a prize-winner this time?
Re-write.
Re-write.
Send.
Cross fingers, sigh.
Time for chicken dinner,
potatoes, rutabaga, spinach
and cheesecake.
Chicken treats for the four-legged guys.
Funny, the sink still full of dishes.
Start the dishwasher,
TV on, find the channel
Casino Royale.
Just another Sunday.
Carol A. Stephen
Sunday Gardening
The gardener guy woke me this morning
Just like every Sunday
He gives me hope that one day
My garden might look lovely too
It was time to transplant the seedlings
They grow beneath the lights for now
But have outgrown their space.
Gently give them new styrofoam cups homes.
By afternoon, it was time to plant again.
Write the poems for the challenge-five in one day
I hope they grow under the lights
So I can transplant them too.
Making Paella
She invited her boyfriend over for dinner,
A dinner that she would make, in honor of
His 16th birthday earlier in the week. I asked:
“What are you making? What does he like?”
She didn’t know, and had never made a Big Deal
Dinner before, plus birthday cake. So, we chose
Paella, but needed a recipe, and, for once, both The Joy
Of Cooking and Better Homes Cookbook let me down,
But I found a dusty Spanish Cookbook on the top shelf,
Maybe 30 years old, bought after I went to Spain in my teens.
She made a list, we went to the store together, picked out
A cake mix (I advised the one with pudding as it would be moister)
And dark chocolate frosting–she wanted chocolate shavings
On top, so we considered the cooking-aisle chocolate
Choices, bitter sweet I judged too tart, milk chocolate
Too bland, white chocolate too white for her dark cake
And told her semi-sweet was the ticket; then we debated
The yellow rice, deciding on a gargantuan amount
Because I said, “it’s the bedding on which everything
Rests, don’t be skimpy.” On to chicken (already roasted
By the store, “you can’t cook everything, you don’t have
The time or a double oven,” I warned), sausage, peppers,
Onions–the grocery store seafood wasn’t compelling, so
She went by herself to a Fish Mart to get clams, mussels,
Scallops and shrimp (I said, “smell everything, if it smells
Fishy, don‘t buy it“). We discussed passing on the squid
And white fish, and also barbeque spare ribs this recipe
Oddly endorsed. The cooking was an adventure, but I main-
Tained an advisory role: the cake rose quickly and
She asked, was it done? “Withdrawn from the sides of the
Pan, springs back when pushed down, knife plunged into
The middle comes out clean?” Yes, yes and yes.
“It’s done,” I said. Are the clams and mussels cooked?
“What does the recipe say?” They should open. “And are they?”
Yes. “Then they are cooked.”
Finally, dinner was served, and enjoyed, and greatly praised
By everyone. Her father asked, “you did this all by yourself?
She looked around, radiant, and said, yes!
I thought, well, yes, in a manner of speaking,
And smiled to myself.
Lyn Sedwick
I woke up to a sunny day
my cold just a trifle instead
of a full fledged illness
my cough more gentle
on my organs and ears.
It’s been two months since
I’ve seen my daughter
and her boyfriend, too long.
We go to Fred’s Market and the food
is yummy and we have such a great
time catching up and the feeling when
they left just now was one of contentment
I got my “fix” of daughter time and
we even looked at a house near us
on the way home that they might be
interested in.
My dog was happy to see us come back
I showed daughter our new lemon
tree and new roses planted by the gazebo
yellow roses to honor my son and we
held on to each other, no tears, just support.
After these seven years we can smile again
when we remember him.
It’s still a rainy day, a beautiful rainy day
one in which a Sunday nap sounds oh
so inviting so husband and I indulge
turn the TV on to the Tivo show we have
wanted to see and we kind of watch but
mostly cuddle and sleep with the dog
happily snoring on the other side of me.
Perfection: This day, this moment
this time when Sunday afternoon naps and
lunch out with daughter and cuddling on the
couch with my husband is accomplished in
one rainy warm Sunday in April 2008.
As usual, off on my own thread.
Oh! Sob! Oh! Sadness!
I have sunk so low into badness!
I have murdered My Muse, and everyone thinks
She’s the only Muse there is, and it stinks
Because if she is, it’s the ultimate in Cadness!
You see she loved me. And I gave her no wink
Or even a mink,
But only the stuff of ignoring
Her till she found I was boring
And went off alone and over the brink.
Wait! That’s where she went!
That’s where she was sent
From, she said when we met,
And if you’d look, that’s where I’d bet
You’d find her, west of the county of Bent.
In Swink!
A Sunday Morning
The house as cool
When NPR’s Weekend Edition filled the void
And the dog withheld his warmth
Until his food bowl was filled
As usual, I fixed the granola
With fresh berries and skim milk
And sighed at the morning rush
That even invades Sundays
The drive to church was interrupted
By a slow moving train
Giving me time to ponder the thrill (or is it promotion?)
That causes one to graffiti a freight car
The church service over, Kurt Anderson now retells
Van Cliburn’s victory at the keyboard while I drive
But I listen only as far as my caffein-craving mind allows
At last, the poet’s “office,” Starbucks!
Sunday
We walked the dogs
on the beach,
the gray clouds
looming overhead.
Fatigue fastened its claws
around my ankle,
its body dragging
behind me,
while the dogs
chased each other
over the sand and rocks.
Another Sunday
A boy who would not rise,
a girl not home,
a dog unwilling to wait
for that moment sun splashed,
standing stark and still
in morning breeze.
A meal unplanned,
a feat to find us all
at table,
must be Sunday
the quiet day
of steamed windows
and sun caught motes
collecting in the dance.
And how lazy
we’ve become,
not wanting, wanting nothing,
and still reaching out
to be sitting
at table together,
all present
and accounted for,
must be Sunday.
FIRST DAY OF THE END OF DAYLIGHT SAVINGS FOR ANOTHER YEAR
This morning it was apple, carrot and celery juice,
toast, coffee, and the daily pills.
Read about people with interesting jobs, careers,
and dreamed up my own, for when
I’m no longer ill.
"You don’t have to do a thing today," my sister said,
and drove us, our Mum, my daughter
to a suburb called Sunshine.
A bright idea! Village Cinema gave us sexy trash
and on the way home, stopped to buy a Little Oscar,
four purple dodonias, and food (theirs, not mine).
By then it was time to check if I’d drunk enough water,
eat the dinner Mum cooked, watch TV with her.
Ended with a thriller, alone.
so: nightmares masquerading as mere dreams all night.
I wouldn’t have started watching it, nor sat up so late
if I’d thought about overdoing things.
I should have known.
My Sunday
Woke up late remembering it’s
Sunday so no reason to rush
Rachel was at the computer reading
political blogs and I spent over an
hour reading a new novel about turn
of the century shenanigans and
what it meant to be a woman
in London in that era, feeling
decadent that I had this time to
read. Hal had forgotten his soap
and sandals at the gym and calls me
to say he found them where he left them.
Did the wash, since Monday
will arrive with its need for clean clothes.
Rachel, and Sara, and I spent the
time getting ready to go shopping
chatting about politics, a common thread
these days and continued on the drive
to Danbury.
Hal met us at Stew Leonard’s, but
decided to spend the time inside
the car listening to the Mets game
while we savored the samples and
decided on food for the week as
I watched the ecstatic faces of
children listening to the food
puppets sing the Stew Leonard’s
songs. Making sure to get Hal’s
fruits, I settled on apples and three
kinds of pears. Then the best part
of shopping, the free frozen yogurts
we ate in the parking lot.
Home again for a dinner of hot dogs
after unpacking the food and folding
clothes from the dryer. A few hours
watching TV and the horror of the news.
Back to slicing strawberries for tomorrow.
Popped red, ripe, juicy berries into my
mouth enjoying the sweet fresh taste.
Sunday over much too soon.
A hug as only Tracy can hug
at Broadway skytrain
And we’re off
Drizzle, the ocean,
Companionable discussion about floathomes
and elightenment.
Chance meeting, as only destiny would have it,
with others, a tour of a luxurious spa.
Such decadence.
Drenched on the way back to the Skytrain.
Dry change of clothes, some huddle time under the covers.
A half hour nap, and Chapter 2.
A working farm with William,
his sister Evelyn, and his parents.
Baby rabbits and chicks,
refereeing the pigs over their slop.
Nonsense songs in the car,
Distracting William from his anxiety.
Some Indian food, Winnie-the-Pooh and the Blustery Day,
and bathtime.
More conversation: a gazillion specialist referrals,
everyone has something needing investigation.
Life gets so complex, we only wanted to be parents!
A drive home, poetry.
A sleepy conversation with a friend whose mother is dying,
cuddle time with Karma, the domestic tabby,
A little Eckhart Tolle
and sleep.
Corinne
Today Late
Half the day in bed with As You Like It—
carousel of shepherds
the arrival of biscuits
and the day lopes off
our time bleeds right in front of us
in all the figures we’ve given it,
the tint of the sky
is dressed up like a clock face
the changes
and raspberry jam for the biscuits
and later there was trifle
no one had a gun today in my house
I rose from the bed
as one rolling the boulder back
a little
but I was not dead
and our friends came over
and Buffy slew the vampires
and a little roach demon from the moon,
it was a typical day, a Sunday
and one of the characters said I love you
into the dumbness of the helicopter
and another said it with a kind of embarrassing force
in the bedroom
and none of us were dead
and the day is almost over.
Sunday
Some like to sleep
on a Sunday morning,
I rise for that hour
alone at dawn…
tea,
quiet…
and the coming of light
dreaming the day into being.
Big Baloo wakes from the
cave grunting and scratching,
he follows his nose…coffee
and zero to sixty in a cup.
In further quarters I hear her
rise through pain and the click
of an I.V. pole’s extension…
Ah…but she’s singing with Shakira,
I ease back into emails and the view
of Joe’s Bay from the Aerie…
Joe was drunk and fell laughing
from his boat to drown,
claiming the bay as his own
long long ago mateys.
Afternoon pockets the sun,
I pocket my buttons and
call my folks…on cue
it rains through blue sky,
the sun could get on its knees,
sing "Mammy!" and it wouldn’t,
couldn’t be enough…
hang up,
breathe,
another crossroads coming,
kids becoming parents…
parents becoming kids…
need a damn passport to cross
the forty-nine Medicine Line.
Caught in a generational
caregiving sammich I talk
with my sister while hummingbirds
punctuate the conversation and
afternoon leaves on the tide.
Ever try tacos with buffalo meat?
Ever try an evening Bollywood dance?
garbage night and laundered whites,
damn the dishes,
still I have no answers,
no moral or closing line.
Aside from another
Normality gone astray
Overt overtures of congruency
Ties together what maybe
Heavenly of being
Or just a whimsical wisp
Errant thoughts no longer sheathed
Realize this day
Somewhere is always bright, they say
Underneath the grime, purity is said to play
Now is the time to live
Now, right now, is the cusp of day
Yearning for tomorrow no more, no more I say
Delightful in mind and spirit, body released
A free soul and I become freedom today
Yes, I am me; and in the sun I will play
April 6th Entry:
What A Day It’s Been
By Bill Kirk
You’d think it would be easy,
To tell about the day’s
Events and how they happened
In ordinary ways.
But this day wasn’t normal,
Though it was kind of cool.
I learned to care for victims
At Boy Scout First Aid school.
At first I was a victim.
I had a “broken arm”
And “bruises” and a “headache”
As if I’d come to harm.
An “accident” had happened
On my “mountain bike.”
But soon I was “discovered”
By “hikers” on a hike.
They checked out all my “bruises,”
And bandaged all my “scrapes.”
In no time they had splinted
My arm with sticks and tapes.
Soon after I was “stable”
I had another role—
To help a rock slide victim
Impaled upon a pole.
Of course, he was “unconscious.”
His “skull” had hit a “rock.”
Because we had just “minutes,”
We worked against the clock.
At first we rolled him over
And “stabilized” his “spine.”
We did a lift and carry;
In no time he was "fine."
Several hours later,
The day was finally done.
Although the lessons were intense,
We learned, but had some fun.
I got home quite exhausted,
And heard, “How was your day?”
I almost told my wife, then couldn’t
Bring myself to say.
04/05/08
Woke up around noon,
had some breakfast, surfed the net,
then started working on my podcast
that I hadn’t finished yet.
Finished editing at six,
had a smoke to clear my head,
had a bite to eat
and then I crawled back into bed.
Slept for a couple hours
and then I woke up with a shock,
I rolled over, annoyed,
and turned off the alarm clock.
Watched some tv
and went back to surfing the net
while I wondered to myself …
"How much more boring can life get?".
I ate a little dinner
and then I uploaded the show.
Now I’m finishing this poem
and then it’s off to bed I go.
[Reposted from day 5, mostly the same]
Catching Up
Six poems in a day;
I know, I know,
The idea is to write every day
(I’ll try to do better),
But on the bright side,
I had a single up the middle (my first);
And told off those scientists who don’t appreciate gravity’s pull;
Swept the front porch and sneezed;
Drank some beer and ate some bread
(and thanked yeast for the pleasure);
I avoided worrying about my poems,
But I confessed (it’s good for the soul)
And told you all about it.
Rather a pleasant day, now that I think about it.
(Plus, I’m caught up.)
day 6 poem
the day before day 6
Oh my Saturday!
A drive to Columbia to see George Strait!
I really can’t wait!
I have great seats, they can’t be beat!
Now to the concert I go!
I am sitting oh so low and close to the stage
I have waited so long to be this close.
Here he comes out to sing,
My heart is pounding I want to scream!
Now the concert goes on like in a dream!
Next time I will be just a bit closer
so his hand I can touch when he reaches down
for his fans hands to meet!
Poem day 6
Day before day 6
Oh my Saturday!
A drive to Columbia to see George Strait!
I really can’t wait!
I have great seats, they can’t be beat!
Now to the concert I go!
I am sitting oh so low and close to the stage
I have waited so long to be this close.
Here he comes out to sing,
My heart is pounding I want to scream!
Now the concert goes on like in a dream!
Next time I will be just a bit closer
so his hand I can touch when he reaches down
for his fans hands to meet!
Sunday
Why am I so busy? On Sunday of all days?
Getting up, going out so little that it pays.
And all my quirky habits; To break them I will not!
Like searching Ebay endlessly for trinkets and whatnot.
Let’s not forget the business that I started on the side,
A millionaire I’ll be real soon to strut around with pride.
Home again, I’m comfy here – talking to you my friend.
And you’re part of this great day I’ve had reading what I have penned.
April Day 6 Poem – Number One
Today
I knocked a bowl of sultana bran
on my keyboard today -
it was a good start.
Then I choked on my cup of tea
and got bitten by mosquitoes
out on the back patio.
My friend came over to visit
and we went to the local fair.
The weather was hot and muggy
and there was very little shade.
I think the belly-dancers were good -
pity we couldn’t see past all the people.
The hall where the second-hand books were for sale
was so stuffy, I couldn’t breathe
so I left without a book – very unusual for me.
But the day wasn’t all bad.
I wrote some poetry
played around on the computer –
and the keyboard didn’t blow up.
It was an average day
and that’s not too bad -
today.
© Maureen Sexton
April Day 6 Poem – Number Two
Day’s Events Villanelle
I couldn’t say today was a good day.
First I spilt the milk over my good chair.
The stars were not lined up in the right way.
Then I had to chase away a stray
and felt bad cos it seemed I didn’t care.
I couldn’t say today was a good day.
Next the sky had turned from blue to grey -
my friend and I were going to the fair.
The stars were not lined up in the right way.
We agreed if it rained we wouldn’t stay.-.
my tyre blew and I didn’t have a spare.
I couldn’t say today was a good day.
We finally exited from the freeway -
and then discovered parking spots were rare.
The stars were not lined up in the right way.
We walked through slippery puddles of brown clay -
our positive resolve had been stripped bare.
I couldn’t say today was a good day.
The stars were not lined up in the right way.
© Maureen Sexton
Saturday April 5, 2008
8 AM–timer goes off. Prayer journal for twenty minutes
Eat left-over salmon, whole wheat toast
And tea with sugar and hazelnut and chocolate creamer.
Drive to Durango, forty five miles away,
Enjoy the mountains on the unusually cloudy, gray day.
Arrive at the mall where my friends and I take over a table
Order our coffee and plum tea and get out our laptops.
Shoppers walk by, mildly curious, as we go over
Articles, query letters and poems. And laugh.
With grumbling bellies we meet at a Mexican restaurant
Where I order a gooey mass of rice, refried beans,
Chicken fajita with sour cream and guacamole
And laugh some more as we go over a
Pamphlet for our upcoming writer’s conference.
I admire my friend’s picture and shudder at mine
Taken on a bad hair day. What was I grinning about?
Drive the hour back, as my brain is replaced by Styrofoam.
Watch A Fine Romance and enjoy hearing my family laugh,
Especially our charge,47, but like a child
Write my poem for the day on Alzheimer’s, my creeping fear.
Talk over the day with hubby, almost avoid an argument
Until he mentions his desire to put a patio door in our bedroom.
Give Ness spinach and chicken for supper,
I eat chicken dumpling soup. Not that hungry from lunch.
I relax and read from my large stack of books
Eleanor Roosevelt, Mark’s Story, The Mayflower, Bird by Bird
Harry Potter 1st book, Australia, Here’s Lily, Light in the Attic
Hubby’s turn to put Vanessa to bed.
I write in my journal. I play solo Scrabble
Good scores—1169 and 1107. Eat popcorn.
At midnight, call it a day, sleep in the chair
To avoid getting a headache. Too much popcorn.
Day born in pain
Every effort to move sends fire
through the neck down the
shoulder, spasms causing the hand
to ball into a fist
He wanted to help
I asked him to wait next to me
lest we wake the sleeping
princess on the other side
of the quiet house
Now with night settling in
After a day spent groaning interspersed
with a few hours of acetaminophen
induced partial relief there is
hope mingled with fear
Will tomorrow also be forged in fire?
SUNDAY, THE DAY OF REST?
Sunday was meant as a day of rest, that’s what I’ve always heard
But when I think of the average mom, that statement seems absurd
Now since I am a grandmother, this day seems harder still
For now I have five grandchildren that go to church with us as well.
Today I got up early just barely half past six
I wanted to sleep in awhile but I knew I had to fix
Breakfast for my little gang, no small endeavor by far,
“I want some cereal,” “Well I want oats” “There’s no jelly in this jar.”
“Is soy milk all that we have left” “When did you get this bread”
I finally get one child in the tub, while another sneaks back to bed.
“Nanny can you find my shoes” “I lost my underwear”
“The zipper is busted in these pants.” “Where’s the ribbon for my hair.”
“Honey, can you iron my shirt? It’s almost time to leave.
Can’t you try to speed things up? Hey, you forgot to iron this sleeve.”
I finally make it to my room, and there’s a runner in my hose
A rapid knock, says, “hurry up” “Can I please put on my clothes?”
At last we make it to the church, a mere ten minutes late
And though I feel all tense inside I try to seem quite sedate.
But then I look at my little crew, and my heart is filled with pride
And I know that I am blessed of God to have them at my side.
My husband and I have five grandchildren ages 11, 8, 7, 6, and 1, all of which live within five miles of us. Although our children rarely go to church with us anymore, the grandkids go every week. At least two and sometimes all of them stay overnight with us on Saturday night. It’s really quite a circus around our house trying to get out of the door on time.
Relaxing Sunday
I woke up today late,
no children at home to wake me.
All at sleepovers having fun,
they extended my sleep until longer after up came Mr. Sun.
Then down for a quiet breakfast,
with hubby with a silence that was deafening
for with three children out,
no TV, video games and arguing surrounded me.
Still I missed them
so off hubby went to the grocery store,
and I to pick up two missing girls from Babi and Dzia Dzia’s
in anticipation of their smiles, hugs and kisses.
Their happy faces beamed in delight,
at seeing me who they had missed one night.
We went home and with the groceries unpacked and lunch eaten,
hubby went to pick up our middle lad,
who with grandma and her dog, had great fun
although he was happy to see his dad.
After all came home,
we were now all united,
the family of five,
that God must have pre-sighted.
The peaceful break last night was nice,
but with all home now, the world feels more right.
For though afar from me they may stray,
I know that in my heart, my children always stay.
Being together again is great,
for my children are the greatest loves of my life.
Sunday April 6
Wake up to the alarm and feel the back pain
Not another day of this, please not again.
Take the pills, go back to sleep and hope for some relief.
Grandson jumps into the bed, "Grandma, Time for Church"
"Not today.", I tell him, "Grandma really hurts"
Rise and shine, Let’s rest the back.
Expect nothing more today.
"Yes. Disney’s fine with me Josh.
I’ll have computer play."
Finally time to get a shower and maybe try to dress.
My aching back and now my legs. I’ll go back to bed.
Four hours later I arise and still I fell like yuk.
Look out the window,see the rain and all the muddy ukk
A little yogurt if you please, what can I get for you?
Some pizza for your dinner. Ok. That will do.
Bath time now and off to bed. School day in the morn.
Goodnight grandson, I love you too! You must get some sleep
Prayers are said, your off to bed and now my time has come
To go back to my dream world where I can count the sheep.
Today
Few minutes ago I saw the new prompt.
You will see that I have an Overflow
since yesterday I sent one for today
but I do not mind to do it again
in certain way this is some kind of fun.
I got up just before the lights of dawn
though it is sunday and I have no plan,
soon after that I took a nice hot bath
until all the sweat from my pores was drawn.
After breakfast I went and wrote few lines
like always, with fair metric and good rhyme.
Everything outside is covered with snow,
the best thing could have been to stay in bed
but by the computer I was instead
looking for things that I not even know.
I see already the mirage of dusk
and the sun going down by the southwest,
it is early and I don’t need to rest
though soon another challenge will come up.
For tomorrow I should have another bud.
The clouds were so overcast it looked and smelled like rain.
Sunday mornings are the best time to decompress and relax.
Bask in the color of your eyes.
Breathe you into my soul.
Share a pot of tea and a piece of crumbly cake.
You get the paper while I talk to my sister on the phone,
seeking inspiration for her birthday gift without tipping my hand.
We decide to take a walk, and while I wait for you
I water the herbs, tomatoes and fuchsias.
The sky is more blue and white cloud than that grey mass from before.
Holding hands through the town there are remarkable sights.
The wisteria is at peak bloom. California poppies and forget-me-nots and tulips
are a splash in a pallet of flowers I couldn’t tell you the name of,
even for prize money on Jeopardy.
Finally I have the picture in my mind of the scarf I will weave
for my sister – pearly white mohair from Australian goats. I had spun it
over a year ago, and has only spoken to me now. It wants the pink
mohair and linen splashed about. I quickly measure the warp and
miraculously
in 2 hours the loom is warped and I am weaving away.
My projects don’t usually go so well.
But today is special, the perfect balance of activity in the
company of you.
Sunday the Sixth
At 10:30,
I awoke in my hometown
to warmth, open windows,
and bird-songs
drifting upstairs
from the open kitchen door
to my bedroom,
then walked down to Main Street
to meet Dad for lunch.
I watched the cars pass
from a tiny park bench,
wondered how so many people
could be driving through
such a small city.
I joined the dreary deluge
of carbon and chrome
to come back north.
I stopped to see my man;
he was waiting, cross-legged,
his bright bicycle leaned
against the donut shop.
The sun was still shining,
but our shadows were so long
as we pedaled to day’s end,
singing songs of spring
and sliding with the wind.
We said goodbye at nine,
and another week began.
April 6 Surprise
Foggy haze lifted
slowly slumber left
body gears shifted to high
to feed animals and make it to church on time.
Voice mingled with others
gave rise to melodies of love
joined in corporate worship
led by our youth pastor teaching of how to serve others.
Si Casa Flores set places enough
for Elsie, Donna, Rene, Emma,
Lou, Mary, Don, husband and me
who always look forward to this quiet time together.
Greeted at home
by the faithful five dogs
then snuggled with a kitten
for a brief nap before leaving for a very long walk.
Up a steep climb
began the forest journey
on paths cushioned by green moss
to discover that more than one trillium had already opened.
Today
The day burns on.
The lawn is mowed,
the milk is bought,
the chicken fried,
the cookies baked,
the dog is washed.
The beans were ground,
The floor was mopped.
We went, we went,
We go go go.
And we sit.
Finally.
Together.
Day 6 (all day)
I dreamed there was no diet coke
So I woke up and got me one.
I browned the roast, added the potatoes, the carrots, the soups
And water to the pan, slid it into the oven.
It was cool outside when I picked up the paper.
I sat down, read my email, my friend’s cat is lost.
My friend has cancer and it is a big deal. Luna is her helper.
I reply that I will look for her.
I read the paper, we get dressed for church and we sing.
We come back to eat the roast, it’s so tender it falls apart,
And then we argue.
We have told our son we will buy him a new bed today
But he’s been so disrespectful I don’t want to go
But after waffling back and forth, we set off to get the damn bed.
It is crowded, congested, not consumer friendly, but we find it,
Load it up on the cart and buy it.
Home delivery will bring it to our house later.
We eat dinner,
We watch TV.
Argue about the mess in the kid’s rooms.
Argue about me arguing.
I’m writing now,
But I guess it is time to go back to my dreams.
After I awaken, then it will be morning again.
But what about Luna? Where is she?
And what about her day?
I hope the kitty is hiding, waiting for whatever sign she needs to see
To come out again, and run back home to her Momma.
Outside of that, I’ve got nothing.
I hope Luna comes home safe
And nothing I could write
Could be more beautiful than that.
"(Very) Early Sunday Morning"
I broke things
inanimate objects
no pain – for them -
but I raged and hurt.
Why was she doing this to me or
was I doing it to myself?
This caveman dance this display
of pure and utter nonsense.
Life doesn’t revolve around you
she said.
Well, it surely doesn’t revolve around you
I countered,
and I don’t appreciate
what you’re dishing out
just go ahead and do it
do yourself in
I don’t care.
But I did.
And I do.
I rise early, unintentionally competing with the sun.
I finish my research,
planning to sound intelligent on the radio
later in the morning.
Delightedly distracted by the phone
my Best Friend calls to discuss our weekly adventures.
Eventually I hang up
to become a whirling dervish
preparing for the rest of the day.
Our time slot is reclaimed by others
(someone forgot to call us.)
We shrug off disappointment, adapting.
All day thereafter, it seems,
plans change or fail, and I adapt:
Mexican breakfast with friends instead of radio interviews;
Driving over the bright, spring-green mountain an hour early;
Discovering my stumbled upon teapot treasure
is worth five times what I paid;
Finding two friends
too busy
to meet after all;
Leisurely traveling south down the highway
I suddenly find myself struck to momentary wordlessness
by the utter beauty of the day
at a place and time I had no intention of being.
I smile,
belting out tunes with the radio,
and I am content.
AMAZING! 20% there! I would never have thought…
Today…
To bed at 4am
Up at 9:30
I am awake in the early-morning, writing…
downloading cd’s to my new 80 gig ipod,
and looking for tax receipts…
I wake with a start,
knowing there is so very much to do…
Then, there is dinner…
A visit with my best friend, whilst I cook…
The old man wants to watch movies.
I am my spouse’s company.
It is my obligation.
There is no choice.
My time is only my own,
when he is off to work…
I will wait until he sleeps…
And then, my life becomes my own,
Unless, I fall asleep.
Woke up early, sevenish
Showered, went to church
Ate breakfast out, a treat
Came home and took a nap.
Washed lots of clothes
And threw in a few towels
Fixed a pot roast – it didn’t burn
With potatoes, a lovely dinner.
Watched National Treasure
On TV, then tuned in to the news
Washed the dishes during Weather
I don’t know if it’s going to rain.
Watched the dog in late night play
He loves the midnight hour
I had a cup of tea before bed
And that’s how I spent my day.
sundazed
the morning stretched
six cigarettes long
and after weeks
of messages
from you
we meet
13 years later
to eat indian food
and 45
minutes drone
on slowly
then we say good-
bye but don’t fall
in love
i nap cat-like
on my bed
in a sliver
of sunlight
that chases
the afternoon
across the sheets
and for 3
hours i’m
not obsessing
over my flaws
and why i probably
won’t hear
from you again
even as a friend
tonight
law and order
marathons
babysit me
between my
escapes
to the backyard
where i count
the stars
winking back
through trees
and the smoke
of an evening
six cigarettes
deep
Reposting this from the other thread, because it belongs here.
Nothing
I can’t spend every
single
day trying to prove my
poignant point,
whatever thought du jour that may be.
No dreams to trample upon
with an airy grace,
intolerably cruel preciseness today.
Idle emptiness fills
my hours with pointless
uselessness that
should be could be would be
directed at something more
endearing and time enduring
than this disgusting
festering nothingness.
Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I am sunk
Again, lost in irrelevant
Thought and trails of
Half-finished work
The sun already
Afternoon; Why
Get up? Bach.
4/6/08 –
Same Ole Day
Something inside of me wants to be free.
Anywhere but here I long to be.
My mind wonders why I was thrown in this place.
Eternity it feels I am stuck in this rat race.
Oh how I long for better days.
Lasting sunlight I would love to bath in its rays.
Each time it looks bright a cloud jumps right in the way.
Dawn has come yet again.
A ray of hope looks out from within.
Youth has escaped me; old age seems to be creeping in.
Then I remember that wonder child within.
4/5/08 –
Same Ole Day
Something inside of me wants to be free.
Anywhere but here I long to be.
My mind wonders why I was thrown in this place.
Eternity it feels I am stuck in this rat race.
Oh how I long for better days.
Lasting sunlight I would love to bath in its rays.
Each time it looks bright a cloud jumps right in the way.
Dawn has come yet again.
A ray of hope looks out from within.
Youth has escaped me; old age seems to be creeping in.
Then I remember that wonder child within.
Spring Sunday
We slept late, my hand gently
laid across your sore ankle,
your hand tangled in my hair.
You bought pepper plants and
marigold seeds. We pulled weeds.
Read stories aloud to grandhildrem,
corrected rough draft, packed ice chest.
You kissed me before you drove back
to your weekday life. I already miss you.
Choices
I shuffle my way into the kitchen.
I crack an egg,
pour in a teaspoon of wheat germ,
a pinch of salt and pepper,
and whisk the mixture.
I put an English muffin in the toaster.
I pour a dollop of olive oil in the skillet, and
as the turkey bacon and sausage
softly sizzle,
I attack last night’s dishes.
One plate has dried pasta sauce on it
and I must use my fingernail to
scratch the red mass off.
After we’ve eaten breakfast,
I walk past the hamper full of laundry.
Upon entering my bedroom,
I stare at the unsorted mail
and the papers that must be shredded.
Had my mother come over
I am not sure she’d understand
that the reason for the disarray
was that I had
a poem to write.
Sunday
The day began too early,
as most days tend to do.
The time was much too short
and craziness ensued.
I headed out the door
for the walk across the lot
and tried to sing my heart out,
willing my knees not to knock.
Then off to teach my class
of Junior High hilarity
and back to sing again,
hopefully with clarity.
Then a paradox of preaching,
sneaking out to drive my son
to his performance of The Wiz,
one more weekend ’til he’s done.
Next chatting,laundry,a few chores,
Mcdonald’s-makes me ill
Larissa laughing, poking fun,
Cassidy saying, "Chill".
Now it’s time to sit and rest,
create a silly rhyme,
try to relax for a little while
and enjoy some "quiet" time!
A Day in the Life Of
Soft sunshine on Frank’s face.
Clock says 8:11—oh no!
Turn on coffee machine.
Kitchen clock says 7:12.
Reset new-fangled clock
(manufactured before Congress
voted in new Daylight Savings times.)
Turquoise-stripped towel on the carpet.
Back exercises. Frank in the dining room
chair sipping coffee. Watching me.
Discuss Chris Vogler’s personal paradigm shifts:
1) Everybody’s gotta be happy=everyone but me.
2) Me first=monster!
3) Me too, but first=balance.
Pray for work for next week.
Pay bills.
Blueberry pancakes, bacon, and strawberries.
Nauseous. Kneel by toilet. Salivate. Spit. (Repeat.)
Almost throw up. What’s wrong? Those triple-action
weight-control pill before breakfast?
Go to church. Hugs. Love. Connection. Sing.
Song of Solomon—dating is the
process by which you observe and evaluate
a person’s character to determine if
they are the right kind—not entertainment.
Albertsons.
Carol-super-sandwiches for lunch.
Central Oregon Songwriters Association
annual awards. Wow! What talent!
Pinto beans and fresh yeast rolls.
Sense and sensibility.
Post this poem.
Carol Brian
Quite like this poem. Driving distances always opens up my mind in a wonderful way…
Thanks for this challenge – it’s a great respite from the revisions du jour on the current novel in progress. I’ve written my one-P-a-day and post them on my own blog. Some gorgeous heartfelt stuff in here; I spend hours daily reading everyone’s work. Thank you Robert and everyone who is posting their glorious poems. Peace… Linda
Day List April 6
Take the purple pill and
Wait an hour. Take the other three.
Enjoy the coffee and the hug
Scramble through shower and dressing
The bell already rang
Breakfast is lush
Way beyond what I’d fix myself
These retreat centers live and die
By their food, I think.
Candles lit and chairs in a circle
Volunteer pianist playing Taize chant
Elders sing quietly to themselves
Thinking of the task ahead
Preparing for an intentional end
To their lives, not an accidental
Pause, but a willed conclusion.
Can we make this happen?
We say yes.
In the car on the freeway
Many cars going where?
Quiet reigns except for hissing tires.
Are you okay? He asks.
I am okay.
We read four huge newspapers
We walk the dog
We say, can we do it?
We don’t know.
We hope.