Today’s prompt is to write a “ramble poem.” That is, I want you to write a poem where you just start rambling without worrying about where you’re headed. Very interesting things can happen in these poems. And don’t worry about the interesting things, because they tend to just happen if you let yourself ramble.
While these poems can often be wordy on the early drafts, they can produce wonderful final drafts after going through a few rounds of revision (remember May is my unofficial poem revision month). Ramble poems can be made interesting by somehow rambling off and then coming back to where you began AND by rambling from point A to point Z without tying anything up completely. Plus, they’re really fun to write.
In the spirit of the ramble poem and of not worrying about revision until next month, here are my words for today:
“Drinking liquids that are green and blue”
Has always appealed to me since my youth
so much that I’m surprised I never poisoned myself
making odd “scientific” concoctions with my brothers
with the chemicals hiding under our bathroom sink.
We thought we would raise the dead or find a cure
to something. Maybe our boredom. Like how,
as a teen, we’d drive around and loiter at parks
and outside the doughnut shop because we could
find nothing better to do at night. Full of energy
and ambition and the world was never going
to slow us down for nothing. At the all ages shows,
on the trails, in the air descending to the river below,
we knew we didn’t want to be our parents,
but beyond that we couldn’t see. And so there was
blue juice and Hi-C’s Ectoplasm drinks. And so
there was a reason to drink liquids that looked
like they might kill us because we wanted to prove
we were better and that we would live forever.
And so our children will want green and blue, too.
*****
I’m going to try and post up some of the first day’s highlights later today in a separate post. I’m so proud of the work everyone’s done up to this point. And now we’ve made it through our first week together.
Valerie’s getting Old by Ian Phillips
She’s getting old, that Valerie, she said.
Had all her bits pulled up not long back
Now bronchitis is eating her up
It’ll just take one thing, then she’ll be gone.
This badge of oldness we wear
so forlornly, as we shuffle
staring at our mortal coil.
Why do we stop celebrating?
Each day a cool breath on our skin
The glow of sun through closed eyes
Always returning us to the calm of womb.
upon reading over"As Seen Through My Telescope Lightly", realize the third line, rambling or not, should read:
"And roars at an immense strange moon" – which makes a little more sense…
Sharon Ingraham
For some reason I thought I had posted this ramble elsewhere but I don’t see it – one of the many banes of procrastination, I guess…
As Seen Through My Telescope Lightly
Morning cracks the green glass day
Laced through with slender plum
And roars in an immense strange mood
Why are you here you spirit child
Burning deeply, darkly perfect
It’s my star’s time to turn a page
And warm the sky with gold
Do not whisper or storm in tongues
And ask earth to relent
For soft is she
When after sleep
Her dreams are full of you
Sound your song, tell her “let go”
Blow evening’s cold away
Leave this planet have the sun
Pronounce the dance is day
S.E.Ingraham
It’s such a beautiful day when I see the sun rise out the bathroom window and
I look in the mirror and decide it’s time to maybe
Try on a hat that I bought last spring and never wore but then
No, no, no…I still don’t like it so
That won’t work and I rummage through the shelves, and say to myself
Maybe a cap, the same old cap.
I go downstairs and feed the dog and wish I had time and energy to
Go for a jog but I spent it all fiddling around so I
Look for the keys and
Stop
Take a deep breath…..
Stand in one place, straightening the rug with my toe and
Think until I recall they are just where I dropped them last night and then I go outside and
Start the car and listen to the hum of the engine and remember I should put water in the radiator today and add to the windshield washer and I
Open the gates and know there is something missing but what IS it? snd
Somehow remember it’s THE LIST so I unlock the door and search on my desk
In the kitchen, back up the stairs to the bedroom and stop to
Make a phone call, while the car sits outside running (bad for the environment) and
Ask Auntie for her recipe because I am going to the store, if I can ever make it there and
Did you know that carrots WILL make you see better?
On and On
I listen to her go on and on
about one thing or another,
and all I ever really hear
is the talk about her mother.
She gripes and begs,
pulls me in,
and tells me
there is no other.
Then she turns around
to another face
ranting and raving
about her brother.
Throwing her words around,
she says nothing.
But talks a lot,
rambling to another.
Never Knowing What to Say
Never knowing what to say
In those awkward little pauses
Between "How’s the weather" and
"So sorry your fern died"
Always putting my foot
Squarely in my mouth
Socially inept in those situations
But hey aren’t we all sometimes
I beat myself up and think
"What the hell did I just say?"
"I didn’t mean it to come out that way"
But like the genie that can’t be
Stuffed back into the bottle
The words take on a life of their own
Escaping my mouth before I have time
To think them out, frustrating and upsetting
Me and my poor listeners,
Words set loose on the universe
That can’t be taken back
What a weird power they have
For something totally invisible and without form
Capable of great good or great harm
Or blowing away on the wind,
Pointless and inane
Breathing Problems
I can ramble on about anything
No pauses except to breathe
Take this winter for example
Western Mountains of Maine
Ski Country
Snow
More snow
Piles and piles of snow
My God, it never ends
It’s April and there’s still a ton of snow
I still need snowshoes
I am so sick of snow
Where is spring
I’m trying very hard to catch up!!
I wonder why therapist’s offices play classical music.
Is it supposed to make you feel calm? Because to me it is distracting. I can’t even read a book with it on.
I haven’t read a book in a long time. I’ve been on the same page for about four months. I don’t even remember what it’s about.
I barely can remember anything these days. Seems I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. People say you forget things after you have a baby. I didn’t believe that until I had one. I HAD A BABY!
He is the sweetest thing in the world. He is so strong and so happy too.
My husband makes me pretty happy. We have been married almost two years. He is sweet too.
Sweet! Yum, chocolate is sweet, although I prefer dark chocolate and that is bitter sweet. Can’t end my day until I’ve had chocolate…
Stacking the dishwasher is such a boring job.
Just like all the other hamster-wheel jobs of a day…
Making the bed, doing the laundry, dusting the furniture,
Scrubbing the bathroom, vacuuming the carpets…
Sailing on a Caribbean cruise, reading on the verandah, walking
on the beach,
Meeting Daniel Craig, shopping for the latest fashions…
If only those were the hamster-wheel jobs of a day…
But I guess if I did those every day, they would become routine
too.
I mean how many times can you meet Daniel Craig for a drink and
small talk before you run out of things to say?
It would be such a boring job.
#7 Rambling
Rambling sounds like roaming
The countryside
At will. Not aimless,
But with no particular destination in mind.
Walking, just for the pleasure of walking.
And as we stroll along, our minds
Can ramble too.
The more we walk,
The freer our thoughts become,
Flitting from one topic to another
Like a butterfly flitting
From flower to flower.
Alight on this one,
Stay for a while
Then move on.
Gathering nourishment from each one
But needing to move on,
Needing more.
But, as the butterfly needs sunlight
To power its wings,
So too does our energy wane
and we head for home.
20-Year Reunion
In the caverns of my mind I think of 20 years ago when I was working as a cashier and was stealing dollars from the drawer to pay for sodas and lunch at the counter. Fries with cheese, odds & ends; cheap, granny-bras that I dyed black and sewed with beads from the notions aisle, stretch-pants and press-board foot-lockers bought with my first paycheck, ever. Football games in the cold bleachers, sitting bored but loyal to our star quarterback; homey from the block I grew up on, part of a circle of familiarity linked to the little girl I was making ceramic pinch-pots at my father’s community center art-class. Photo paper swimming in developer, grabbing with plastic tongs and their rubber grips. Hanging with clothes-pins to dry out; as connected to these 20-years-laters as I am to any page in my yellow-edged yearbook. But I take pictures of them anyway.
Temperature
103
I don’t know where I am
or how I got here
starting to
hallucinate
a childhood I never
had a governess
given to
nude sunbathing
on the promontory
overlooking the
universe
she’s getting up
shaking drops of water
like a dog from her
pubic fur
each drop becomes
a new version of her
like the dragon’s teeth
phalanx of
naked nannies
where are they taking me?
powerless to re
fever down
Just noticed that my poem above did not show up as typed. It was typed in the form of big fluffy clouds. All that work for nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to visualize.
You did say rambling, right?
Since I can’t italicize, I have used dots to separate the 2 speakers. And I warn you, I was a nutty kid.
A Visit with My Childhood Friend
We never
practiced that!
‘Now Linda will put a penny
in her right ear and pull it out her
left.’ What were you thinking?…Act of desperation. We
were losing the crowd…It didn’t help…If you would have faked it better…Yes, Miss Cheaterpants. Remember how you cheated off of me. In kindergarten, of all places…You let me!…Okay, but remember dear Valevictorian, I gave you
your start…But I got us A’s in fourth grade
science…You’re right. That extra credit
report was a great idea…How Clouds
Form…Copied straight from the
encyclopedia…She must
have known…
But it all turned out
okay. Just like our summer talent
show…Yeah, after singing The Candyman and throwing
goodies out to the crowd, they’d forgotten the
penny problem…You know what they say,
as long as your singing…
Oh, we were always good for
a song. How many did we write?…Gosh, who
knows, the Elvis song, Tina Lousie, and our personal
favorite, Evil Knievel…Hey, I wrote that one…
I took a little ride on my motorcycle,
vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom…
A classic! Sing on! Sing it
loud!…HE RODE UP THE HILL…
HE RODE DOWN THE HILL AND
THEN HE TOOK A SPILL!…
Were we
weird or
what?…Or how
about the time…
Our rambling
words float
around the room,
big stratacumulus puffs
drifting off into our past,
taking us to
cloud
nine.
Ramble Poem
Her royal museness has graciously decided
to spend some time with me these past couple
of days as I slip into a new writing groove.
Oh sure, there are sticky bits and
stopping points, but so far everything seems
to be working. Thanks to an author’s
interview and this poem challenge that
I started late, I’ve been on a creative wheel.
I’m writing at work, in between customers
with Amy Winehouse in the background.
Maybe I’ll finish a novel. Or create
enough short stories to have a book.
Maybe after revision, I’ll have some
publishable poems. I hope the muse
sticks around for a while. I think it’s time
to break for lunch.
Ramble
Write a poem
or a story
maybe a novel
birth it onto the page
and watch it dry
then flex its imperfect wings
Critique groups bring
perspective and reality
generate rewrite after
rewrite. I’m not very
objective. I love all
my writing just because
I can.
Nocturne
The magic of sundown: my window’s
metamorphosis into a two
way mirror, the neighbors and I
both only able to see
myself. I must remember
people are not half a world
away if the difference between
my time and theirs is less
than six hours. What a joyful
discovery: my friends
are closer than I thought!
Of all things
that can be lost, the mind
is the worst, but even it
can return, a thin, scraggly
puppy, burrs in its coat, finding
a familiar doorstep in the dead
of night, no neighbors left awake
to witness the reconciliation, this
minor miracle. I love the safety
of shadows, the way they drape
around me like a cloak
settling on my shoulders, and the way
the stars look brighter
from an unlit country road, the buzz
of silence. In India, a baby
has been born with two
faces, but no one’s answered
my first question, which is whether
she has two consciousnesses,
whether the same brain
sends words to both mouths.
Sometimes my cat lays a paw
on my arm, as if to say,
/I’m nocturnal too; no need
to envy the owl,/ and I reply
"Mrrarrow," which means,
/No need to be impatient.
It’s still hours before my sister
will pack her lunch and sneak you
a bite of deli turkey./
—–
/These slashes/ are for italics, since HTML isn’t allowed in these comments.
Push Me
My aunt would take me to the park
Not exactly a park, it was a playground
at a local school. I loved to go, except
on Saturdays because that’s when the tornado
siren would go off and I hated that siren.
My favorite to play on would be the swings.
Auntie would pull me back really far and then
push underneath me coming out the other end
in front of my feet and I loved that because
that way I could fly much higher than just
pushing at a steady pace. Push me really high
and then push me gradually to keep up the momentum.
Any other way doesn’t work. My mom would push me
the same way because she knew that is how I like to
be pushed. Give me a big push and then push me a little
bit more. I don’t like my legs to do all that much work.
What fun is that? My little legs would tire out!
As I got older, I would instruct my friends
on the fine art of swing pushing so that they would
push me correctly. No, don’t give small pushes. One big
push and then if necessary you can give smaller pushes.
There is no use of tiring us both out when there is a much
simpler and faster way of getting me off the ground and
swinging high into the sky. Now I am an adult and I still
love to go on swings at the park. My husband doesn’t listen
to me. He doesn’t understand the logic behind giving a big
push from the start. He’d rather lazily push me, and push me, and push me until I get impatient and pump my legs to go higher.He tires me out. He exhausts me. Makes me do all the work.Makes me wonder if someone else could push me better.
Wringing out emotion
When I was fifteen, I wanted to go on a date so bad I could taste it–
that slightly metalic taste that makes your mouth water
back by your molars–but no one would go out with me.
Well, the truth is, I wasn’t even asking her (them) out;
I was suggesting we meet at the game and go to the dance.
"Sorry. My dad won’t let me date till I’m sixteen."
In spite of the expression on her face, she wasn’t exactly rude.
Sixteen was a magic number.
I asked sixteen girls.
I took refuge in writing poetry, and surrealistic short stories.
Then I left that school and went to a new school where I was popular.
I had a girlfriend for a while.
I was class president.
I went on dates.
Until that spring of my sophomore year
when the new-kid popularity had waned
and everyone wanted things back they way they were
before the city-kid came to the country.
I had a big party.
Invited a dozen guys to bring their dates,
and then set about to find my own.
I set a new record.
And after four hours waiting for people to show up
my two best friends came (after they’d dropped off their dates)
and we did our best to go through all the food I’d put in–
all the sodas, and chips, and hotdogs–
to to play ping pong until the sun rose
and Mom came down to make us breakfast
(and breathe a sigh of relief that someone had shown up).
I took refuge in writing poetry and longer–much longer–stories.
Sometimes those girls played a pitiful part in the adventures of my hero.
But I quit dating (or trying to date) girls from my school–
just stopped asking them out–
and started dating girls I knew from church
who lived in the next town.
And I set my limits–no more than three tries for Friday night dates,
four for Saturdays.
Now I go back for my 40th high school class reunion
and I think "Who are all these old people?"
and "Why did I ever want to date her?"
and "Does she have any of her own teeth?"
I only drag that fifteen-year-old geek’s wound out
when I need to wring the heartstrings–
usually to get a drip of emotion out to put in my poetry
or an even longer story that I call a novel
in which the bachelor hero finds love after fifty
(maybe right before he dies).
But mostly, the fifteen-year-old sleeps–
you know teenagers–
and doesn’t bother the happy, normal, satisfied me
that I am.
Ramble Poem
I don’t remember having teddy bears
when I was a child
it’s a bit sad really
I don’t even remember having dolls
although I’m sure I must have
but I do remember my fairy garden
I loved my little friends
I looked after them well
giving them water and breadcrumbs
and silver paper for mirrors
so they could see how beautiful they are
but I don’t remember teddy bears
it’s funny though
because now I have a collection
and they look after me
they fit perfectly into my arm and shoulder
and give me a big bear hug
just when I need it the most
my grown up sons give me bear hugs too
they had teddies when they were little
they don’t now
except for one son
he has a Winnie the Pooh bear
I gave it to him
when his 11 year relationship fell apart
Winnie the Pooh
he’s got to be one of my favourits
“Just be” says Winnie
and I think of that nearly every day
but I’m just rambling
aren’t I?
Maureen
i don’t know why i have cold feet
it’s not as if i’m unfaithful
to things that i must do
they get so icy and purple that
i wonder if i have frostbite
or some other strange disease only
recognizable by lab scientists
as a new type of genetic disorder or
species of bacteria growing on my foot
no doctor has said there’s anything wrong
with me
but i’ve never been too sure about that.
Walk
Waving tail and bristling fur
Looking up into the moonlit sky
Wandering around
Ranging far and wide
I always come back
Come back again
And once upon a time
There I was and there I am
Lost in the thought
Of the world again
Sallying forth
Eddying back
Softly swimming with the current
Now moving back
Pressing against the stream
Never really one to go with the flow
Even as I get carried away
Being sucked towards yet another stagnant pool
Turning away
Eyes shut against the savage grace
In bourn in my nature
Curling inside the small hole
That I have carved here for myself
My own special niche
Locked inside the dwelling
Carved by my father’s hands
Drifting out the window
Turning into sand
At 14 or 15, I can’t quite remember the age – Junior year,
15 then – and still not sure how this whole boy-girl thing went. And vastly confused at the menage a quatre – the three
on one tag team of friend, brother and cousin.
She – to bring me into their fold, to get me drunk, to get me stoned so the other two (also raping her?) could vie for the honor of taking my alcohol soaked fruit. I chased the brother out of bed, the bed she usually slept in – drunk enough to let
him take my t-shirt off then fumbled awake and grabbed his stones, telling him to
get out! Out! OUT! Furious at being woken up, scared only after the fact, hung-over the next morning and wondering about my bad dreams. Only sleeping over again when he was away or when I safely slept on the pull-out couch with her. Then the
cousin, the cousin, the high school drop-out, the boy who caught me just wrong and I
froze, not lubricated that time, not loosened up enough to defend myself. Instead, this deer in the those headlights hesitated. Got run over. And still hasn’t recovered from the accident.
In an early Autumn morning,
in a room spare as a nun’s cell,
I awake in an Irish manor
and wonder at
fluffy white sheep grazing
in dew-flecked fields
that pull my view north towards
Athlone and my mother’s family home.
I’ll drive there today and
walk their streets,
climb their castle walls,
and maybe, feed small birds
in ancient holy ruins.
I might find something sacred
or holy or even profane to
welcome here to this green, lovely land.
Grounded
It’s dark. The shrieking voices of elated children
have disappeared from outside my windows, along
with the light. I slept the day away, nursing a hangover
and a reluctance to move that gave me permission
to be lazy. It is nice to not need anyone’s permission,
other than a day off from work, and a cancellation of plans,
to do what I want. I remember the days of being grounded,
and not with nostalgia, memorizing the contents of my
bedroom and reading every book I owned, finding shapes
in the stucco in the ceiling and making up stories to fill
the time, wondering if I should run away, or if escape
is even possible from the prison of adolescence. It’s not.
Ivory Tower Song)
(To be sung in the key of excrement)
I have made love to many campuses: yes,
you could call me academically promiscuous.
Still it is true that among sheep, those who make and
take the skin, of o’er lustered accomplishment,
or mass market knowledge,
I am more pure cat.
Some day I will ramble into the alchemist’s university,
where Harry Potter and I will make some wicked fudge.
Perhaps we will sell it to Willy Wonka and feed them world,
something that makes learning beautiful again.
Then I will hold class.
Maria Jacketti
Then I will be home.
Maria Jacketti
black beans, rice, lettuce with low fat dressing are a far cry from the hamburgers with bacon and chedder cheese and a messy sauce I no longer eat though i sometimes long for beef the memory of his death and the thought of anyone else going through that with me stops though someday even that may not be enough as i still come to grips with it all though i may never truly understand God’s will in it i at least know and understand where he is and am reminded by our beef-less life daily that he is no longer around to reconcile the years lost or the time unspent yet wasted even since then with petty differences or attempts unmade at fixing those broken holes in the writer’s heart instead forging forward with the reckless abandon that only pushes backward even upon those great moments of revalation where to reconcile within yet never outside as the time beckons for a bite of low fat dressing, lettuce, rice and black beans
Red Squirrels
Last night I dreamed that a large red squirrel
was living in a tree in my house.
I’m pretty good with all sorts of rodents,
especially squirrels,
but this one was scary. More like the beady-eyed possums
my dog would bark at and chase
along the back fence all night.
At the pet store, I got used to handling rodents
by cleaning their cages everyday—mice,
rats, hamsters, gerbils, ferrets, rabbits, guinea pigs,
chinchillas—so years later when a friend called
crying about a mouse in her apartment,
I took care of it without a problem.
Actually, I scooped it into a Tuperware
and released it outside because I couldn’t bear
to kill it. Not that there was any shortage of death
at the pet store; we also sold a lot of snakes,
which is why we had so many mice and rats.
We kept newborn mice, ‘pinkies,’
in the same freezer as our lunches.
Plus, our manager knew a lot of reptile
enthusiasts, so if we had a bunny grow into a rabbit
unable to resist mounting his cage mates,
he was sent off to the Bunny Farm,
which is a pretty harsh punishment
for simply holding up his end of a clichéd metaphor.
We didn’t sell squirrels there, but I always
liked them anyway, found them friendly
and funny and sort of stupid,
plus they’re everywhere. In London once,
I paused my walk across Russell Square
when a small brown squirrel crouched in my path.
I didn’t have any food, but I bent down
toward it as it inched closer.
Of course, I didn’t realize my mistake
until the thing had latched onto my jeans
and crawled up to my knee.
I shook him off and laughed, but my companion
nearly fainted. Weeks later, she slipped on a waterfall
in rural Ireland and we had to walk back five miles
to our bed and breakfast singing The Bare Necessities
so she wouldn’t realize she needed stitches immediately.
I didn’t see many rodents in Ireland,
but they don’t have snakes either.
(Knowing that thorough Saint Patrick excommunicated
both the snakes and snake fossils from Ireland
is comforting when you’re chest-deep
in brush on a former pete bog
because you missed a turn somewhere).
And even through squirrels are everywhere,
they’re not all the same. In Florida,
we only had grey squirrels
so it wasn’t until I moved to DC
that I found out black squirrels exist.
In front of the Museum of Natural History once,
I even saw an albino squirrel with red eyes,
although it reminded me of the albino rat
that escaped and scurried through the pet store
for two weeks until we found it dead and deflated
from eating so much rat poison.
The squirrels I’ve seen in waking life
aren’t too scary, but if they come
naturally in white, black, brown, and grey,
maybe big,
red,
possum-looking ones
aren’t just a thing of my dreams.
View From the Pavement
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
Ramble Poem-
The verb I’m using the most lately is sing.
It used to be warm.
And my favorites continue to be fondle and finger.
I’m always afraid that if someone were to really
study my work. Like say 100 years from now,
when they have run out of contemporary poets to study
(because everything has become short text-speak)
they will look and say,
“Wow, she used the same 50 words over and over in different combinations.”
But then I notice, as I have been reading a lot of other poet’s poetry for a change,
that most people use about the same 50 words.
Some people really only use about 20.
I guess it’s like my closet. I have a ton of things in there.
Pleather jackets and chiffon dresses, but I really only wear the same 5 things over and over. Humans don’t do well with too much variety. We need short quick over amplified choices. In our TV, our clothing, our words and I guess in our love as well.
A large nest in a small tree
Maybe a squirrel lives there
But why so close to the ground?
Maybe no one bothers to peek
Living in a corporate area
No curious kids
Few random passers-by
But lots of cars
What happens when the squirrel dies?
Does another occupy the nest?
Or does it remain abandoned
Keeping us wondering about the inhabitant
Geese stop by to see what
Winter has left in the grass
Before flying off to
Wherever they really live
Cats, Cats Everywhere
My house has turned into the neighborhood cat house.
OK, that sounds bad. But that’s not what I meant. I
have four cats living in my house. Four eight-year-old
holy terrors that run around making my day, well,
interesting. I love them like they are my children,
the only ones I will have now. On my front porch
several times a day is my neighbor’s cat, Tango. He
sits at my window, tapping the glass, asking for another
snack, which I gladly go outside and give him. Now,
another cat has taken up residence with the neighbor’s
boy on my porch. A cute little girl I call MuffinHead.
She’s not very smart. Then again, I feed her every
day, step outside to spend time watching her play.
Who’s the smart one here?
Rambling Weather
I left the house without a jacket
because the sun was strong and secure
in the sky, but by the time I arrived
at the store five minutes later, dark clouds
shrouded the sun’s rays.
While in line, the guy behind me mentioned rain
and when I walked outside, graupel—
flying sideways no less—
pelted me as I rushed to my car.
Another five minute ride to the restaurant
and the tiny, soft pellets had given way
to flakes of snow, rushing around,
sticking here and there.
By the time I finish my potato soup
blue sky beckons me to come outside—
but I will not be seduced—
this is, after all, Colorado—
where if you don’t like the weather,
just wait five minutes!
Mom and Dad
Brought me home to the apartment
on Myrtle Street in Erie, Pennsylvania
on that June day when I was born.
They were so happy back then.
Nana and Kay were two elderly women
who lived upstairs and would sit for me.
I grew to love them like grandmothers.
Then Mary died, my great-grandmother.
Mom inherited her home on the other side of town.
We moved and Nana and Kay were lost to me.
I got a colicky baby brother instead.
It took me a long time to get used to sharing…
The same bedroom, the attention, and especially my parents.
My Gram was great! She loved me very much.
She called me ‘Precious.’ I was.
I would stay with her on weekends.
Those times were very special.
She would make me home-made waffles and rootbeer floats.
She made me feel like an important guest.
It’s like Mister Rogers would tell me,
‘You are special, just because you’re you.’
I always wanted to grow up and marry him.
He lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
We moved there at the end of second grade.
I never did meet him before he died.
I grew up and forgot that I was special.
I married two men who were nothing like him.
I have two daughters to my first husband.
They are very precious to me.
They didn’t care for Mister Rogers.
They liked Barney instead.
Somehow, I hope they got the message.
They are SPECIAL!
"GREEN"
I am writing with a green pen.
Green pens make me think of summer days
with the soft grass between
my stubby toes.
Being Irish is a cause
for loving green….
but it’s not easy
being green,
or making any green for that matter-
depressing thought-
I think I’ll go find a blue pen.
"GREEN"
I am writing with a green pen.
Green pens make me think of summer days
with the soft grass between
my stubby toes.
Being Irish is a cause
for loving green….
but it’s not easy
being green,
or making any green for that matter-
depressing thought-
I think I’ll go find a blue pen.
Locks
Anna wants a poem about locks but how
does a white girl write about locks? She
writes other peoples’ stories as they
come. Vera cultivates a mountain out of
her Lilliputian head, forcing the power
of her personality through years of
knotting. When shearing time comes,
the cropped mane rests at shrines and
sacred spaces across a yellow land.
Anna’s hair au natural voices bold
identity. Building a new do from
a heartfelt afro—twisting, beading,
breaking, building. Understanding anew
hair with its own attitude. Sheldon is
tired of low. Twists just beginning to
grow, hair like relationships, unformed
and anticipating a new look, a new love
dread and dreads morphing in unison.
Locks. Anna, this poem is for you.
Ramble
What a weird idea for a poem. Ramble, what does that entail, who would write about it? I think that it’s a very bad idea. Running, slipping, sliding out of control, into a tangled heap at the bottom. Thus would be my words if I continued down this slippery slope. My words come out jumbled as is, I need to clarify every second word. An intentional mis-match, unedited, without pause. Trouble looms on the horizon, doom coming to those who don’t think, thinking pauses unneeded. Jumble, tumble, fumble, all alliterations of ble. I can think of an appropriate homonym. No let me revert to my structured, intellectual poetic exercise, and leave rambles in the brambles.
Ramblin Woman
I want a new job.
Mine’s not really paying what I need.
I’m sick of the day to day and I’m burnt out
And tired.
I need something to keep me happy and
Not the same old non paying non appreciating
And overworked job.
But a job that will take me to new heights
And new adventures.
Blah blah blah
Relationships that last.
Who knew I’d end up with you.
Didn’t know if we’d make it this far.
I am glad to see we are both still in it.
Now to take the next step to move to the next phase but how to get there?
One big hurdle to jump and maybe.
But what’s stopping me?
Couldn’t imagine I’d be so scared to be grown up.
Would like to be the adult one day and maybe raise one or two or three.
But first things first, one step then the next to the next phase.
If I can get there.
As for this relationship all I can say is I’m glad it’s with you.
I’m making hero and villain bears
one of those cutesy ideas that’ll fly out
of this little store, and Yan, who orders them
from China says, "ninja? Is ninja hero or villain."
And I don’t know.
But "cool" covers a multitude of sins.
Ramble, you say?
Late night, but in which time zone?
Awakening in one state, going to bed in another
Impossible once upon a time
Coast to coast, now effortless
That old unwanted friend may be back
Lurking in the corners, the shadows
Face a blank
Melancholy his cloak
But familiar
Trustworthy
More than can be said of some companions
Purring furry comfort
A song listened to hundreds of time, unlocking its memories, releasing them -– I get to keep this song
This song won’t be held captive to him
Or to that time
It won’t
It isn’t
Comfort
Warm, fur, purr, sweet song, my own bed, back to routine
Endlessness awaits
As ever
Who would want it otherwise?
Meanings of life to ponder
Gathered
Filtered through our roles
Single, married, childless, parenting, pregnant
Our own filters
Will I ever get new light fixtures?
Will it take 10 years?
Could it just take a good man?
Laughable, ridiculous
And yet …
Home again
Comfort and familiar
And yet not complete and lonely
But solitude is my familiar
Boxes stare at me
Not accusingly
Family china
A major effort to get here
Now
Waiting for me
I need to make my home
A home (wasn’t that the idea?)
It isn’t yet
Be patient with me
Be so, so patient
And then a little more
Quirks that can’t be tamed
Won’t be bent
Willfully free
My rambling is being tamed by my eyelids
My need for sleep
My bed calls,
It’s right there, line of sight
But where did I start?
Time zone travel
Indeed
And it ends
As it does every day
With my bed
Comfort
Why am I not allowed to hate them?
Why, when I comment, is it "cattiness" and not, as I see it, the truth?
Why can’t I hate them all, for who they are, and what they represent to the world,
and to my gender.
First of all, they’re orange.
They’ve laid under tanning lights so long they’re practically radioactive.
And the shoes.
Do not get me started on the shoes.
They’re called Ugs for a reason: they’re ugly.
I don’t care how comfortable they are.
Think for yourself for once.
Stop highlighting your hair.
I’ll give you $50 if you can tell me what your natural hair color is.
One coat of lip gloss is always enough.
Especially for class at 8am.
Please stop flashing your boobs to anyone with a camera.
It lowers the lowest common denominator for the rest of us.
And makes it harder to justify
how the sexes should be treated equally.
When all you can do is your nails and all you can read is Cosmo or US Weekly and all you care about is whether or not the stupid guy in the faded Abercrombie hat thinks your "hot" and whether or not he wants to give you the STD he got from the last one.
From the rest of us females,
those of us with better things to do.
Please.
Just stop. It’s not that I hate you,
oh wait,
it is.
So who were the Visigoths anyway?
Didn’t they ramble somewhere?
Didn’t they leave messy footprints?
Aren’t our carbon footprints
Just the latest in a series of faux paux?
Who do you want to believe?
Google results or your spellchecker?
What do you think you’ll gain
With your instant access to information
The ability to know at a touch
the difference between mongeese
(yes you can call them that) and ferrets?
If it weren’t for the steady stream of facts
You wouldn’t know to avoid grapefruit.
This is true other older women
(those who like Ann have been called ma’am,
maybe once, maybe so often you no longer blink,
and even prefer it to "yo.")
They (grapefruits, not ma’am callers)
produce enzymes that trick your cancer alarms.
Today, you can still eat oranges.
But only if you like them.
I think of my desert times, when I wander around without a clue. like I’m looking at myself from the reflection inside my sunglassess. Shading myself from the sun, distorting my view of myself, think I’m all that there is . Wandering around without a clue. Not looking any further than the nose on my face, for answers. interacting with others who are blinded/shaded/jaded self made self appreciated, lost souls, wandering around in the desert with me without a clue. believing that the cumulation of our no knowledge will create some knowledge by mere friction, giving birth to what we think, what we think will tranlate into what we know and then there is our knowledge. like grains of sand rubbed into existence. But we stand in our desert with our knowledge without a clue
Coloured liquids
Why is a grown man rambling
about coloured liquids? I’m thinking
I feel a sigh deep in my chest as
my mind turns
My cleaning liquid is blue and I recall
an article on how
children confused it for drinks
and swallowed bottles whole
burping bubbles as mothers rushed them to
the ER
(Maybe the latter part isn’t actually true,
maybe my imagination is getting the best of me)
And now I’m wondering where the skinned knees
and broken arms went?
When did we replace cement and tiles with cushions
so our children would never fall?
When did my mom stop smacking me upside the head,
when I deserved it,
because someone would report her?
When did we start teaching how to avoid slips
instead of teaching how to get back up again?
I don’t get it.
My thoughts are getting away from me again, all because of coloured liquids that took me back to my childhood
in a different way
All they remind me of now is that I need to mop.
Day 7 Poem
She said, she said (a rambling poem)
She entered the classroom in a rush
Stammering the story of her crazy morning
Trying to get to class. Hair a mess, eyes watering,
She said, I was late getting up this morning
And then the toaster didn’t work
And, she said, I got out to my car
But realized I didn’t have my car keys,
And, she said, it was like so like frustrating!
Then, she said, half way to class I remembered
That my books were still in the dining room
Sitting on the table, and man! I had to go
Back because, she said, I couldn’t come to class
Without my books, and my homework is in there too.
She said, The college parking lot was overflowing
So I had to park in Lot D, which is like so far away,
She said, and then I had to frickin’ run to class to get here by now and, she said, I didn’t even have my coat closed
And I was freezing and I dropped my papers along the way
and I think I lost a few in the wind, and, she said, I hope I didn’t lose my homework for today, you know, the response paper
We had for the Sherman Alexie essay, and omigosh!
I think I might have lost that paper, she said,
can I make it up if I lost it, she said,
she said, she said, she said, she said, she said, she said…
My Rambling Ways
They say I ramble on and on,
whenever something bothers me.
I can talk your ears off,
not stopping for many hours.
The words they just flow,
whenever I open my mouth.
I know I should try to stop,
but rambling on give me comfort.
One-Track Mind
By day seven of this challenge,
I was hoping for a little more direction.
Here I am supposed to ramble,
and all I can think about is
my mouth, my dentist, the hole
where that black tooth used to be,
the one that children, always candid,
pointed out, as if I needed
to be reminded it was there.
But now it’s gone–in its place
a little hole that throbs continuously
now that my Darvocet is gone.
And even though my dentist cut me
under my tongue, in a place
that makes it almost impossible
for me to lick my lips, laugh, or eat,
I forgive him
because while it was happening,
I never felt a thing.
~Rambling Poem~
Human interaction
the connections made
between individuals
have always been a subject
of fasination for me
I remember trying to think of a
visual to put to this complicated
occurance and the only thing that
came to mind is a celtic knot
beautiful, complicated, and always unquie
forever changing
from one moment to the next
It recalls to mind something
I read from a close friend of mine
there are so many people
a person meets durring their life time
some only come for the
briefest touches of time
to the person that come
at a trying time
they the friend here to help
yet when their job is done
they are gone but not forgotten
then there are those people
that come in to a person’s life
spinning the once stable world of kilter
forever altered because
those are the people that are here to stay
The man who lives in my house
passed me by as I was parking my car
on the side street
at school this morning.
That always colors my day a shade of blue.
I wouldn’t have to park my car
and see that man
if I still lived
in my house and walked to school.
I loved that walk to school;
what a glorious way to start the day.
But, I loved the walk home even more
because the walk home
led back through the woods,
into the limestone quarry,
past the boats
and straight to my house on the bay.
The bay is a puddle of the Great Lake Ontario,
a place that was home for sixteen years.
I miss diamond sparkles on the water,
moonshine,
dragon smoke,
the eerie sounds ice makes at night.
I miss paddling, splashing, floating,
skating, cross-country skiing -
all in my own backyard.
I miss the angry wind, the off-shore breeze,
the lulaby of waves against the rocks.
I had such plans -
my grandchildren would summer with me on the bay,
just as my neighbor’s grandchildren did.
We’d swim and sail, fish, cook-out on the deck,
tell stories around a bonfire.
My husband and daughter didn’t appreciate the bay,
shifted priorities to higher education and competitive sports,
So we moved – sold our house
and moved to the ‘hood,
where neighbors replaced trees and water.
On April days, I miss the mallards most of all,
quacking on the deck, pecking at window,
eating bread from outstretched hands.
The sounds a symphony of
quacks,taps,and peeps,
the sunshine diamonds on the melted ice.
I hope the man who lives in my house is happy there.
LBC
On and On and On
I am turning 60 this week and I laugh that I could be that old and I cry that I am
I think of all the places I have been, the things that I have seen, the people I have met
But then I remember the places I have not been, the things I have not done, the people I have not met
What do people think when they hear I am turning 60
Do they think I seem younger than that or do they say
Is that all
I always thought I would be near retirement, knowing where I was going and what I would do next
Here I am still living one day, week, month at a time
At least I have enyoyed the ride so far
Sometimes I have so wanted to get off the roller coaster
And be anyone but me
But there have definitely been beautiful sunrises
And sunsets in my life
Exciting days, peaceful days, joyous days of anticipation
Yes that is how I will approach my 6oth birthday
With joy of anticipation to see how the next 30 will be
I still have lots of tickets left so look out world
My ride is not over for I have numerous sunrises to experience.
Ramblin’ man
Overboard out of my mind
Over matter
Of fact or fictional
Bestseller of wine
By the case closed
For business
Suit and tie
Me down town
Banana split
Down the middle
Man in charge
It on my card, sugar
Helps the medicine go down
Town traffic jam
And butter
Me up
And at ‘em.
The shrubbery out front is twenty years old and destined for changing. Sentimentality is among us but the new effect should prove communally uplifting as we all look onto this court yard. Most of us want to see miracles, actually, and lilacs. I don’t know what the best choice is, but we’ll come to a consensus and change will come. I do hope you’ll see something you like happening here. I hope we all do. Of course the young ones will scamper about and play and the older ones will laze on benches reading and taking in the sun, even though the old shrubs you wanted to keep will be gone. But, the old flowering trees will always be pink in spring, and despite our communal sneezing, the ephemeral vision draws us out from behind our window pains and we are a community.
My wife and baby snuggle as I
stare at the computer
I woke with dreams of work rebellion
Feeling betrayed and alone I
have retreated to the safety
of strangers
Digital friends I may never meet
While my wife lays an arm’s reach away
I should wake her
tell her how I feel
Tell her how much she keeps me alive
Without her I would have no poetry in my heart
Even when everything things gathers around
me, dragging me down, she is there
I am there for her, but more clumsy
saying the wrong things with good intentions
Promising to ‘work on it.’
How much longer will she allow
me to ‘work on it’?
When is the deadline?
She slumbers here beside me
I am blessed
-Justin M. Howe
04/08/08
OOOOHHHHHHHH…….
The weather here is beautiful…..
We’ve had pleasant days with soft clouds in the sky…..
The birds are singing…..
The wildflowers are blooming….
Ahhh yeeesssss……
Perfect California weather indeed!
La la la la……….
Nice and warm…….
Hum dee dum………..
Rambling
I want to mention how people can be flowers,
and I am led to this thought by the many times I see
the words ‘Dalia Lama’. Note the spelling. My mind supplies
an ‘h’ and there he is, I see him, his bald Buddhist head
sticking out of a circle of bright yellow petals, his spectacles
reflecting their golden light, and of course he is smiling.
Who wouldn’t be smiling, at the centre of one’s flower self?
And I too am a flower. ‘Rambling Rose,’ the man sang
on the radio when I was growing up. My name was Rose.
Not really, but everyone called me that, shortening the full name
my mother gave me because it was so beautiful. ‘I wish
they wouldn’t call you Rose,’ she said, but in those days they all did.
Rambling Rose was glamorous, forbidden. This I understood,
though not why. I was young. Tibet hadn’t happened yet, nor my life.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008
9/4/08
Ramble Through the Day
Ice melts on the Sound
Today I see shoots poke up
from raw earth
and even one blousy, overblown, purple crocus-
first this spring.
The wind was strong and cold against me-
I didn’t dress for it
but I didn’t let that stop me.
I believe in co-creations,
me and the Universe,
but have to remind myself often.
I deserve this fresh, home-made bread,
warm and soft from the bread maker-
no preservatives or additives.
This weekend we go to London,
see a friend act in a play,
spend time with friends and relatives,
Found a job to apply for,
even though I don’t have the piece of paper they want
Maybe nobody else does either.
I feel myself breathe calmly in and out-
not interested in drama, anxiety, stress-
I see people I know on the street,
in meetings- everyone wants to help.
A few calm hours were exactly what I needed
today.
April 7, 2008
Jacquie Wareham
Poem-a-Day Challenge
Day 7
Writer
Write a poem
or a story
maybe a novel
Birth it onto the page
and watch it dry
then flex it’s imperfect wings.
Critique groups bring
perspective and reality
generate rewrite after
rewrite. I’m not very
objective. I love all
my writing just because
I can.
Silence – (04-07-08)
Standing there,
I say nothing.
There is no need.
I have my own thoughts,
but they don’t have to be spoken.
Each other’s presence
is enough for me.
I understand
why I’m here.
I don’t mind waiting,
if it means more time.
‘Cause time is what
I don’t get.
I have things I could say,
but there is no need.
Being nearby,
is all I ask.
Oops! Posted on the Day 6 page. Here it is again.
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.
Ok, here is the corrected version,. Never write poetry before coffee!
Watches and calendars and blackberrys.
Little notebooks kept at my desk, in my purse,
in my car, on my nightstand.
Post-it notes on the refrigerator,
even, occasionally (although my mother
always told me it would give me
blood poisoning) I write notes in ink
on my hand.
I have never tied a string around my finger;
I really don’t understand how that helps.
The problem really is I just need to clean out my head.
Ya know like that little place called "trash" on your computer? Wouldn’t that be great?
Or maybe a recycling plant in the brain.
There must be reusable crap in all those
old memories, lunch dates,
Dr.’s appointments, grocery lists,
and lines of never written poetry.
Watches and calendars and blackberrys.
Little notebooks kept at my desk, in my purse,
in my car, on my nightstand.
Post-in notes on the refrigerator,
even, occasionally (although my mother
always told me it would give me
blood poisoning) I write notes in ink
on my hand.
I have never tied a string around my finger;
I really don’t understand how that helps.
The problem really is I just need to clean out my head.
Ya know like that little place called "trash" on your computer? Wouldn’t that be great?
Or maybe a recycling plant in the brain.
There must me reusable crap in all those
old memories, lunch dates,
Dr.’s appointments, grocery lists,
and lines of never written poetry.
Permission to Ramble Granted
Concision, precision, all marks
of a great writer. Do not ramble.
Not time to gambol along the river
front and through the parks.
Go ahead, and just be free
just once to let down your hair.
No one will care; in fact,
No one will even see.
Play with a word, under the spell
of its magic, just let it loose
There’s no use in fretting;
No one will send you to writer’s hell
Just for rambling; put down that pen.
Today red is not a good color for you.
What would you do with a blank page?
Stage a writer’s rebellion, my friend.
Let your words tumble out of your head.
Don’t try to stop them at all.
And if they fall into random disorder,
Someone can edit them when you are dead.
funny about you and your brother making potions. My sister and I used to do that in the basement. We’d mix my mom’s laundry stuff into blue slimy goo. Yes, your right, amazing we didn’t kill ourselves!
RAMBLE
Sometimes my saved poem rambles
off to another land, off the page,
and I can never see it again.
The first time, I hadn’t even saved
it to Word. Gone forever. This time,
I do have a copy and if you want one
just send a self-addressed stamped
envelope, the good old-fashioned way
and I’ll be happy to copy you
and paste.
Rambling
I am not sure why I give
and give and give but
if someone has to it
might as well be me.
Face it the day is always
much better when the sun is
out and shining it makes you
feel so much happier than
when it is grey and raining.
I wish I knew what I should
do to help my self get on
track of whatever it is I am
suppose to do. I seem to be
having a problem at this
point in my life getting
up and going. I might be
in a depression and if I am
better do something to
change that. I don’t like being
like this. I’m not going to
write anymore this has no
place to go.
Susan
April 7
Day 7
Bringing on the day
Head hurting no end
Wishing all was well
Is he there? Is he
Wanting? Am I there?
Pain spreading across
Can’t wait to leave
Voices yelling words
Incoherent, Bringing on
The day. Letting
It roll on.
Uncontrolled without
Consequence of thought
Action or being
Running into itself
Brining on the day
Into the next
Feeling it longer than
It is, wishing it
Was free.
Dragonflies flutter
Bringing peace to
The words that are
Bringing on the day.
Where does it end?
Why does it bring
Frustration to the
Incomprehensible life
Outside the myriad
Of thought and being?
Bringing on the day
Is… Bringing on the pain.
Bringing on the thoughts
Bringing on the dreams
Bringing on the deep
sighs of contentment
And contemptment
Bringin on the day
Just like another day
Just like it always is
Just like I want it
To be.
Like the way I chose
It to be.
Inheritance
Her house stands on a village hilltop
With a view of the river, mountains beyond;
But all I see is the packed attic,
The basement a Casbah bazaar, and
An oversize garage that can’t hold a car,
All the collections and trappings and things
From nearly ninety years of living,
Close to 70 married,
And this she left behind, left it all
To me. Me alone.
She left it without a tag or label or mark
Or any way to know what was what
Except my memory.
The kids offered to help, which entailed
One son and girlfriend moving in to clean
And sort, planning to live there, but meant
What they thought unworthy turned trash;
They kept E-bay busy, though,
And painted the hand-turned molding and carved woodwork,
Sent the organ to the basement. The basement!
The hanging Tiffany lamps are somewhere, too,
Giving over to some "brighter" sculpted monsters
That drip from the ceiling like dangling spiders.
They want to move now,
A brand new place in another town,
With big empty rooms, a two-car garage
And no basement to bother with.
I should have moved in myself,
But the stairway’s too steep for my crumbling spine
And bad knees to bear, plus my spouse
Has issues with the crudely artistic uphill driveway.
I should sell it all at auction,
Without looking,
The china and crystal, the dolls and mechanical toys,
The bow-front oak pieces that survived the purge.
Finish paying off the odds and ends of bills left
From dying without insurance or Medicare supplements.
She wanted me to have it, though,
No one else who didn’t care what it all meant,
And weren’t the ones who tended to her needs,
Took her to treatments or
Came to the home in the dark after midnights
To calm her fears or make her smile again.
So this is mine now to deal with,
All the bags and boxes, trunks and chests
Of a lifetime.
I have no room for anything else here,
Still sorting the remnants from a spinster aunt
And childless Godmother.
It’s as if we tend some
End of life Lost and never Found. Things.
Mainly, my mother left me
Her pack-rat gene;
And I don’t even have an attic.
###
Shirley T
Today I had to write four poems to catch up but I made it. I was spending time with the kids and wasn’t able to turn on my computer. I am enjoying this, but I may get behind from time to time. Especially on the weekends.
"I’m A Night Owl"
Here I sit, it’s 3:30 in the morning.
Some would call me crazy.
Especially for sitting here writing when I should be sleeping.
Seeing how the kids have to get up in two hours and I have to get them ready to go to school.
Some would say that I’m even crazier for putting in such efforts for some poem that I don’t even get paid for.
But, what do they know?
Have they ever loved anything that they have done, like I love writing?
I think not.
Well, maybe.
Maybe their favorite television shows.
But, what will they get out of that besides a fat butt and a late night snack attack?
I get a sense of satisfaction, self-completion, and a lot off of my mind.
All they get is more put in theirs.
Writing is hard work.
Trying to make sure that you don’t misspell any words that will make you look like an idiot.
There are those who think that I am wasting valuable sleeping time but they are sitting in front of the TV wasting theirs as well.
So I say, "Who are they to judge!"
But the ever consuming and never giving idiot that I am trying to avoid becoming myself.
Yeah, so what if I am a night owl!
The night owl catches its’ prey unexpectedly.
Dune Buggy
Dad had an old jeep–an OLD jeep.
It needed work and I was his helper.
He would crawl underneath
And I would hand him his tools.
I was in third grade.
The only problem was
I could never remember the names of things.
Wrenches could be open, box or crescent;
There were pliers, screw drivers and vice grips;
Nuts, bolts and washers.
And there was me–confused.
I would play with gravel and day dream
And he would say "Get me …"
He would have to repeat it.
Once because of the day dream,
Twice more because of confusion.
Then he’d give up and crawl out
And bump his head on the way
And show me what he had asked for;
Telling me the name
Which I promptly forgot.
In spite of the poor help
He got the jeep running.
(He was a first class mechanic.)
Then he went shopping for tires–
Real fat ones.
They looked like overgrown dough nuts.
Finally we were ready.
We packed coolers with soda pop,
Sandwiches and carrot sticks
And drove out on the desert,
Bouncing and churning all the way.
Finally we came to the sand dunes
and we drove right over them!
All day we played in mile
after mile of great sand piles
Until the afternoon sun was low.
Then we had to start home.
Back into the jeep–bouncing and bouncing;
Tired, but impossible to rest.
Until we got to the highway,
It’s smoothness lulling us to sleep.
Dad had and old jeep–an OLD jeep.
Live in Concert
In the live recording you can hear the bottles,
the splash of their awkward percussions
like flashes of aural lightning
in the soft dark of the pretty pretty syllables
slowing to a stop and just think
what’s written in you,
think of the noise you’ve absorbed
moving from this place
to the next. I used to think
that each moment should be salted or set fire
with the plaintive and the blasting off
of the right song. I used to think
the right song was the one that cut our ties
with the earth. Some business up front
laying down a kind of understanding
while the stroke of some other urgency
kept turning that understanding propulsive
until it roiled into an epiphany.
How that was a relief, to be freed from a gravity
I thought I held in contempt.
How that left me lighter and a little giddy
for all that was left to touch.
Music makes you hungry
in the way that a spring wind is hungry
to toss the flowers so it seems they’re gleaming
and then such sudden moments of silence
you feel an anchor yank your leash
and this is the price or enough to make you ask
What price flying? Only the answer may be
several, at least two: Either you fall back to earth,
or you never do.
Sorry
Sorry I am wearing my pajamas
But I am doing laundry and out of clothes
And when I finish
Sorting
Folding
Hanging
The massive piles
Of fluff and frill
I will still be wearing my pajamas.
It is time for bed.
Nostalgia
Music catches memories like a net
drags them out of us like fish,
flopping around, gasping for air,
reminders of a turbulent past
in the cold clear light of the present.
I recall the song that drove us across
the country in our blue Ford van, Ohio to
Oregon, something about summertime and
distant thunder. Or that song I played after you left me,
alone in the third floor apartment, night after night,
verse after verse, a mournful ballad of leaving and being left,
how the neighbors must have hated that song.
Now this album, I remember we played it
when you called and asked me to come back, long
after midnight I left the warm bed of my new lover
and drove to your motel in the grey dawn.
You said you were leaving her, you said
she was out of town. That song was playing
as she came up the wide stairwell, fists clenched,
calling your name.
today i started life as a caterpillar
and crawled slowly from bed without spreading
my wings to the morning.
i woke up a half hour late and almost ran
one minute late for work
but made it in time.
today i began the afternoon by cashing
my check because i wanted the money in my pocket
and the library is hosting a book sale.
today i wrote a story about a timer
who freaks out when a story begins once upon
a time.
today i thought about the boy i like
for approximately thirty seconds before
forgetting him.
today i went to bed at one-thirty am.
today i became blessed with precognition.
When You Read "Travel" Magazine the Night Before
It’s odd how I was dreaming
of lovely green rolling hills
while the bedside alarm, set to "ambient" sound,
gushed out the sound of waves.
ShoooooOOOOOOOSHSHHooooohhhhh.
Was it a little burn splashing down the mountainside?
Or was the ocean, unseen, churning behind me
as I gazed at all the rolling green loveliness?
Should I be concerned that a sleeper wave might grab
at my feet and tumble me into the sea
or might it be a bigger fright to stand on the edge
of that ridge over there. There. See? And realize
that all the beauty was below, waiting for me to
fall.
All that green loveliness, brown crags, softened paths
and sheep. And sheepdogs, yes. They sat at my feet
while I ate my sandwich, too well-trained (and so polite)
that they acted as though they didn’t expect a piece.
And then I woke up and saw the lines and angles and
shadows, nothing smooth and rolling and distantly
lovely, just discarded clothing and piles of books
and the clock splashing out its greeting.
Waiting
At least she lives near a pond
where the spring announces
its presence in bubbles on the
water and tender green shoots
line the identical buildings and
it reminds me of our house on
Long Island and the revolving
garden in front where we planted
tulips, crocuses, and daffodils
for spring, and gladiolas tall and
haughty for summer. When the
snowdrops bloomed we waited
for the tulip blossoms, red and
yellow, delicate like the skin on
elderly veins I see all the time.
I’d wait for summer for the few
days the gladiolas bloomed
towering over the other flowers
in a cacophony of reds, lavenders
and yellows. Their delicate
climbing blossoms lasted a few
weeks, yet I waited for that all year.
She is late for our appointment
but I’m lost in the twitterings of
birds and the wonder of signs
of spring I used to teach. Would
there be skunk cabbage on the
pond’s banks? I don’t check, the
weather is changing and I seek
refuge in my car. Making a pact
with myself I plan to leave at
6:30 if she doesn’t arrive. But she
arrives.
April 7th
Prompt: Ramble "on and on" like erykah badu.
our lips and noses had connected even though we both were pressed on the phone. we talked of the art of choreography and the beauty of artificial intelligence, the power to love as well as the power to hate. we connected thoughts and feelings through the wavelengths of the signal that pumps through our bodies and the telephone lines. I told her of the beauty and wonders the circle of friends has had to offer. The silence man had held us both hostages for a while but when tales of group outings and group fun had been birthed from my mouth the silence man had no longer lingered.
Daniel Stanford © 2008
With gratitude to Hermann Hesse
I’ve written before (not here)
About rambling
In the forest,
On the plains
And thought of the ways into the garden.
I’d seen the garden and thought it lovely,
"That" is a place to which one should aspire.
A garden, a home, a place to belong.
Yet when I get there . . .
AHhh!
The space is gone,
The walls, the clocks, the rules.
Get me out . . .
And then I breathe again,
I wander free;
I revel in the space,
The freedom,
The solitude,
And . . .
The loneliness . . .
And I think of the garden again.
"rubbing sticks together"
We don’t make love any more.
A sense of the familiar has set in
we have become partners
experts at compromise
is this what marriage is?
Where is the passion
the hunger
hunger for each other
the feeling that we can’t go another hour
another minute
another second
without holding each other?
Does familiarity really breed contempt?
Can we overcome this "rule,”
and rekindle old feelings
bring them back from the dead
rub sticks together
a spark
then a small flame
that grows larger
with each breath until it roars
and cracks like lightening
and soon the sky is filled
with smoke that announces our passion
and the embers float in the air in celebration
attached to nothing
burning free.
Hunger.
Hunger for each other.
An insatiable hunger that hollows out the stomach
until the craving is beat down
by the touches
the kisses
the passion.
I am sick.
You are sick.
And we’re always so sick.
The air is luke warm and stale in here.
We recycle each other’s breath
as we pace the cherry stained floors,
circling the furniture
and waiting to make the kill.
Then it’s done.
With language simple
and unembellished.
There is no poetry in this.
And what you said
is worse to me
than what i said, is to you.
And this continues till the floor,
sick of us being sick of each other,
gives out, the parts that we have worn
into crop circles from our pacing
dissolve from the floors own weakness,
and our acid.
I am sick.
You are sick.
We are diminished by this virus,
caught and held
in in the joints of our love
like gout. And when you look at me
i feel the crushed glass grinding
in my veins.
You make me sick.
It’s what you catch and what you keep
Fishing with my son
on Saturday afternoon
Not many bites
But here’s what we did catch:
Sight of two muskrats
busy gliding back and forth
from the lake to their dens
Intricate wood sculptures
carved with precision
by the local beavers
Laughter, especially when
the container of wax worms
spilled into my trouser pocket
Sunshine, glowing on my face
on the warmest day
in nearly five months
Stories, something about
being near the water
opens up all kinds of memories
to share
After about two hours,
the fish finally started
to bite: A few shy blue gill
But I already felt
I’d caught my limit
What starts with rambling may stumble
into focus like daffodils sprouting in the pockets
of my favorite suit. The flowers speak the language
of God. I put them in my ears and the lights
go out, and everything becomes silent and
still except the ticking of the clock the hum
of the fridge the drunken conversation
out on the porch too indistinct to make out
the words a rhythmic clucking like animals
cooing a phatic wooing. Two monkeys and
a possum-faced ferret teach each other Esperanto.
I feel like being alone on a crowded bus
with a book about Jehovah’s Witnesses
at the Alamo or Geronimo in a vacuum
cleaner dealership on the corner of
Here and There. Hiawatha has a one-way
ticket to Xanadu, which is a real place,
whereas Zimbabwe is not. What starts
with daffodils may end in a fish-eye
shot of a punk rock kid on a black bike
with a fish hook tattooed on his face
racing through the city at dusk.
After Dinner
My children will not want to be me
but they flicker and flit like moths
in the Spring evening, play
music, and sometimes we all sing
along together, even the bands
that I’ve never heard of
(gypsy punk), and other times
we delve into the mysteries
of homework: ninth-grade
English class and general
requirements–but this is a Monday
and my son explains
that if everyone treated life
as a campfire, we would all feel
so much better, and then
we could all go back
to whatever normal lives we had.
Funny how rambling
can be the hardest prompt of all.
I sit splayed on my bed,
laptop propped on a box
to catch just the right angle
for acquiring the wireless network
and a housemate’s dinner party
crescendos down the hall
punctuating my thoughts
where commas and periods and capitalization
don’t belong.
Then the phone rings,
interrupting.
I let the answering machine speak for me;
I hear a friend’s voice, breaking,
telling me someone’s died,
and I have to answer,
make more phone calls,
look things up
and figure out how I’m going to get
more time off to go to the funeral.
And I’m fine
until I finish the last call,
answer the last question,
and the incessant voices in my head begin –
Should I have visited more?
Did he know how much he meant? Did I say what I needed to?
Why don’t I feel worse? Will it hit me later?
What will I say to the family? Do I need to speak at the funeral?
Amazing how living gets put on hold for death.
New Walking Blues
Aidan fell down the steps today-Not
The sweet front steps with their beige carpet
And genteel turn to muffle momentum
Not even the back steps-a tighter passage
Made for the invisible movement of the staff,
But at least with a short spiral run and rubber
Treads. No, it was the back, back steps.
The ones that go to the garage, all marble and
Wide, a slide without the trick of design that allows
A slide. No. He bumped and crashed and rolled
With that look of complete horror that an unexpected
Helplessness smears any human face into, and
Also the purple rage of pain he is just old enough
To think he has the power to avoid. He fell down the stairs
And Oh! It hurt me, it hurt him more. I took him outside to
see the spring as a spoonful of sugar-and he cracked the other half
Of his head on the concrete walk.
Singing my heart out
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder where we get
some of the phrases we use. I love to sing and
I do most of it off key. Blasting all that air
out of my lungs is fun and cathartic, but I can’t
imagine singing my heart out. Out of my body? Why
would I want my heart to be out? Like wearing my
heart on my sleeve – I sing my heart out so I can
wear it on my sleeve. Well, then I can go shake a
stick at my heart on my sleeve that I just sung out
and while I am at it I can beat the weeds with the
stick and then blow out of town to blow the stink
off me (I swear I have heard all these expressions
used on a regular basis).
Spinning a yarn can mean I am telling a story but I
really DO spin yarn and I don’t talk when I do it –
it’s basically therapeutic for me. I can weave on my loom
or better yet weave a story. So does it really go down
to point of reference? Some people might hear (or read)
some of these expressions and totally relate or think that
I made the whole thing up. But then, at one point someone
did make it all up. If it catches, it catches, if not, a
stare and a walk away does wonders.
They’re nothing but a pack of cards.
Students and Love
Sometimes I think I would be satisfied
If I just had enough students and love
That’d be enough to fill up all the holes
In the swiss cheese of my heart
With champagne bubbles that float up
From the bottom of the barrel to the sky
Trailing clouds of streamers and tiny
Sparkling bits of glitter
That would never fall in my eyes
But would appear and disappear
Like Cheshire cats in the sun
It’s a long road, so many friends have stepped
Aside and retired from the work of teaching
Somehow, it’s mine to go on
It’s so good when the students care
When they see that I’ve worked to help
Them understand and use what I’ve learned.
It’s so awful when they say
Their friends told them I was too hard
Too unreasonable, too abrupt
Not clear in my explanations
Can’t write on the blackboard to make
The whole lecture into one shining diagram
I wish that student online evaluations
Would simply fade away, would be seen
As disinformation, as attacks, as a way
To poison the well of learning before
A single student takes a drink.
How can I be a stand-up comic now
After treating the material with respect
For so many years? It’s not possible.
Humor is so often an attack on the weak
I’ve always hated that, even back when
I love Lucy made my skin crawl.
Keep your jokes, but give me
The smiles of my students who
Can see that I’ve passed on to them a map
Of the universe along with my best
Advice and love for the journey.
Day 7
A rambling I will go
OH a rambling I will go, a rambling I will go,
Hi ho the poet words, a rambling I will go.
the poet takes a poem, the poet takes the poem
hi ho the poet’s words, the poet takes the poem
the poet takes a word the poet takes a word,
hi ho the poet’s words the poet takes a word.
the word takes a letter the word takes the letter,
hi ho the poet’s words the poet takes the word
the teacher takes a letter the teacher take the letter
hi ho the poet’s words the poet takes a word
the teacher makes a word the teacher makes a word
hi ho the poet’s words the poet takes the word
the teacher makes a poem, the teacher makes a poem
hi ho the poet’s words, the poet takes the word
the rambling now is done, the rambling now is done,
hi ho the poet’s words the rambling now is done!
7) Ramble Poem 4/7/08
I lay on the yoga mat trying to clear my head
of all invasive thoughts while my body stills
to the soft sounds of water falling over rocks,
bird sounds, the scent of peppermint.
It’s as close to meditation as I can get, have ever gotten.
I am at peace and everything is as good as it has been lately.
For a moment I am floating
In a space with no boundaries.
I imagine that this is what it will be like
to leave my body when I die.
A Poem-a-Day for a Month
How much like work it is.
How you can’t wait to be perfect.
How quantity doesn’t equal quality,
it just equals a lot.
Reading other people’s poems and
thinking, “I’m pretty good.”
Reading other people’s poems and
thinking, “I suck.”
Realizing seven day into it
you need to write about things that matter
and how doing so exposes
your soul.
How you can’t write good poems
without ultimately revealing
who you are.
Carol Brian
4/7/08 –
Sitting here laughing, playing a video game
He cheats, I cheat, but I will never take the blame
My baby sits next to me, really should be sleeping
The dog lies quietly, probably dreaming
Today started off fun and got really crazed
My mind runs miles without any strain
Does this have a meaning, I really couldn’t say
Tired and restless, really don’t want to start another day
Ramble On
The tv is on
I am exhausted.
The swim was long,
how is my front crawl?
It’s not good.
But I’m good at dolphin kick.
Dolphins.
They sex it up out there,
teasing the whales.
The whales battle squids.
There was a show about that
On Discovery Channel.
Rambling poem
Here I am rambling with you on my mind,
as I sit her resting before bed,
life goes by quickly with my hopes and dreams
of seeing you again, darling.
Life brings surprises to us while
we continue in the day to day routine,
when you called me today, time stood still, I wish
you were here beside me now.
On the way home from work,
I wished I was coming home to you,
because being and talking with you, darling,
always feels like home.
I wonder at night how you are,
wish you weren’t away from me so far.
I hope all that are with you are treating you kind,
because darling, with you though I always speak my mind
I could never be unkind.
The care you take to call me when we’re not together,
pulls me through the times I’m down,
picks me up and holds me up high in the clouds,
with you closer to me than now.
How can you love someone and be affected by them
when they’re always so busy and away?
The hopes and dreams of seeing them soon
keep love alive so you don’t let go.
For a place without love,
is a place that I never want to know.
MY LOVE
I had a dream and he came true, for a while
my life was at it’s best. I was happy, carefree,
not a worry at all. Never in my life have I felt
so safe. Then he took ill and was rough for a while,
yet I stayed right by his side. I was there everyday
holding his hand to comfort him. Even when he was ill
I enjoyed being with him and taking care of him.
For the first time in my life I felt needed. I stayed
by his side to the end. I miss him so much, his kiss, his
arms and his touch. So in my heart he will always be where
I feel his love everyday.
Seasonal Affective Disorder
This afternoon I spent three hours
riding back and forth on the Erie Canal Trail,
not giving a shit if I snuck up on people too fast
or if they caught me singing along with my iPod;
no, I was too far gone: too drugged-up
on the unspeakable beauty of spring, or just
too damn full of strength and stealth – and myself,
the quietest, quickest thing on that road,
the speeding bright yellow bullet,
the wheeled minotaur maverick
with that maniacal smile,
that rough facial contortion,
lips parted enough to let the flies in -
I was unrecognizable from the me of a month ago.
I was something new and elasticized and ready
or just recumbent, recombined like the phoenix:
I fell away to ashes when the cold came,
but the sun, sneaking towards summer,
pulled all my parts back together
in one-hundred and eighty minutes
as I pedaled past piles of pedestrians,
as I forced my way against the wind,
as I felt sunburn on my unready skin,
and as I thought of diving in Lock 21
to put out the crazed fires in me,
to cool down the searing strands
of feral thoughts in my mind -
oh, what the weather can do!
Old glasses
Old glasses that I
Wear in private
Covering my face
Like two full moons
Fragments of those
Half-forgotten
Teenage years I
Wept because of
Not being beautiful.
Now I wear contacts
Everywhere, premium
Placed on success
And happy in having
Discovered lip gloss
Except for these
Late nights up
Writing poetry when
My half-forgotten
Teenage years
Come to peer out
Of my glasses
Like two full moons.
4-7-08
Ramblings
It’s the men’s finals night
And normally Steve and I would watch together.
He’d offer his usual insightful comments
And we’d pick who we’d cheer for—
Usually the same team, but not always.
Tonight I’m for Memphis
But at halftime and commercials I switch to Medium
Because I love that show.
Steve is in Texas
Eric took his girl out for her birthday
And I’m keeping an eye on our boy-cat,
Who got fixed today.
We’re both a little lonesome.
The sister-cat is still recuperating at the vet’s.
I want Memphis to win,
So Steve and I can exult together
Even if it’s only through a cell phone signal.
HAPPY…
What is Happy? It is an adjective; Enjoying contentment and well being; glad, joyous, satisfied or pleased.
Do you know any person or persons whom are happy all of the time?
I think happy is only a temporary thing. I feel most people are miserable most of the time.
What is Miserable? Very uncomfortable or unhappy, causing misery.
What is Misery? It is a state of great unhappiness, distress, or pain.
I think most people experience misery more often than happiness.
Being happy is being content and that only comes in short spurts.
Nine times out of ten, people experience discontent due to circumstances caused by their family life, financial distress, employment, failed dreams, past experiences that taunt their minds periodically. It’s amazing the people in this work that are unhappy.
God put us here to live a life of glory in his name.,
But, there are so many that live their lives trying to keep up with the Jones’. I used to be like that until I learned a valuable lesson…
I’ve learned that money should not come between families. I’ve learned that family is the most important. The bible states that as well…
So, are you really happy? Are you in need of NO change in your life? If so, I would love to hear about it. Well, maybe not, ‘cause then if I’m in a state of happiness it would just make me switch into miserable mode.
I wish everyone Love, Peace, and Happiness.
they always run ahead
I warn of potholes
of rainy days
they laugh
running faster
splashing in every puddle
chins stitched on
non compliant slides
arms broken swimming
in mid air launched
from swing
jumping off roofs
into fat shrubs
learning that
there are monsters
in the closet
on the playground
(and mommy says in
the government)
they scream over
shoulders growing wider
there are also
mountains to be
climbed along
with atlases full
of roads less traveled
I dare you says tall
twin arms spread
knees bent standing
on the third floor
window sill with
a red superman shirt on
cut their teeth on
ghetto streets
they fly fast
fleet feet
we count blessings
and heads when
gun smoke clears
reminding me of
warnings of potholes
and laughter on
rainy mornings
Warm Fuzzies
I’ve always been fond
of chipmunks
I saw them rarely
after driving
to find woods in Chicago
They’d dart out on the path
like liquid blur dashing
up the nearest vertical
Then there was Alvin:
My brother’s 45 of
The Christmas Song
There is no cuter animal
to sing such a silly song.
What about Chip and Dale?
Were they Warner Brothers?
Looney Toons?
The epitome of chattering,
nut-cheeked, energy with an
accent from who knows where.
Years later, my own children
watch Saturday morning cartoons
of Alvin, Simon and Theodore.
Chip and Dale find new lives as
Rescue Rangers – not quite the same
but new chipmunks for a new generation.
I cannot forget the first time
my children saw a REAL chipmunk
after knowing only cartoons.
They were dumbfounded at the quick
appearance and then trembling with
giggles, as though possessed of
the little beasties’ energy.
The Chipmunk Adventure was a
much played video with an unforgettable
rodent version of Wooly Bully.
Always curious about what
Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs
thought of it.
Today, youngest child, now 17
urges me to purchase the latest
reincarnation of Alvin and the Chipmunks.
"You can show it to your students Mom.
It’s really good."
She doesn’t even remember the
cartoons when she was little.
Those chipmunks just keep zipping into view
Recycling their warm fuzzies in my world.
Dash out of the woods
Zip back up the vertical.
Fluffy White Stuff
How beautiful, the fluffy white stuff outside the window.
I wnat to go outside and play in the snow, making
snowangels,snowmen, and having snowball fights with my friends. Oh, what fun that would be. I want to open the door
and walk outside and step into the fluffy white stuff.
Only, I can’t. The door won’t open. I can’t go outside.
I’m stuck inside, my mind rambling.
I’m several thousand feet in the air. The fluffy white clouds that look like snow, would let me fall and keep falling until I hit the earth. I would fall through the clouds. They are deceiving, I would not stop, I would just keep falling, falling till I hit the ground.
Driving with my shoes off
Driving with my shoes off
Windows cracked,vents full open
Wrapping toes around accelerator
Feeling the pedal texture
And the almost warm breeze
Finally out of the city
Cruise control activated
Radio off, time to think
County roads without names
Just numbers and letters
Perhaps if the founders of the
Outlying areas would have been
More creative in road-naming
Their villages and towns
May have amounted to something
Besides a quiet retreat
With schools rated Excellent
And 4-H clubs and farms
So many travel campers in
driveways out here
Already in the peaceful "away"
Lexington Market, Baltimore
Five days a week I take the metro to work,
never quite knowing what I’ll see or hear,
for this is the West side, the quasi-gentrified
parcel of space where smack deals are a norm -
an interesting sociological observation.
Today emanated grey and dreary,
unlike last Thursday, the last day
I went into the office,
and even though that day
the sun blared bright
and, for the first time in what seemed eons,
a spit of warmth cradled the cracked sidewalks,
everything around me screamed desolation:
the toddler wailing as a woman, cussing,
cigarette dangling from her mouth,
dragged him through the intersection;
the sparrow pecking at drying vomit,
a beautiful orange-flecked beige,
spewed under the large urn potted
with petunias; the rat, smashed
flat against the cobblestone of the street,
hapless victim of some larger monster;
and always, the spent needles, the flaccid
condoms, chicken bones and peanut shells,
and smell of stale urine
following me as I ride the escalator up, up, up.
It wasn’t until rounding the corner
of the behemoth building that everything
slowed, relaxed; men and women, most emaciated,
walked in groups of twos and threes,
faces plastered with beautific smiles.
Methadone will make you happy.
Now, the day done, leaving my work behind,
the rain spits down, not heavy enough
to haul out the umbrella but enough
to be a nuisance to my shellacked hair
and Italian leather pumps, and I marvel
at the sudden cleaness of the quiet, empty streets.
Immigration
It’s that time again. It happens twice a year.
We pack and move from here to there.
It’s the eighth trip and I should have it down.
It does seem easier. I am not close to being ready.
At breakfast today with friends here that I cannot
take there, I started feeling sad. It is my choice, remember
to make this move. My partner would stay in one country,
Mexico. I want to go "home", though when it is time to
come back next September, that now feels like going home, too.
Family, as much as I complain about them, is the reason.
Even if they are all in California, and we have gone to
Washington, there is that cultural connection that would be
lost, I fear, if I became a "real" expatriate. I have friends that
have severed all ties to the Old Country like my grandparents did
when they left Belfast for San Francisco. They brought most of their
immediate family with them, however. No one has said,
"Let me come too to the high desert of Central Mexico."
I don’t think that they get it. So I go home, for now.
As much to see the sea as to see them.
Pack up the rebosos, huaraches. Fleece is the costume there
even in summer. Bid Adios, Esté muy bien.
Throw the dog in the car and vamanos.
My husband says I talk too much,
so I should be good at writing a rambling poem.
Today I told my neighbor about tomorrow’s doctor appointment
and about the meds that I’ll probably be taking after that visit. Now why did I think she wanted to know that?
I told my spiritual director that I’m falling in love with my husband again, after 31 years of marriage. He recalls that statement to me often. It embarrasses me now. Why did I say that to him? I just talk and talk.
At voice lessons I offer weird tidbits of my daily life. As soon as I’m in the car, I think. Why? Why do I speak when I should only be singing?
I fuss and fret about the neighbor’s dogs who hang out in my yard and use my flower garden as their own pooping ground. Does anyone really want to hear about it?
Life is weird! It’s difficult sometimes, too.
I’m up; then I’m down. But mostly it’s good.
I’m thankful for friends who are still friends
even after I talk too much.
I’m thankful for a husband who still listens
(most of the time, at least.)
I’m thankful for grown children who still come to visit,
even if their eyes do glaze over when talk about genealogy.
Just Wandering Around (#7)
I’m just writing this poem
that rambles because that’s the
prompt for the day and this is
not the way I usually write because
I usually have a goal in mind when
I start to write in fact I usually
have an outline before I start. I
wouldn’t any more write without a
goal than I would start a bicycle
trip without knowing where I was
going before I even got on but I
don’t often do this because I’d
rather go by automobile where
the pedals are easier to push
but I’m beginning to ramble
which is OK this time because
it’s supposed to be a rambling
poem, isn’t it?
Ramble
In the email I said, “Don’t worry but . . .”
Some of my friends took me at my word
didn’t respond with a dismissive offer to say a prayer
didn’t pick up the phone and offer to bring by some food
didn’t suggest that they cared by even sending get well soon note.
It’s my own fault really because what I should have said is
“Don’t worry but the truth is I am worried”
and maybe the ones who were silent would have said something
something inane to encourage me to not despair
or some pointless sympathy of enough is enough already.
But what if they hadn’t? What if I had been vulnerable enough to say
“I am scared, having nightmares, sleeping in fetal positioned fear”
and they said nothing, not one word to open me up?
So when my friend asks me for some advice
I want to say, “I am too busy to be bothered right now
I am trying to figure out who will take care of the dogs
and making sure that my refrigerator has food enough
and doing laundry so that everything will be clean and ready."
but I’m not really too busy to be bothered which is why
I end up writing a quick email offering what little wisdom I have
and hitting send, not caring if she thanks me or shows she cares.
She doesn’t thank me for the advice;
she does send me an email on the day of my surgery
saying that she hopes I recover quickly so we can hang out.
I don’t read the note until days later. I didn’t respond because
I really didn’t know what to say and I didn’t want to tell her the truth.
"To ramble"
is an obsessive thing
not something I normally
have a problem doing really
except for today
for try as I may
I could not keep a
cognitive thought
going through my head
long enough to get it
down on paper
my family had their laughs
and I’ve even had mine
as I yet again tried
to ramble on paper
about something, about
anything, even nothing…
but no words will come
and so I am done.
Hey Robert,
I’ve been looking for a site to help me through the is poem-a-day challenge, which I’ve been doing independently up to now. I hope it’s okay to jump in belatedly, but I really have done a poem a day so far. They include (1) a "terzanelle", (2) a "list" verse of favorite rock bands, (3) an elegy for my father, (4) a "plus-seven" exercise (substituting nouns randomly for other nouns in a previously-written poem then mucking about with it), (5) an "ars poetica" about an inspiring poetry reading, and (6) a sardonic rant about present-day rudeness and permissiveness. So here is my entry for today:
Cats
Walking back from the reading with two lady friends,
I tag behind while they lead the way, two abreast.
They begin to pick apart the poems, then the poets:
Dave has done better work. Marsha can’t write a sonnet
to save her life. That Labor Day poem was a piece of crap!
Then it’s on to personalities: That Jean is so full of herself.
Julio needs orthodontia. Did you see how Robert J.
undressed me with his eyes? I shudder to think what
they say about me when I leave. But they’re friends, right?
I know they’d be kind. I just listen for the most part,
adding polite assent from time to time just to stay
in the conversation. I’m so like a dog, trotting behind,
eager to please. I know it’s a cliché, but there’s a reason
most people call dogs “he” and cats “she”. I remember my
old Siamese, how he liked to perch on top of the bookcase
and look down in judgment, aloof, his tail playing tricks
with the air. And my black lab, always in up-mode, barking up
to the cat with urgent pleas: Let’s play! Let’s play! All the while
the Siamese was thinking: you have bad breath, and you’re a klutz –
you couldn’t catch a bird to save your life.
Ramble ramble
All day I ramble….I write and I move around the apartment muttering and hanging out and then getting back at it.
I walk around just to get out but with no money to spend, so I’m left to ramble…although it seams rambling is something done in high spirits. And lately….
And so now we ‘ramble’ as writers. That is our direction, no direction at all. And it is the hardest spot to be in for a rule breaker. Now there is nothing to push off of, no boundaries to break…and it leaves me like so many maverick thinkers I knew in high school who later on just sat around and got high with no oppressing framework to hate and organize and identify themselves by. Ha.
(this is meant to be funny, not offensive, I apologize in advance if I offend anyone.)
Contest Context
I’m in this contest
waiting for day eight
I have the time to invest
for the next prompt,
I just can’t wait
I’ve got em’ a poem or two, to digest
I just can’t wait to write mine
So, I can add to the rest
Day, 7′s prompt left me in a tizzy
but, I hung in there
writing that poem truly kept me busy
In truth I do care
all about my work
but, some of these prompts
got me bringing on a smirk. . .
© Rodney C. Walmer 4/7/08 Written for a laugh, I do hope no one is offended. No disrespect or
offence intended. I really do enjoy the prompts. The poem was just to make others laugh.
“My husband’s loud music”
He sings great, is a master of the guitar
But he is in our living area and he is loud.
He is learning new songs, getting ready to play for a party, amplified.
I am writing a poem, this one in fact,
And it is not the best environment for me.
He, on the other hand, is having a ball.
Harmonica has now been added, the kind he wears around his neck.
Our youngest child, a boy, has fled to the outside.
He’s playing with kids he doesn’t even like.
Our oldest, a girl, has sought refuge in the office,
Desperately trying to find some kind of solace on line,
Anything to try and center herself,
Despite the concert being performed in the living room,
It’s music bouncing off of the tile
Echoing through our home, through the walls, past the brick,
Pulsing in the driveway.
My youngest just looked in the window with a scowling look on his face.
The kids he’s playing with, the ones he doesn’t like,
Stand behind him looking curious but afraid to get too close.
And it seems as if others have joined them, a neighborhood crowd of
Tweens if you will, all in wonder that beyond that door, somebody’s dad is in there.
Usually the police come to people’s houses
When such loudness emits like this and they’re not sure if they want to get involved.
I’m going to make dinner just in case there’s an incident.
Because after all, a girl’s still gotta eat!
And too, if I place a delicious meal on the table,
He will place his guitar on the stand, turn the amp off,
Replace the harmonica contraption with a napkin
And we will eat quietly with only our voices, our nightly arguing,
Left to fill the room.
If dinosaurs lived today
Could dinosaurs live today with all this pollution and the ozone going away. Could they swim in the ocean or the sea, would people let them be. Could they walk in the park, way after dark, I think not.Oh, I think not. Would they live in fear of the murder rate, or would that effet them at all. Could they fly in the sky with all the planes or live through the acid rain.I wonder what they would think about all the traffic and the tons of garbage everywhere. Would people even notice that there even here, everyone is so caught up in thier own lives. Where would they live if they were here, would we put them in zoo’s too. Would people accept them for themselves or would they be scared because they are different then we are. I think it would be nice to see them around, walking around town. They would probably fit in the way some people look these days. I wonder if people would dress them up in fancy clothes and walk them around on leashes.I would like to see one go through a carwash to get clean, I know that seems silly or crazy to some. I think it would be wonderful if they were here, we could ask them what really happened those many year and maybe respect them a little more. Children love thier size and adults love thier bones. It would be scary in a way to see one walking around but I think it would be kinda neat.
My Ramble Poem
I think I will start with the ramble poem
even though I am days behind.
It reminds me of a poem I wrote last year
entitled April is a Ragged Month.
It is great fun just putting poetic lines in
prose-like language.
I will separate the lines so people
can more easily read.
I don’t even need to make much sense,
and indeed I have no worries about rhyme.
I can go on and on
but somehow need to think of something interesting.
I had a great time at the birthday
luncheon today.
There were friends I had not seen in a while
not only that, but I got to relax.
Are you telling me, Robert,
That someday this will make some sense
And not be just a bunch of lines?
All I know is it seems like a fun break
before I need to put brain into gear in order
to be creative.
Will anyone bother to read this?
What kind of rambles will they create?
Other than Robert’s poem
I promise not to peek.
OK, that is simply enough nonsense.
If this becomes a true poem one day
I will be shocked indeed. That’s all folks.
"Maybe There Is a God, I played Tron"
Never did get the hang of Tron
Played it for year s and like years
Really only played for maybe three days
But you know
A kid doesn’t really know the true sense of time
And maybe that’s why I
Just stare at the windows
Waiting for the rain to come
And walk outside with no shirt on
Hoping that someone
Anyone would ask me the question why
Why do you wear your pants
Five inches below thigh high
But 1 inch above where flood waters rise
And a pen of every color
Even though you refuse to write in any other colors
But black
And blue as sublime as the sky
And why do you sit in the mall
Eyes closed
But marveling at all the sights
And why is saffron such a beautiful color
I think I may wear it when I die
And I walk around the city
My nose in aristocratic poses
Too damn cute to even smell the roses
And
Maybe I need to understand why
Men can be cute
Just handsome on the outside
I’m a cute little button
But I guess it wouldn’t be too manly
If I decided to explain why
But I do like my tea pot
With some Caribbean lemon grass inside
Drinking to the moon
And drinking to Icarus
Because I like the light that his wings gave
As they became akin to fire
And matches are such lovely things
They light
Yes they light
And if you strike the box
And hold your breathe
C’mon hold
I promise you won’t die
But you may see the other side
And you yesterday
I shed just one tear
Mixed it with some absinthe
And a side of arsenic
Because I wanted to see god
And tell him that he’s a cool ass guy
Ramble On
I need to write a ramble poem
probably most of what I write
I ramble on
Rambling is all I’ve ever known
I get a random thought
and before I know it, it’s gone
It often seems
I never know what to write about
So, I start from confusion, Dreams
sometimes, even self doubt
All I know for sure
is I truly feel at home
when I am in the middle of a poem
For me, this writing is a therapy
A means of escape
where others cannot be
I go to a place within myself
by doing so,
I feel like I’m someone else
While others get high
Using drugs, alcohol, and other means
I simply get by
through writing these day time dreams
I am not sure how it all began
sometimes I write things
not even I understand
I never know where this writing will go
it took me years,
before I wrote anything I was willing to show
I’ll admit to vulnerability and even tears
during my writing phase’s
On the other hand
after writing, my self – esteem raises
I started writing thirty four years ago
I was only sixteen
wanting to impress a girl
in a way I just did not know
that first poem led to this wonderful dream
Writing has become my world
Never mind about the girl
I’ve since been married twice
Finally happy with a second wife
I will have gaps in time
when I don’t write even one line
once went five years
I wrote nothing
It was a time of emptiness and many fears
I started again due to a Professor Dunn
she never realized what she had begun
though a poem got me an A in her class
I’ll gladly write more for her,
she doesn’t even have to ask
I am not sure what the future might hold
but, I’ll never stop writing
for me, this is my gold
if I ever get brave enough
I might even do some reciting
though I tried it once
I was just too nervous and sounded like a dunce
There is no end to this poem
simply because my writing goes on
though over the years my writing has grown
I still have much to learn
along with many hours of writing to burn. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 4/7/08 Prompt #7 a ramble poem.
I just realized the "Details of the day" should have been posed on the previous date!! ( oh, well..it’s kind of a ramble anyway)
A ‘ramble poem’
Details of the Day
Rising at 6:30—
“Lord, keep me from being overwhelmed by today’s details”
What to wear to church?
After abbreviated breakfast, the drive across the bridge,
With still not enough coffee to be awake
Greetings at the church door,
Check on the children’s teacher—arrived???
Does she have a helper?
Chairs? Chalk? Crayons?
Back downstairs, music already begun
The sermon: letting go of our own desires.
Back across the bridge,
A quick on- the- run lunch
So we could attend a friend’s book reading.
Back to apartment, crying cat,( not enough attention).
Made place cards for tomorrow’s dinner,
Got engrossed in a TV movie whose ending I did not see.
Then downstairs, where we’d been invited for cocktails; conversation raged on,
Couldn’t resist the chocolate cake.
Back in the apartment,
Checked email, found synopsis of movie
(the medical technician did it)
Ended with ‘Sense and Sensibility”
While husband slept.
‘What has been done is done, what has not will wait”
A Walk of Words
She asked if I would like to walk with her, of course I replied and then we started off, I took her to the park and we walked through several trails and I thought we were done when she informed me that she usually walks for an hour–well, then we’ll walk for an hour. I was a bit disconcerted, an hour? But away we went and now weeks later we walk for three hours and think nothing of it, but it’s not only walking, it’s talking it’s building that bond of friendship that before was a tentative link is now a chain, solid and forged step by step. First we talked of safe topics, politics and writing, the environment, commonalities we knew we shared and then the topics grew, children, husbands, frustrations, fears and as we reach the end of our walk, it’s always food. Found out we both like to cook, both would rather walk than shop, would rather garden than cook, and if we have to shop it’s going to be at Target. Laughed long and loud about life and now an hour or two on the road, time tempered by our talks, seems like nothing too strenuous, but when I tell someone I went for an 8 mile walk they are in shock.
Lost in Wikiburbia
It starts out innocently enough. You need
to help your fifth grader write a report on ants,
but soon enough you are following link after link
& you find yourself an hour later, alone at the screen
reading about John Wayne Gacy, the report
long since faded from your memory and that of your child
who gave up on you and is now watching Spongebob.
So you look him up to learn the creator
was a marine biologist. That makes sense.
From there it’s only a click to find out the guy
who voices Patrick is the actor who played Tom Cullen
on The Stand. "M-O-O-N. That spells Moon."
You tell yourself ten more minutes because you forgot
that one actor from 16 Candles. Not Anthony Michael Hall,
but the guy who played Jake Ryan, gave up acting
to become a woodworker. And who was it
that wrote and directed Harold & Maud? It’s all
coming back to you now, all the questions you had
when you were a kid. Getting Serious, you want to see
what people have to say about JFK’s assassination
or if George Washington really did have wooden teeth.
If you’re not careful, you will be reading all night
about this president or remember that you read
how Rosalynn Carter once posed for a picture
with then unknown serial killer John Wayne Gacy.
Now you are off thinking about Karl Jung, synchronicity,
how everything is connected deeper than we know,
only catching brief glimpses of our vast unconscious.
Yes. No. Perhaps. It’s a quantum universe,
this world of Wikipedia. It is the world’s biggest
practical Schrodinger Cat experiment, who in truth
never was convinced of quantum theory at all.
Day 7 – The Wages of Sin
As though the grass is quicksand
her feet keep on it,
will not veer toward street
nor hill nor road. They know where
they are going. To the woods.
The secret place.
When she was young
Sir Lawrence came to play.
He called her names and
tore her Sunday dress.
She hit him good.
And what will it be next? You never know.
She hides the little gun beneath her shirt.
The plaid one she retrieved from daddy’s closet.
He won’t need it now. (She mustn’t tell).
What do you call a baby that has been abused?
You call it “monster”, “You,” Bastard child.”
From underneath the brush a wolverine
smiles it’s wicked grin.
From up above a bird looks down.
Sky overhead a lovely blue.
And it a lovely day for hunting.
Mind Ramblings
I wonder what’s going to happen
When the jig is up
Who the hell knows?
I’m not psychic
I’m don’t read tea leaves
I’m your average run-of-the-mill
Soothsayer.
Sooth, you say?
You said it.
Forsooth, don’t you
Forget it.
I’d say fivesooth
But me thinks that hasn’t
Been invented yet.
Here I go,
off to see the trumpets
The Trumpets of Trombone
A place in Italy I believe
Bet it’s pretty noisy.
The sounds in my head
If they could just get their act
Together
Might actually be able to form
An aural masterpiece.
I doubt it though
There seems to be a piece missing.
The centerpiece.
Trombone, Italy
A fictional town in my next novel.
Gotta go there to check it out
Wanna make it all seem real
Before my book comes out.
© Joe MacKinnon 4/7/08
OK a rambling sort of poem for today it is then:
Whimsey
Sometimes events of the day
necessitate that my body and soul
escape the daily tedium.
Get away from TV, newspapers,
blaring radios;
away from bills, chores;
the grind of life in general.
At such moments, it’s time to go on
a whimsey.
I know that it’s somewhat of an old fashioned
word,
A little bit out of step with the times,
But it is the right word.
Yep, it’s very gingham and lace
for a sandlot baseball kid at heart,
but a whimsey it is.
A brief, no-direction at all,
fantasy adventure -
dream fields,
sunny skies,
blue outlined sculptured clouds,
honeysuckle scents,
babbling, unseen waters,
a hint of distant ocean’s calling.
A whimsey refreshes the spirit,
relaxing tensions.
recharging,
renewing,
revitalizing.
Whether in this dimension,
or another plain of existence,
when I can go a’whimseying along
on my whimsical way,
a smile will come to my face;
a dance to my step;
a tune to my lips.
Aaaahhh…
to stop the car;
walk in a field;
and take a whimsey.
Child eyes open
to butterfly moments.
Hands
After I’ve dried the last of the dishes,
I light lavender incense
before carrying the garbage out to
the compacter chute.
I lock the door and collapse onto my sofa.
I look down at my hands.
My cuticles are dry and thickening.
I thought I had pushed them back
as I washed my hair last night.
I go to my bedroom and snatch the cocoa butter off the dresser
and as I moisten my hands,
I study them.
My fingertips are slightly bent, like my father’s.
I remember the flecks of black grease that used to dot our sink
after Daddy washed his hands when he came home
from long days of handling baggage at the airport
or fixing our neighbors’ cars.
My sister and I would tease Daddy
about his ashy hands.
He’d laugh, and
began keeping a tiny tube of Curacel in his car.
I’d watch him shake the lotion down into his palms
rubbing his long strong brown fingers
until they had a light fragrant sheen.
After he died,
I couldn’t bring myself to throw out
that little white bottle with the blue cap.
How I wish we had just
held his hands
in ours
every day
and said,
“Thank you.”
Rambling Thoughts
I need to make the reservations,
Order groceries,
Pack lunches and backpacks,
Wash the dishes,
Sort the laundry,
Pay the bills,
Oh, we need oranges
Have to add that too the list.
What to make for dinner?
Anywhere we have to be tonight?
That dream last night was good,
Wish I could remember it all.
Did I wash my hair?
Got to let the dogs out,
Wake up the kids.
Whew, time to get out of the shower…
I hope I remember all of that later.
April 7, 2008
© Michelle H.
I can begin a ramble at
any given point from A to Z
but all these points move
and shift like atoms when I peer
leaving me to slip between
to amble ramble in the
slipstream of thought and co-creation
so whatever ramble I began
is still all movement
as I’ve ever said…
try to stop and see how many
dancers run into yo’ ass!
Toto est Toto…Everything is Everything
and all is movement in the dance
on a little blue ball spinning
ssssssssssssssailing through
space at some seventeen-hunnert mph
towards certain death…
that’s all Coyote crazy to me brother
so I say move with it…groove with it
the Fool is wisest in the deck
to take a gamble with the ramble
(and your little dog too!)
yes I’m a fool for I would rather
dance the halls of madness than
settle in any of its rooms…and
to ramble is still worth the
price of admission
Open Mic Poetry Night
I went with Katrina to open mic poetry night
right away I was sorry
grasping the mic someone chanted “I’m a
wuh-ma-han! Yes a wuh-ma-ha-an!” thrusting
her hips at each syllable to the swelling
adoration of the crowd and I thought
good god I hope this gets better
not that I’m a purist, not that I think
I’m better (except that maybe I am)
the next at the mic tossed off an anecdote-
cum-poem whose resonance
lay only in her halting delivery
where do we poets learn this stuff?
the stilted [pause] vocalizations [pause]
that pass [pause] somehow [pause]
for significance [pause], the SEEsaw
alterAtions of enunciAtion that plAgue
texts about FLYing SQUEEZing DRIVing
or any other verbiage we must enact
and the rising tone…
as we leave each line…
trailing into the universe…
from the bar’s window I could see a television flicker
in a second-story apartment across the alley and I thought
how lucky they are not to be here
things looked up when a genuine poet
stepped up to riff on tones, pulled
pure wordmusic from his throat
unpretentious and genius jazz that soared
over most everyone’s head
after he left the emcee cruelly impersonated him
to the great amusement of most everyone
then launched into a singsong singalong
“everybody clap!” verse about Volkswagens and pot
that caused much whooping
as we left Katrina asked wasn’t it great
and I was polite but this is my answer now:
no
Shift
It was nothing
The diapers,the burping, the spills
It was easy
The washing of clothes, bathing of wriggly bodies
Effortless
The rocking, cooking, holding
But oh so difficult now
The listening, waiting, hoping
Burdensome are the nights, the decisions,
Oppressive the guilt, the worry, the days
Longings for a time gone by
Yearning for the simple, the carefree, the joy
Crying over a lost time
Weeping for tomorrow
Chips
I got a light, tasty little banana chip here
Not a salty plantain
And I hope I can finish eating them
Before the patients arrive
They’re always so early and I want to scream
Don’t be such an overachiever!
Showing up forty five minutes before your appointment
Doesn’t get you a little gold star
Like when you were in elementary school
Those heady, heedless days of construction paper
And the burgeoning social skills like muscles
Learning how to flex, how to strengthen, how to squeeze
An empty Valentine box one year and stuffed the next
With trophies of your building popularity
Before transferring to a new school
And starting all over again
My Stupidvisor
“So, how are you feeling” he asks in an IM
which really pisses me off because
he really doesn’t give a shit how I feel. He’s
just checking to see if I’m here. I’d feel better
if he sent me an IM that said,
“just checking to see if you’re there” instead of
that phony “caring” crap that really is just that – crap.
By rights, the boy’s nose
(he’s a little older than Pinocchio, but still a boy to me)
should be long enough to wrap around the building twice
from all of his misdirection and half-truths.
Of course, I’m here!
Am I the “Employee of the Year”, or what?
Give me a break!
About a half-mile down the hall from him and
safe behind my office door
I answer quasi-politely
“I’m feeling pretty good. Thanks. Was there
something special you wanted or were you just
checking on me?”
No answer! No freakin’ answer!
Next time I’ll ignore him.
Jamble Ramble
I drive a lot
And very often
I lose the signal to my favorite
Talk radio station
‘Cause I don’t have Sirius or XM, you see
So I must do things to stay awake
Like ramble my brain
With jambles of nothingness
On a scramble prevention mission
Of nonsensical stimulations
I think of the day
That has already past
Or the morrow
Which is not yet here
Or what I’m gonna’ do when I get where I’m going
Or when I get back
From where I’ve not yet been
I think of the weather
My friends and relations
My walk with the Lord
And my wife
I dwell on the important
Even the ridiculous
And sometimes the stupid
All just to stay awake
When talk radio fades to static
I scan the airwaves
And at last I hear
Through the static and noise
A familiar voice
A relief to my rambling
My jambling
My scrambling
Talk radio is back
I’m awake once more
Drive on!
Ramble on
To Oregon mists and waterfalls
And sun breaking through clouds
Where friends reside who we
Never see enough and because
We are all growing older now,
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful ?
Last part of life to start fresh
And go to a green place with
The city of Portland a short
Jaunt away and Powell’s books
And the annual rose garden
Celebration and new streets
Whose names I will have to learn
Maybe take some classes
Perhaps join a new writer’s club
Get out of New York and prove
There are other places in which
to live and grow and be happy
SaBlonde
The backstory:
I promised to make a special treat for tonight’s
gathering at the arts center, where there will be
a discussion on photographic art as well as a
few poems to be read–that’s because of national
poetry month which is April and today is the 7th.
Ghirardelli chocolate truffles is what I chose to
make since nearly everyone seems to have a
strong affinity for chocolate. The process is
really quite simple, at least it was until I got
down to rolling the truffles and dipping them
in finely chopped nuts or baking chocolate
powder. That’s when I didn’t realize the bowl
of chocolate powder was working its way off
the cutting board where I was rolling truffle balls,
and crash–the bowl fell to the floor and
chocolate powder traveled much farther than
anyone could imagine. What a mess, though
none of the guests will think of that as the
chocolate delight melts on their palate.
Booooring. I hate writing
Serious poetry.
Is there something I don’t want
To face?
I just want to be silly and
Write funny stuff.
Life is so serious, I want to
Run away from it
I want to laugh and
Make fun of it all.
I don’t like conflict
Sometimes I guess,
I don’t like truth?
I don’t like to think
That’s the case.
How about, I don’t care for
Reality
But I do.
I consider myself
Happy.
I just am not good at
Being serious.
Sometimes life is kind of
difficult.
I just dont like to
think about it
or write
about it.
Why?
Fire and Burnt Newspaper
“Tales from Law Street: The Home of From My Dreams”
what I most remember
are those cold winter days
when we had to stuffed the cracks
in the door
in the walls
in the floor
with old newspaper
and when we used to
fold a piece of that newspaper to light on
the gas stove to light the heater
I remember
Being anxious in my sleep
To wake up before every one else
(except for my mama
Since she was the one who had to light the heater)
Running to the front room
Fighting my brother and grandma for warmth
My brother loved to hold his pencil to his mouth
Like a cigarette
And blow out the cold air
Each morning he did it
I was amazed that it could be so cold
In a place with so much warmth
One of those cold mornings
When the heater would not light
And the stove would not act right
And there was not a hint of fire no where in the house
I wonder, almost cried, a chance to see what it felt like
To live in a house
Like the houses of “rich” people
Who did not need to see the sight of fire
In hopes of warmth
And now
With all of my central heat
I yearn
For the smell of burnt newspaper and fire
Time
What would I do if I ran out of time?
Shold I write a poem that dosen’t rhyme?
Or should I go out and get a fine?
Thats not me cause I’m kind,
So what do you do if you run out of time?
Would you go out and commit a crime,
Or jump into a tub full of slime,
Or go out and look for dimes,
Not me i’d pike limes.
So thats what i would might do if I ran out of time.
Rambling 4-07-08
Spring trying to break out,
then what is this all about.
Rain at first and fog,
oh no snow what no jog.
Jogging is good for one they say,
but I will gladly put it off another day.
Day and night with all my might,
I wish for spring to come to light.
Crocus blooming in the snow,
Soon the grass we will have to mow.
That second stanza has a mistake, it’s supposed to read:
Pain is easily ignored,
turned into something
much easier to deal with -
if you can keep smiling.
Special Delivery
by Ging
I waited for the mailman to come because there was a car parked in front of the mail box and he won’t deliver the mail if there is someone parked in front of the boxes. I don’t understand why he can’t just get out of his little truck and deliver the mail. But they say that is their policy. I don’t think I could get away with that on my job. Just let the people suffer because I am not going to inconvenience myself by standing up and walking three steps to help them. But he didn’t come. Or maybe he did and I missed him. Maybe he was early today because he was driving past mailboxes where people had parked their cars in front of them…
":)"
When it hurts to smile,
the best thing to do is to
keep
smiling.
Pain is easily ignored,
turned into something
much easier to deal -
with if you can keep smiling.
Showing teeth,
twisting lips,
no grimace to be seen
because there’s no room
for error on the big stage,
nope.
Smiling past swollen cheeks,
bruised lips,
bleeding gums
is the only way to do it,
the only way to cope.
Crack a joke;
make others smile with you
before you carve that smile
permanently on their face.
Share the sick joke
of the lingering taste of
blood and regret.
Hmm …
What should I to write about?
I haven’t the slightest clue.
There’s just so much that I could say
to see this poem through.
I could talk about the weather
or something simple such as that.
Sure, it may tend to go off track,
but I’ll have time to trim the fat.
I suppose it doesn’t matter,
they’re really just words after all.
They could say anything I want
or just say nothing at all.
Ramble On
I wait for our guests to arrive
perhaps I should look on them
as boarders for one week
for that is exactly what they are.
We volunteered our home for
one week to house people who
come to the Sun N Fun Fly-in
in Lakeland. It’s a first for us.
I have in mind that it will be
as good as having friends/family.
We will have breakfast and some
dinners together. This will be
better than visitors because we
won’t have to worry about going to
Disney World with them for the
fifty-ninth time or Busch Gardens
or spend the day at the beach to
be with them. These guests will
be gone all day at the Fly-in
and just be here morning and
evening. We are cooking out
tonight, a good way to get to
know them a little as we begin
this practice week, determining
if this will be a fun thing for us to do.
I’m anxious to meet them and a
little nervous over their arrival
strange since I thought this
would be no emotion required
kind of entertaining. No emotion
for me is probably science fiction.
We will see what the real world brings.
Rambling while Writing
So I call myself a writer
And sit down every day I do
To write on three lined pages
Then to sit at the computer and stew
Oh it’s not for lack of words
and it’s not for lack of type
But I certainly have lots to say
And to do with it what I may
So is it a newspaper article
I should work on next
Or is it a poem
Or a short story
Or an ad for a business
Or my own website
Or the screenplay of my dreams
Or the blog of yours
Or is it time to do the bills?
I’m trying hard to get started
There’s so much to do
I’m rambling while I’m writing
And tomorrow I’ll be rambling still
Hunting for the murdered muse in Swink
We have no idea what you’re saying.
In Swink we have no time for such stuff.
We’ve got to get ready for first haying,
And muses are so much fluff.
You might look in the river,
It ain’t too far. Or you might go east
Four miles. La Junta’s got a free liver
Or so there. But we just greased
The tractor and the alfalfa won’t wait.
What’s she done, did you say?
Got herself murdered? What a fate!
But hey!
Did she get murdered or just disappear?
And if she was murdered, how would she get here?
CLEANING
We cleaned out our garage to make room
for a second refrigerator and oh, the crap we found.
My car’s trunk is now filled within an inch
of not being able to close the door…
shoes, clothes, belts, stuffed animals, bedding…
destined for the Goodwill donation spot.
Our garbage cans are full of out-dated
cleaning supplies that have faded labels from which
we can not discern what they are used for.
The walls, for the first time, are becoming bare,
as large items are being reorganized or removed.
Our shelves are now neatly stocked with paint cans,
colorful storage bins, Christmas decorations and tool boxes.
Everything fitting in its own place.
Our cars seem to glide more freely into their
respective places and even drivers’ side doors can be opened
without tapping the wall or car to the left.
It is amazing how sucking it up and tossing the things you truly
do not need will make life a little less crammed.
N. E. Tasker
**thanks for the poetic honesty, I too am posting an unedited true rambling, haven’t even looked at it, I might edit later today/tomorrow**
A grey morning
Coffee sweats in my hand.
The view from the kitchen window is dressed in grey
and smeared with sloppy rain.
I wonder how love stains memories on dull days?
I wonder how love colours words on days when tulips bloom?
The kitchen stove hums as if it knows that I need restlessness to have a rhythm. The birds outside the window remain silent, shuffling their feet in the distance.
The rain has entered this day more times than I have eaten something sweet. The bread rises slowly on the counter top
groaning and stretching as it grows.
Desperate folks take desperate measures. This is not negative, this is fact. Hill Clinton is taking credit for accomplishing more than some of those who were active in foreign policy during the Clinton years recall. Also I feel safe to say because I know she has never been president of the United States, bafore. The fact that Barack Obama was against the Iraqi war from
the beginning w/sound judgment will never get OLD, as I
heard a reporter say. Iraq needs NEW money ev’vyday. The former Clinton administration recollects different views on
the extent of Hill Clinton’s influence, and its relevance to
the presidential campaign. Rice, the former Clinton administration official now supporting Barack Obama, credits
the first lady for a speech on women’s rights, but stated it doesn’t translate into United States Commander-In-Chief experiences (w/a aged whinnying twist). The only reason Hill Clinton would be better equipped chief to answer the phone at 3:00am is because Monica would be ona phone. This is not negative, this is fact. Hill Clinton says, Barack Obama do
not have the experience to be Commander-In-Chief, but her and Bill extends the offered hint (maybe real or polit trick)
Obama can be Hill’s VP, which clearly means to me that Obama would be used to shine his ray of positive politics, professional character and strategically calm and sound
judgment on the Clinton’s radical, freaky, emotional
and drama filled presidential administrative past; that her supporters conveniently shh-up about. This is not negative, this is fact. Wy do folks listen to the polls, when we all
know spin able corruption begins in the polls. Wha, Wha, Wha
is Hill/Bill’s tax info that is the question. Wha, Wha, Wha, was Bill when Hill finally won 3 contests after loosing 11-ina row on the edge of a polit breakdown, I looked ev’vywhere.
It appears to me that Hill base her judgment on polit compromises that come from sybillistic characteristical unbalances that overwhelms her when she’s winning, losing
or right after Bill gives a bad speech. Some peopah tryna
say with Hill/Bill we’ll be gettin two 2008 presidents for
the price of one. My mathematical common sense tells me only 1+1=2. You do the math. Wha Um Saying Is, When Hill is up or down she/her campaign plus finances falls apart and her judgment get whiny and she gets monstrously negative with her judgments which will put the United States in another war if she were the chief so think about it, we may as well jes keep the Bush/McCain administration; even though Bush only has 315 days left as an over experienced Commander-In-Chief. This is not negative,
this is fact. Howard D thanks but, I needa litta’mo backbone. The Clintons insist on running a negative campaign even when they can’t find anything to be negative about; so they decided to do something that I prematurely expected for them to do,
but only if they were in a tight, mind you. Michigan and
Flo-Florida republicanly violated party rules by moving up
the primaries. So-o they knew they legally lost the right
to send delegates to the nominating convention and they should
not rightfully plan to fight on the convention floor. So-o, Hill Clinton went to Flo-Florida to claim a v-i-c-t-o-r-y
where she prematurely knew there was no contest. This is
not negative, this is fact. In case no one has noticed
there are some republicans hollering louda than Democratic voters, Floridians or Michigans because they know that McCain, his president and supporters are going to super size Hill/Bill past and present drama right out of this 2008 Presidential
race, maybe even before November get-here, that is if she
were to be in some negative and cheating way nominated. Oh
but, betting on Barack Obama’s left hand McCain, his president and supporters know that they can’t beat Barack and Michelle’s positively sound skills of leadership. I felt that by not seating the delegates in Florida and Michigan showed a symbol
of fairness, demonstrated by the entire Democratic Party; because some that will still claim their Republican Party
have arrogantly demonstrated little to no accountability in
this present Republican administration. Also to me, this
taught the corrupt presidential administration in denial
that there’s balance and accountability for how politics can
be carried out in the Democratic Party. Huh just think, if there is going to be a funded primary do-over in Michigan and Florida? There should be a funded primary/causus do-over in every state, because just as always and expected there has
been mega cheating going on. Er-body knew er-where that
this was going to be a historical presidential campaign,
so-o wy was there not a great expectation of voter turnout
and demonstration of extra voting machines to accommodate
all voters in every state, city, county and racial areas,
etc? Extra voting machines (etc) will be in need in every
state when Barack Obama wins this 2008 presidential nomination,
there it has been said just in case some simpah peopah plans
to simply say, oooosp. I love all peopah including Hill/Bill, but that don’t mean er-body that I love can be my president of the United States of America. We have got too much goin on. This is not negative, this is fact.
H. Michelle Cooper,
I rambled and approved
this message…
Rambling Poetry 4/7
Today is stormy, rumbly thunder
Rain pours and roars down.
The puddles shimmer and shake
As the rain breaks the surface
And joins the contained raindrop mob.
The school seems hushed as the rain
Creates a backdrop of dark noise for learning
Permeating asphalt roof and concrete block.
Drips in the library hall fall into buckets and baskets
Ceiling tiles brown, bulge, and buckle
Anticipating locker disaster.
Flood warnings sent out to warn
Signal the end of the long drought endured
Filling our reservoirs and our thirsty souls.
And there will be
Relief, whichever you choose:
To listen or to dismiss me.
Also pain, either way,
The shrieking pain of yielding to being vulnerable, letting down the shells and
Allowing the brittleness to fall away, if you agree to receive me
And the hollow pain of separation, which is an assault to my very soul, if you choose to back off.
So you can’t avoid it, any more than I can.
We sign up for the pain when we undertake connecting with others.
The jagged edges are all there, huddling in the shadows
Anyway. It’s just that when we bumper car into and off of each other
We get hurtled into them, and then look accusingly at each other when it bleeds.
You called me brave when I came up with the plan to extract myself from your life,
But it is cowardice, really, and anguish. That look of ensnared animal when I got too close to you
Is too excruciating for me, the antithesis of anything I ever intended, and simply unbearable.
Save me at least that, and
Just be true to yourself, let the chips fall where they may, and know
There is already nothing to forgive.
Corinne
Ramblings of a Fangirl
Having watched Once More With Feeling,
the Buffy musical episode,
(for the third time and finally
sending it back to Netflix,
knowing I will have to buy it myself soon),
I am once again amazed
at the talent of Joss Whedon
and the fangirl I have become.
First with Firefly, my first favorite,
and then Buffy and Angel.
Brought from hysterical laughter
to wretching, sobbing tears
by a show about vampires is
not an easy feat and yet
Joss has this power to
make you feel exactly what he
wants you to feel at the
exact moment he wants you to feel.
And then to create such a musical
in a television episode
the power of storytelling
the power of song
the power of characters you love
as if they were flesh and blood
and family.
Who is this man you wonder,
and then you see
an average looking man,
someone you could invite over
to play games and drink Dew
and you are even more amazed
at the genius and talent
wrapped in such an average package.
My ramble poem, slightly trimmed:
Carnival Morpheus
Morphine dreams coming soon—
Step right up! Don’t delay!
The scalpel’s done its job.
Last time the post-op ward
Looked so strange. “It’s the morphine,”
Said the brisk nurse, I was the last one
Left, my surgeon having run late
By hours…or something like that.
Step right up, that’s the ticket!
Only this time I get to keep it for
A day or two before they send me home
Full of Vicodin or whatever. Just another pill—
Just another pill—Always another pill.
Looking forward to the morphine IV,
Wish it didn’t involve the cutting part:
Here or will it be over There? Both?
Step right up, says the wealthy
Anesthesiologist, smiling like a crocodile.
Perfect teeth, expensive watch—
But without him we can’t do this,
And he and I both know it.
Step right up! “I sleep to dream,”
I murmur from some song or poem
As the operating room vanishes.
Elizabeth K. Keggi
If I consider the option that we will be estranged forever
A dark, scary chasm opens beneath me and
My heart starts to freefall into it. Death itself.
How did we let it happen? Once so close, joined at the hip
And joyous, both of us, to have transcended the hostility of our youth
And upbringing. Our friendship even brought the rest of the family together.
And your daughters, my nieces, as my own children, surely
The fact that we are letting them down with this polite silence
Should be enough to kick our asses into at least trying.
Yes, it might get messy, and
Perhaps you will hear something you would rather not,
But since when does your sponsor know my heart better than you do?
If you really made amends then all of this would dissolve, for
I want nothing more, in my life, than to tell you I have already forgiven you.
Corinne
I apologise for the fact that this has nothing to do with the propmpt but if its not written soon then it would get kinda stale & lose its point. I guess it was just in me and had to come out.
So Long Charlton Heston
We none of us know
How many died or were wounded
Through gun-crime yesterday
Too many to count, too many to bear
If we are lucky
We’ll never know the pain or grief
Of those who suffered, suffer still
Too many to cry and too many to heal
One death though was
Known by all and mourned by
Many who never knew the legend
So many parts through so many years
But I for one
And I’m sure I’m not alone now
Am gladly ripping the rifle from his
Cold dead hands, just like he said.
Thirty years in this house
Thirty years in this house,
even though it butned once
and we’ve refloored twice
and remodeled the kitchen,
same hedge out front, overgrown
garden smaller, fence we fell down,
in process of reconstruction,
garden still growing peppers,
squash, cucumbers, tomatoes,
Bought this house with one
husband to be a home for
the babies we hoped for,
had the babies, raised them.
but he died in the middle,
too young, grieved him here.
Fell in love again, opened
this door for first date
with new hope, true love,
eighteen years later help
grandchildren plant squash
cucumber, tomatoes in the
same garden. Still home.
Thirty years in this house.
My name is wise woman,
but secretly the wind whispers dreams
or orange dreaming of chocolate.
My name is many names
many faces
and when we meet
we laugh
knowing our mothers flowed with
the times. I don’t want to flow.
I want to be rebel against water,
sand driving rain backwards,
clouds calling back moisture,
wind pulling mountains,
rebellious. I want to be
not what she hoped for -
white wedding to a man
and 2.5; just other expectations
to name and watch
rebel against me.
My name is white.
but secretly
hammer of sky
star falling upwards
dreams waking laughter
or just simply
an immovable
unarguable
.
Am I?
Who cares
despite whats written
no it isn’t what you thought it was,
because it doesn’t matter.
I’m flattered
but I’ll pass.
look passed the mask
that has
Inhaled Deadly fumes,
but the mask from Hazmat
has saved my life.
not to say I am right
but am I to think left
is wrong?
your assesment
won’t make me strong,
you invest on your own,
so respect the aspect
that I can do it alone.
I’ve known
too many judges without robes,
too many kings without throwns,
fools who are mute
but too outspoken.
are you not shamed
without clothing?
Or is it all a game
and am I playing
without coaching?
Am I speaking
from the wrong poteum?
Am I to imagine
I drank Magic Potion
or am I drunk with
Poison?
Am I alive
or am I an alternate ending
to an Abortion?
Am I cursed by
Spirit forces?
Or am I forced
to be someone I’m not?
Am I able to make it all stop?
Am I?
Bramble Poem
Standing on the brink
tomorrow is where
it has always been
just beyond my imagination
the child never wanted to try hard
wanted perfect, or gave up
second-best not good enough
too lazy to work at it
or never trained to try
Let it happen not
make it happen.
I could have been a writer by now
published, acclaimed.
Rich doesn’t matter,
oh, maybe a bit.
I look forward:
not much forward left.
I look back:
why did I waste so much time?
I really was a poet after all,
how many rhymes lost
in those years of disbelief
Time moves faster now,
the second hand barely blinks
and a month is gone
only a few moments between
winter and winter
Winter was good for awhile
young body flexible for graceful
slaloms down the ski hill
Body aches and pains
in winter’s cold and damp
Fear of breaking bones
keeps me away from slopes
Summer’s warmth takes away
the winter weariness but
everywhere they caution about
skin cancer and side effects of
pills and sun.
Legs a rash of raspberry ripple
prove the point
I have my fans of course
urging: book! book! book!
where to start and
too many tasks get in the way.
Please don’t let it be posthumous.
Let it all be prologue
and today is Chapter 1.
Carol A Stephen
The Dream Motel
It started about three years ago
the recurring dream of a seaside motel
sometimes I own it
sometimes other people do
but I am always there
and it is always dusk
First time it was Frank and his wife
he was rennovating it and I was trying
to find a room I could stay in
the second time I owned it
and Dad was back from wherever he went
after he died
he was with Bootsie, Cordy and Phoebe
I told him it wasn’t a pet motel
he laughed and put his teeth on the counter
and shared corned beef with my mother
who was hiding her boyfriend in the pool shed
"He would die if he knew," she said
"He is dead" I reminded her
Everyone was there last night
Rich was at the bar and smelled like he did
that last time I saw him when I didn’t know
it was going to be the last time
"I’m forty now too," he said
"and married and still unhappy."
Frank was fixing the siding
after the storm no one remembered but him
Jon came with his third wife
"This is Treasurechest," he said as he
stared at her breasts
"I can’t love a woman with a normal name"
I know.
You were there too
with another man you think you love
As he checked you in you whispered
"don’t tell him the truth about me"
as I carried your bags to your room
Outside the long island sound
lapped the pebbles of the rocky beach
I tried to remember where I parked my car
Been away all weekend so playin catch-up now. will post all three here in reverse order if tha’t Ok?
Day 7
Word Association
Ain’t it weird how when I saw the prompt was to write a Ramble I never thought about a walk in the country like a few people seem to have latched on to but then again maybe that’s just me and how my brain works which scares me sometimes like now the thing that’s got me is when is a ramble not a ramble and when is it a stroll out of control that’s meandering across the fields of verse without a nurse to wipe its runny nose or click on spell check when it stops and so I started making a word association football league table and chairs, the leather bound ones err, Chesterfields or Marlboro man from La Mancha where the cheese comes from, cheese and wine and olives and Popeyes eating spinach, green like grass only greener more like spinach! full of iron man, daredevil and the avengers, the comic ones not the ones off the TV with the guy with the bowler hat and umbrella and always a pretty girl like James Bond only not so slick but more like a city gent-ly does it nice and easy now and then and there where it all happened before and again will go on rambling into the distance across the fields of green wandering lonely as a poet from long ago might very well disapprove of when consulting with his peers or piers, but that’s not right not the correct word association football….
Which is called Soccer in the states and I have no idea why. Ain’t it weird!
Day 6 Poem – Happy Birthday, Dad.
I got up late
Well later than I’d planned
But didn’t worry
Everything was under control
It would be just fine. My folks and their best friends
The village Doctors were coming to Sunday lunch
Not just Sunday lunch but
My Dad’s 75th birthday lunch
I’d had no idea what to get him as a gift
So I’d decided on this meal
The menu was complex, elaborate but fun
I love to cook (not professionally anymore though)
Although today my house was a kind of restaurant
I wasn’t going to eat, just cook and serve
I wanted it to be special
I read my list of tasks to do
(Most crossed out yesterday – good work!)
Started at the top
And soon, amazingly
Soon, with 40 minutes to spare
I’d laid the table and opened the wine
Champagne and canapés first, then
Invite them to the table, lunch was served
Everyone in good cheer and hungry
(I hope – there are six courses!)
The wine starts to flow
And so do the compliments. They love it
I’m proud and grateful and pleased
Usually I’m arrogant – “Yeah thanks, I know”
But not today, today I’m humble
In a smug sort of way
Pickle the cat impresses me
By not mounting the dinner to see what he can steal
Instead José the Doctor throws him all the wine corks
And he plays hockey up and down the hallway
I join the company for dessert and coffee
And soon its time for goodbye with
Handshakes, hugs and kisses
I’m tired but pleased
I hit the couch and watch T.V. for a couple of hours
An early night is delayed only by a bowl of cornflakes
What with all that cooking
I’d forgotten to eat
Day 5
Worry, worry, worry
Is all I seem to do, worry.
I worry about the future (don’t we all?)
will it be better, please God not worse
will I ever learn from any mistakes
or will I make more just like them
I worry most about things I can do nothing about
not the great big global burning issues of the day that scare us all to death
but all the stuff that complicates my life that’s out of my hands, like how
I worry that my best friend will never have the baby she so craves and I worry that she might be sad forever, then I start to thinking back and so I worry about
the past that plagues me and haunts me with all its gloom and despondency
and I’m scared that I’m stuck looking back full of regret
and if a bright new dawn comes along I’ll miss it because I’m too busy worrying about what I could’ve done differently and how it’s too late now.
I worry, worry, worry that people won’t like me and then I’m surprised and
a little confused and scared when they do and so I don’t trust them and wonder what they want. I worry that I’ll die alone and lonely and that they’ll be no-one left to take the blame, just me and then I’ll know it was my fault after all.
And the strangest thing is when someone says thank you or sorry or lets me down
or asks a favour or whatever it might be, I nearly always say:
Don’t worry about it.
Wow! That was amarathon effort! Really enjoying all the posts, great stuff & great fun too!
i love to ramble. so here is ramble poem #2 for today.
We Are — All of Us — In the Gutter
This guy came into the record store
where I work, wearing a pink
trucker hat that said "Pump
Me". His skin told me
he must have been
in his late 40s.
When I rang up his two
CDs, he grunted with a slight
orgasmic enthusiasm
that suggested he was anxious
to get right down
to the business
he was advertising
over the brim of his cap.
Isn’t it funny
how sometimes the context
just isn’t attractive? I like how
Robert Plant seems to sing
and cum at the same time
in every Led Zeppelin song,
with his sweaty long hair
steaming sex.
Certain men can turn me
on with the color
of their cheeks, or how
the timbre of their voice
washes over a moment. But
once you give me
your tired, your cross-eyed, your
huddled masses of weirdo, America, I
am left trying to remember
right and wrong, sensual
or unflattering.
The customer started yelling, direction-
less: "They need to build
a Hooters by the Burger
King in Norwood". More
sounds of pleasure
came, deep-thrusting
noises right from the pelvic
region and diaphragm. I was
disgusted, reminded
that I constantly question
where these people come
from and how they manage
to function… to find our store
and their own shoes.
And I remember, too, that I
am the girl who would gladly
show an adorable, endearing
and music-thirsty
guy where the "poster room"
was if the opportunity
presented itself. I fantasize
about this several times
a week. It makes
my chest flush
to think about it.
But I am still the one
who scoffs when I hear
someone a little too rough
around the edges
say the damnedest
thing like "Do you
got that Blind
Faith album? The one
with the titties on it?"
A PLACE TO GO
Living in Alaska is a fun ride.
First, you need some practive driving on ice
because if you do not, for seven months
you will be a couch potato at home
only looking through the windows outside.
Once I went three hundred and fifty miles,
from Anchorage to the northeast I drove
with four grandchildren to see the North Pole
and to see their faces cracking with smiles.
Our adventure up there was very long,
it was fun the pictures with Santa Claus.
Coming back we wanted to see wild life
and went fairly near of Mount Mckinley,
fourteen miles inside among many hills
the snow was falling covering all sites.
There was nothing in sight for a long while
but slippery roads and frozen brooks
then near us we saw this gigantic moose
with antlers that were reaching the skies.
It was a trip to talk about with pride.
Awakening
Do not let these few words suffice
However measured or concise
To satisfy that inner drive
That truly makes me feel alive
I am not waiting for the muse
Because there is no time to lose
My writing desk is calling me
To not ignore is liberty.
wow! You’re asking me to ramble,ramble ramble ramble, hee hee. Is this opposite day! I use to ramble whenever I was a little girl but i was always told to stop it! but i still rample in my head all of the time, i think that’s why I write, my sister still rambles out loud all the time because she was the youngest of five children and she got away with alot of the things we didn’t, one of my sons rambles whenever he has a fever and oh it is nervewrecking to me, i tell him whenever he is rambling and i know i always end up telling him about a horse i had when i was a little girl, named rambler. and then i always end up calling him rambler. This horse was the coolest hourse around, i practiced barrel racing with it and was pretty good, that was whenever we lived in oklahoma near this coolest pond in the world, i use to rig up homemade fishing poles, because us girls didn’t have any and my brother was stingy, and either catch grasshoppers for bait or used peices of bread that i spit on to make a doughball to go catch fish every chance i got, one time i caught a huge fish that even shocked my daddy, i still fish alot with my husband now but the bait i buy is pre-spitted.
Why Is April So Busy?
By Bill Kirk
It’s amazing how April jams things up. Suddenly, today’s my wife’s
Birthday. Who knew? Anyway, I really couldn’t do anything for it
This weekend because, don’t you remember, I had the Wilderness
First Aid course. So, now I need to go to the store and get a
Card and do grocery shopping and get the SMOG check done.
Maybe that would be good to give her for her birthday, and
Some flowers. But then I have a massage to give this
Afternoon and the Boy Scout meeting tonight. I think
I may need to reschedule a couple of things. How did
Today get so jammed up anyway? Tomorrow I have
To sell some tickets to the spaghetti dinner on the
15th, which is, of course, tax day and the last
Thing I want to do is apply for an extension,
which means I will have to get the taxes done
This week because my wife is flying out next
Sunday to visit our granddaughter, Pilar, in
South Carolina on her birthday—Pilar’s, I
Mean, not my wife’s. And I have to have
her signature—my wife’s not Pilar’s—
On the tax forms. Oh, and I better get
A card for my sister in Atlanta because
Her birthday is on the 13th. And
Adrew’s birthday is next week in
Mobile and Aunt Grace’s is the
23rd in Yazoo City. And I forgot
Phil’s is tomorrow in Sioux Falls.
While she’s gone—my wife, not
My sister or Aunt Grace—I will
Have to get ready for the Boy
Scout Camporee the 18th-20th
But our grandson has a dance
On the 18th. So, that will mean
Going to the Camporee at
0-dark:30 the next morning
So we can set up our tents
Before the day gets busy.
Then on Monday, my wife
Gets back. So, there’s the
Trip to the airport to fit in
Some time between the
Massage I have to give
In the afternoon and
The Scout meeting
That evening. And
Wouldn’t you just
Know, the 25th is
My birthday. So,
It’s a good thing
I’m retired so I
Can spend all
My spare time
Writing….
"Willie Nelson Singing"
Why do I want her
I don’t understand
She isn’t perfect for me
Nor I for her
And yet here I am
I want her to be my
Prince Charming
My knight in shining armor
At the same time I am
for her
I want her to be the ending
to my dramatic comedy
I want to be the person that
drives her nuts for the rest of her days
I don’t know why I feel
The need to be rescued
But this is the girl I want
to do it
So many thoughts
Is is just me
or is time running faster
than it ever did before?
I feel the ticking under my skin.
When I was younger
time seemed to move slower.
Could it be this high-tech society
is making us move too fast?
Could how soul be lost
to this high tech society?
Will the art of writing
be stolen as well?
In time, will children read
less from books and more blogs?
Maybe this is already happening.
Maybe I’m behind the times?
I like the smell of books.
In time, will there be no books?
Will schools have only computers?
Will teachers be replaced with computers?
So many thoughts run around
and abound breaking my heart
as they pass from my mind
to the keys to my computer.
I don’t even know if that is poetry, but I’m in a rambling mood
"When I first met Chris"
When I first met Chris he was
eight and I was twelve. For a few years
he resented that I was called the
‘babysitter.’ No baby he! And once
I had started to become one of the
family, he and I settled into our
roles as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ and quarreled
endlessly. The years flew by, as they
are wont to do, and suddenly I had a child
and he was living on the other side
of the country. Yet we still spoke
every other day or so and he came to me
with all his girl troubles and I made
all my boyfriends pass the ‘Chris test.’
When I first met Chris I had no idea
that he would be only twenty-two
and I only twenty-six
when he would
leave us
forever.
Destruction of the soul begins within. Like a favorite shirt stained, it bleeds through to another side of us that we either cannot or refuse to see, yet we wear it anyway. Blinded by our own vanity, we are lost in in endless pools of sanitized light. So sterile we become as we bask and bathe in their medicated glory, unable to see beyond our own tainted shirts. Those mighty gates we show the world, so obvious in their purpose, so worthless in their meaning. For all their golden triumph they are but gilded iron. Secrets kept strong only by the lies that created them, but like their deceit, the futile attempts at redemption do little more than conceal the decimation that already rages within. Imagine an emotion that embodied pain. The piercing ache of ones soul being torn apart from within as we continue on helples and careless in our own sin. We are nothing more than lucid thoughts amongst God’s liquid dreams, and crashing towards the end never felt so good…
That Lonely Chemistry Box
There it sits
Waiting to be opened
But I can’t open it
The reason is
That it sits there
Is that I need to clean my room
I stare eagerly at it
Day after day
Wondering when it happens
I wonder when
I’ll lose my paitence
And open it
All the same
There it sits
Waiting to be opened
But I can’t open it
That poor, lonely, chemistry box
Boo-hoo-hoo!
April 7th 2008 for #7
Unfolding
I need to check and see how things went, the pain of the injury the pain of the event.
But my fingers lock above the numbers, curving in place as if they slumber.
What’s happened? What’s the matter with me? I hear my thoughts accusingly.
I come from a place that is caring I thought, but here lately I don’t want to think a whole lot.
I’m sad when I’m to be happy and I’m happy when I’m to be sad,
I wish I knew what form I was supposed to be clad.
I feel like a bell with out its ding-a-ling, I feel like a ding-a-ling without a bell to ring.
I just need to do something, which counts to my soul, like put my fingers to the keys and watch what unfolds.
Ramble
I think of rambling through the woods,
through the park that abuts the parking
lot one block over, where you can just
walk in between the barbed wire fence
and amble down the dirt paths, or rather
up, mostly. There used to be a ski area
down one side of the park, just one slope,
with a t-bar, plus a beginner’s lift that went
part way up, where my oldest son
learned to ski, back before global warming
messed up the snow here in New England,
when winter was winter. Even then, spring
wasn’t spring. For that you have to go
as far south as Washington, D. C. I suppose.
Here the weather is so inconsistent, especially
in March, April, and May, that my youngest
son refuses to listen to the weather report. He
looks out the window in the morning. He’s
only 22, an age when a wet had or cold feet
are an adventure. Now me, I do sometimes
listen to the weather report, and I carry
an unbrella in my car, along with a bag
of exercise gear, a shopping cart, a back
cushion, paper towels, windex, 6 cloth
shopping bags, some paperback books
meant for the book swap at the dump,
and a large cooler. I was a girl scout.
“Be prepared.” It all accumulates in
the trunk of my car, each time I fail
to have something, into the trunk it
goes for next time. If there is a next
time. Now I need to clean the car,
or buy a bigger one, so I’ll have more
room to collect the detritus from
my rambling.
I went to the mall on Saturday
There was a kiosk in the atrium selling hermit crabs
I should buy one for my grandson
He would like a hermit crab
My daughter, Tina, had one when she was younger
She lost him (or her, its hard to tell with crabs) once for three days
We found him wedged behind the couch.
It’s amazing how many things find their way into tight places
Once I found a half eaten hot dog behind that couch
It was smeared with peanut butter—the only way Tina would eat them
The hot dog was shriveled and hard, the bread turning green with mold
Mold is used to make penicillin
They say Elvis liked to eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches
I wonder if he ever had a hermit crab.
Yea, I really should buy my grandson a hermit crab
But then again, maybe not.
Rambling about Pennsylvania Trees
Let’s see I’ll ramble about something in my past.
I was raised in Pennsylvania where there are
Trees, trees, trees. Hills. And trees, trees, trees.
In the spring time, they seemed to burst into
Green all at once, “greening up,” we’d call it.
In the summer, they were shady where we could
Go when we were lazy and sink our bare feet
In the cool moss. But Dad wouldn’t let us be lazy
Long; it would be mow, mow, mow in all of that
Green grass. We had nearly three acres and Dad
Believed in push mowers then. Maybe that’s why
I was so skinny. The fall was the best with the
Reds, the oranges, and golds and we had to
Rake, rake, rake all of those leaves, leaves, leaves.
But we didn’t mind because we’d jump in them
And rake them up again. And when those leaves
Fell off and the trees turned to bare black sticks
Reaching for the sky, we were suddenly aware of
Our neighbors because the leaves weren’t hiding
Them anymore. So there’s my ramble about trees.
Ready Yet
He grabs a water bottle and Power Bar,
red sneakers and backwards baseball cap,
and only mumbles when asked if he has
everything, eyes bleary,
cell phone in his front pocket,
ready, not ready, for English first period.
Yesterday we visited his university,
where in September, we’ll drop him off,
jeans, t-shirts, laptop, red sneakers;
but this morning, I still have him,
(is he ready yet?)
in the front seat of the van, looking out
at a drizzly Monday, just April,
daffodils, still closed,
waiting to unfurl.
Still trying to finish my paper
On my racial autobiography
It shouldn’t be so hard for me
For this is passionate subject for me
However, I feel a certain resistance
Of having to reread everything we have read so far
During the semester
To include these quotations
Must continue writing
I love this class and want to teach for justice
When I am done with my course
If racial awareness were taught in schools since
Kindergarten racism would have been eliminated long time ago
After all we are in the Twentieth First Century
How come we still have Racism clouding our judgment?
A RAMBLE COMMUTE POEM
So I say to the man sitting next to me
on the train, “Mind if I read your paper?”
And he looks at me as if I have three heads,
Then glides the Wall Street Journal my way.
I rustle through the pages, looking to find out
If the Second Great Depression’s happened yet,
And turn the paper upside down so the stocks
Read as if they’re going up, not down,
And the people featured in Big Business
Are standing on their heads instead of making us
Do that when we’d rather walk like homo sapiens
And not the monkey’s uncles, then finally
The suit on my right says, “Done reading?”
And I laugh so damn hard, he wriggles himself
Deeper towards the dirty window where outside,
Towns are flying by backwards so fast
I see them as residential blurs, town streaks of
Light and color, strings of municipalities
That connected end to end lead to Hoboken
Where we all descend from our train
Onto the horizontal rollercoaster of gliding
Businesspeople on their way to the ups and downs
Of Wall Street and Madison Avenue and the like,
But I take my sweet time as if this is the last day
The world will spin and I don’t give a damn
If I am holding up those in frantic hurries
Because it is my way, my bit of revenge,
My getting damn even with these chowder heads
Who make and break the U.S. dollar so they
Can have their shot at being politically incorrect
And popular with the high-spiked married ladies
And even smile, no laugh like hell, when at last
We are all sitting in new versions of Hoover Huts
On the keep-off-the-grass grass of Central Park.
#
© 2008 Salvatore Buttaci
MY OWN THING
Getting up to go to work
has really become a chore for me
I try to greet the day with optimism and excitement
despite how I really feel about it
but each day I faithfully plead with God in prayer
to make the hours go by quickly
I want to just be able to get up and do my own thing
I have plenty of my own goals that I’m actively pursuing
outside of work
creating my own businesses
one of which has already started
but not gotten off the ground yet
I read so many stories of people
that work for themselves
and have no one to answer to but themselves
or even people that have someone to answer to
but they don’t mind because they love what they do
one day soon, that will be the case for me
I will be able to fuse those two realities together
I will be able to love what I do, while answering to myself
One day I will get up and not care about the length of the day’s hours
Wait one second, I’ll be right back
Okay, I’m back
I just had to deliver a hard copy of an e-mail to someone
See, that’s what I’m talking about
Can’t a woman attend to her own personal affairs
without being interrupted?!
I guess not
but one day soon she will!
Just this morning, early,
earlier than the sun,
when my mind started to wake up,
I began to think again about being laid off
about where we would get the money
to pay the bills
to buy gasoline
to go to the movies
to have a taco at Taco Bell
and why they call them pink slips
when they are not pink.
And then because it’s Monday
I began to think about these little boys
at school, the ones whose parents are in jail
the ones who apparently know more than we think
but just ain’t tellin’. I wondered
what in the world will become of them
if they continue to resist even such things
as listening to a story, and then asking myself
whether I could relax if both
my parents were in jail.
Ramble On
With a river and a mind,
threaded, entwined,
there is no need
to ramble in words divine.
The water, moving,
will take you,
make you swallow
thoughts unkind.
And the rambling rocks
brought to shore,
I remember the days
of collecting, one upon one,
those river rocks,
in the bloated, stretched
belly of my soaked white t-shirt,
we counted those rocks
as the tide moved in,
pushed forward to shore
by the rumbling ocean
outside our view.
We counted those rocks
and erected pyramids
by the treeline, waiting,
waiting for ancestors to save us,
birch bark ghosts
gliding the water, paddles
not making a sound, but touching
the depths of that river mother,
slicing through the surface
like a white hot knife,
and pleasure, as the bonfire
lifted ash to heavens,
we counted those rocks collected,
made memory of their smoothness
upon the face of our newborn skin,
and we kissed the river
our minds entwined together,
soft the water taking us under,
to a wonder more divine.
this blue pool
cover caught rain
from autumn to spring
and in between
froze dirty
leaves and now
the thawed
puddle
is a pond
on top: keeps
reflections
of power
lines, a wavy
sky and tree
limbs
that grope
and fumble
as aged
fingers
the world
is upside-down
from the watery
mirror
as a perched
bird warbles
the word
"cheerful"
again and again
as the branches
ooze
in grey-
brown spirals
everything
from above
slithers wet
and distorted
like tendrils
of hair
in a murky
bath and only
in rare, breathless
moments
does anything
truly resemble
or remember
its own
self
a soft, still
hand
stretches over
the tarp; the right
hand begins
to look
like a crippled
version
of its left’s
shadow
and appears
to wave
goodbye
My Silly Predicaments
The silly predicaments I find myself in
are hereditary to the women in my family.
I’ve never known others who can do
the things we’ve done.
Who else do you know that can back into a boulder
and wonder if it’s alright,
Knock down the carport only to have
your husband laugh at you,
Weave in and out of construction barrels
to find your way back to the road
while a county mountie looks on,
Drip blood into the ocean and have dad yell “Shark!”,
Walk through the drive-thru just to get directions,
Be detained by cops in a busy tourist restaurant
while your family members finish their meal.
All these things and more
have happened to the women in my family.
And although it has made years of wonderful family
entertainment when we all get together,
it makes me wonder if my daughters
have inherited these genes too. If so, I’m sorry girls.
I used to love to open the cottage
in the spring when there had been
all kinds of unseen wildlife around
the door and the back deck
I wondered who or what
upset the boat so carefully
turned keel up on the blocks
was it a deer or maybe a moose
or possibly the wind that whips in
off the Big Lake that wind that
causes Lake Effect over us
things nested in the leaves
when you kicked a pile
you might kick leaves or
you might connect with
something solid, a squealing
wriggling body that burrowed
further into the leaves or
maybe bared its teeth and
charged out to run off
wildly in an opposite direction
Inside was a different story
no matter what we put out
in the fall there were always
mice scattered some live
some dead from eating the
cake of soap always left
on the sink I shivered
deliciously after we cleaned
and made the beds, wondering
if the mice knew whe
were living there again
the cottage was always
tamer than I wanted it to be
but wilder than my life
back in the real world
April 7, 2008
“Time hurries on, and the leaves that are green, turn to brown.”
Simon and Garfunkel
It’s my dad’s birthday, or was,
Now only celebrated only in our minds
For the past l2 years, each of us kids
Remembering but not sure whether
To mention it to the others…
I like to see who else is having a birthday
Every day, and looks like he’s in good company
With Russell Crowe and Jackie Chan, and, oh yes,
James Garner, the only one of the three he
Would have known, and I only know this because
They were in the section of the newspaper I ferret out
For the crossword puzzle, which today I finished
In one sitting, the long phrase clues all having
To do with the game of chess, names with
King and Queen and Bishop and Castle–I
Really like it when I catch on to the theme fast,
But sometimes, I have to say, I’m so dense I can’t
Even get the first clue, and I make it a point of
Honor NOT to look up the solution, sometimes returning
For days to the same puzzle, puzzling it out and,
Like a blast of trumpets, sometimes I get it,
I understand the author’s quirkiness, I realize
He, or she, meant “realize” as a noun, not a
Verb (something I just forget to consider, over
And over), and when I’m done, I’m sorry, really,
And look forward to the next day’s newspaper,
Which will have a different date on it, different
Birthdays, and different everything else too.
Lyn Sedwick
Also, it should be noted that we NEVER drank the "scientific" concoctions we made with the chemicals under the sink. We were, luckily, that smart as children, though we did plenty of dumb things.