Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Day 18 NaPoWriMo











Daddy

In March he turned 95. We celebrated,
witnessing the Daddy we used to know,
laughing while we sang him Happy Birthday.

His wife says she’s losing her mind.
She cried, “He’s declining,”
fell and broke his hip. Hospital.

I walk the dog
standing to watch from the path,
nibbled by the beaver--
spring lilies crowding the pond.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Day 17 NaPoWriMo


Fourth


Tommy blew a hole in his hand and yes it was with a firecracker and yes Grandma had warned him and everyone else in charge especially Dad the biggest kid of all should know not to set them off as they were illegal and dangerous grandma said and twisted her hands in her apron and we all looked on watching because that is how you learn from the parents and family members what to do with your power who does as someone else says in this family, and grandma drawing out dad’s proper name, Richaaard and dad looking sheepish and there we went single file to the night yard each with a sparkler in our hand of course the sparkler is safe but the firecracker the one that pops so loud and so close to your ears it does damage as does the cherry bomb brother set off in the fireplace as a joke blowing the screen right off the bricks and dad’s temper right out the top of his head.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Day 11-14 NaPoWriMo


11. How I Came About

Mama’s intention was to have more children, maybe at first just to
replace the baby boy who died, and then with a new boy, the need for
a girl came to light. I’ve always wanted one of each, she said, and then
I came along, A fast child wanting to pop out in the backseat of the yellow
cab that Mama and I road to the hospital in. And Daddy, she told me later,
wasn’t in the cab, nor did he give us a ride in his Silver Eagle, because he
was on the road, the driver of a big rig that I have no recollection of, but
in my made-up story, I see it parked outside the house and Mama climbing
a little ladder because the cab sat far off the ground. Up and in we went
and off to the hospital, Daddy honking that big semi horn all the way there.
With an adventure like that, there was no need to come out in the back of
a cab. I wanted anyway, to make my mother happy. 


12. Ahtanum Ridge

The mountains are bare, like they’ve forgotten
to dress this morning, the flesh in a
high crease, folds seductively, the waist also
bends to wrinkle and crease where
shade becomes prominent, brush growing
in damp places.

First one brown hill, then
another devoid of trees

Waxed smooth each morning


13. Two Birds Fly, One Hits the Window

We are in a wind   a big blow   knocking furniture
across the back porch    the sky is gray-black    the sound of a truck, a plane     a freight train once when the wind hit 90     miles per hour is high  and so the birds fly willy-nilly on gusting currents     meanwhile a solar wind blows down through the atmosphere    clocking our hearts at a sensational speed    their rhythm and our minds race    sleep evades us    the rustling whistling wind alters trajectory    it is always ringing bells and busting heads   fast around corners    birds sit tight   your fellow has fallen


14.
What the Dictionary Has to Say

My repeating dream is of a wobbly table floating
about a room, tipping teacups and saucers toward the floor but like a flying carpet, lift into the air swirl around. All this is orchestrated by a magician with black eyes, laughing as he twirls sideways past you. The dream dictionary explains the tipping table as a symbol of loss of control and flying teacups: a need for retreat, as all good warriors do.  It’s like lining up before a firing squad, teacups flying toward you, breaking against the brick wall behind. Then we come to the magician, the man wearing dark clothing and white gloves. The gleam in his eyes makes
your breathe catch as you struggle to wake: trickery
the dictionary says, beware of this fellow.  


Friday, April 13, 2018

NaPoWriMo



 Day Eleven

Mama’s intention was to have more children, maybe at first just to
replace the baby boy who died, and then with a new boy, the need for
a girl came to light. I’ve always wanted one of each, she said, and then
I came along, A fast child wanting to pop out in the backseat of the yellow
cab that Mama and I took to the hospital. And Daddy, she told me later,
wasn’t in that cab, nor did he give us a ride in his Silver Eagle, because he
was on the road, the driver of a big rig that I have no recollection of, but
in my made-up story, I see it parked outside the house and Mama climbing
a little ladder because the cab sat far off the ground. Up and in she and her
big belly went and off to the hospital, Daddy honking that big semi horn 
all the way there. With an adventure like that, there was no need to start
life in the back of a cab. I wanted anyway, to make my mother happy, so I 
waited.  


Day Twelve.

The mountains are bare, like they’ve forgotten
to dress this morning, the flesh in a
high crease, folding seductively, the waist
bends to wrinkle and crease where
shade becomes prominent, brush growing
in damp areas.

First one brown hill, then
another devoid of trees

Waxed smooth each morning


Day Thirteen

Two Birds Fly, One Hits the Window

We are in a wind   a big blow   knocking furniture
across the back porch    the sky gray-black    the sound of a truck, a plane     a freight train once when the wind hit 90     miles per hour is high  and so the birds fly willy-nilly on gusting currents     meanwhile a solar wind blows down through the atmosphere    clocking our hearts at a sensational speed    their rhythm and our minds race    sleep evades us    the rustling whistling wind alters trajectory    it is always ringing bells and busting heads   moving fast around corners  I say    birds sit tight    your fellow has fallen

Friday, April 6, 2018

NaPoWriMo Day 6


Photograph
After Stanley Kunitz

There is no photo of me with Father
as mother tore him
from our days
while still young,
driving my brother and me across
county, leaving behind our home.
She hide him in the closet
like she did her children,
never reminding brother
and me of the dad we’d forgotten.
I solved the riddle in high school, sitting
across the table with my burning question—
Why is my stepbrother younger
than my brother?
Mother told me that step-father
(a regular visitor to my bedroom
while she was away)
wasn’t my father.
To this day, I see her rouged
lips mouthing, I thought you knew,
and feel a flush burning.


Thursday, April 5, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018



 Daily poems written from prompts for April poetry month.


April 1       

Too Be Fooled

I am a fool.  Maybe I like that role and maybe
I don’t. It definitely generates good laughs.  Even
for myself. Once Dad fooled me by fibbing  
my forty-something sister was pregnant with
her fourth child. He said, “She’s embarrassed
to tell you.” I kept saying, “No, impossible. Oh man,
you’re kidding, right? What will she do?” “April Fools.”

Then there was the time my friend told me
about a terrible parent she counseled who only
fed her child Goldfish.  I imagined filleting tiny orange
fish and frying them in a pan. Or maybe she ate them
whole, dropping wiggling fish into her mouth like
in the cartoons. There you have it, my gullibility. It’s not
a bad thing being a fool, but it’s humiliating.


2.      April 2 
Mannerism
She’s foolish, you can see it in the way she dresses,
forgetting her age and her status. A woman of 60

should be demure, short haired, graying, and sedate
of dress: not so robust and youthful a walk nor a hunger

for the bedroom.  She laughs loudly and without constraint—
and she points: remember, it’s against  Miss Manner’s

rule, the way she eats with gusto instead of dainty bites
She’s foolish! She’ll never land a man acting that way.

April 3:
New Crayola Colors

There’s Dill Pickle green and Mud Puddle brown; there’s
Linoleum gray and Scuff Mark orange. There’s
the purple of a blueberry stain and red wine left
on a beige table cloth—French’s yellow, Nosebleed red,
Wilted Hydrangea white. There’s the blue shadows
under eyes and Kinky Black mascara; Dog Gum pink,
and Grass Stain green. There’s Plumber’s Grease gray
and Gangling Cyst red-orange—Faint white
and Snow Dirt Charcoal. There’s the blue of a pulsing
vein and Under Fingernail taupe; Tangerine Rind
yellow-orange, and Sundown lime; There’s Dry Skin
beige and Melted Chocolate dun. Brain gray.

4.

New Fridge Delivered Today
On lines from Charles Wright

I have nothing to say about the mess
left in dark spaces. Or why I live near the edge
of decomposition. The edge of growing mold and black liquid,
a continent where penicillin runs rampant. Counsel
my inner maid to recycle and scour often.

I have nothing to say about the pile of dishes
in the sink nor the vanity of immaculate housekeeping. I have
nothing to say about women with honorable cleaning skills.
All year I work like a bird breaking up the dirt in a flower pot,

not hungry, not pure of heart, just trying. All year as my new husband,
sweet and patient, moves old food from the back to the dark
garbage outside. What true advice godliness gives.

April 5  

This is the Beginning

68 could be good, it could be bad.
I’ve learned that happiness
is made by being precisely in the moment.
Not late, not overly early, but gratefully
completing transitions on time.

Photos of younger women, pretty
girls living with gusto, are no
longer relevant. This time
of my life isn’t based on the importance
of results, it is for slowing activity,
eliminating ego, striving less.

One version of being a senior is of a doddering.
old woman. Not me, though I pledge to no longer
be so convenient to others.  I might appear grouchy.
Time spent in public, well, it’ll be by choice—blatant
ignoring may happen. Just look at history of old age.
More women than men shuffling about out there. 

Women take over. We’re converted to the head
of our families. Our personal temperaments demand
respect. Matriarchs awakening to importance,
but at the same time to caring for less.  It is
really a relief; it is exquisite to age, to take on the pride
of tomorrow and tomorrow, again and again.
 


Sunday, April 30, 2017

Repetition: Day 30 NaPoWriMo

Men say again and again how 
their sons were born…or how
the wife threatened them when
she was pregnant…or how poor 
they were in collage,so they ate huge 
meals on the weekends with their 
mothers to tie them over. Men
repeat these stories and women 
say, Yes,I know, you’ve already 
told me that. Once a man shouted, 
Well, I’ll telling you again. Another 
man said, We have no other stories.
If we don’t repeat these we’ll have
nothing to say. So women should say,
Oh really, how fascinating. And 
watch their eyes light up. Yes, I know 
I repeat myself, And I see the light 
go from his eyes, and right off I say, 
I’ve already told you haven’t I. And 
he nods. And we're quiet for a few
moments before another topic arrives.  

Saturday, April 29, 2017

Mirror: Day 29, NaPoWriMo


I see you standing behind
me, reflecting the happiness
in our faces. Once a friend 
said he looked in the mirror 
and saw someone else. Some 
evil from a past life, or specter
manifesting out of darkness, 
its image replacing his face. 
shrugged,saying I did not 
know what he meant, or why 
he would see such a thing. 
Maybe he was messing with me,
as he did like to make me feel 
uncomfortable. Or maybe he was 
just one of those folks who saw 
through the veil to the wanton
malevolent stuff. But now, it’s 
clear to me there's nothing but 
love entering our field from 
beyond, and it reflects as clear 
delightful light.


Friday, April 28, 2017

Sid's Amour: Day 28 NaPoWriMo, Dipodic Verse

The cat door
makes me sore.
I’ll name him Thor,
the mouse from hell,
who rings my bell
when he scampers
past the hamper.
I try grabbing,
not quit nabbing,
the stupid mouse
living in our house,
because the cat
is a brat,
bringing in live prey
most every day.




Thursday, April 27, 2017

To Your Kisses: Day 27, Napowrimo...

The evening we first kissed flew my thoughts into the sky, though my body stayed alert, saying yes and yes, and yes to you. We sat on the davenport, kissing like weedy teenagers barely sated by smorgasbord. It was easy to fall for those smooth vermilion borders, the light brush of soft whiskers against my chin, your warm golden scent. Still, you repeat the story, how I said: I think we should kiss. And we did for over an hour. Your flavor lingers like rustic bread, crusty, yeasty, salty; notes sweet on the back of my tongue that night and still. Now I know how much the granary of your love quenches my thirst, feeding me in a way I never suspected I hungered.