53/100: Ah sadness... ah joy!

It is 5:30 in the morning. Crickets sing their melancholy, and the open windows let in the cool, darl air. In less than an hour, my son's alarm clock will begin to play whatever rock music plays at this time of the morning. He will tumble from bed, silent, unused to the dark, unused to the gentle prodding from bathroom to breakfast table to backpack.

After my son trudges up the hill to the bus stop, I will wake my daughter, wrapped mummy-like in blankets with dolls and stuffies. Her body will feel warm, and I will have the urge to lie beside her. She has more time to prepare for the bus that takes her away most mornings for the next nine months to school.

A bittersweet day. This has been a good summer--even I found the time to slow down--yet I welcome the return to schedule, to routine. And this morning, as every morning of the first day of school, I will find myself weepy-eyed as the yellow bus pulls away from the curb. Peace...

50/100: Half-Way Hump

Today marks the half-way mark for 100 Days of Summer. When I joined this celebration of summer, my intent was to post an observation a day. My focus would be on describing place, focusing on use of the sensory details to invoke the felt reality of a moment in each day. Easy, I thought.

No, not easy. Time snuck up on me most days, as did "obstacles" such as trips without internet access, work that felt relentless, and the happy visit of the muse that caused (happily again) a rush of writing on my novel. In addition to being a mother, a wife, a professor, I am a student, and the summer coourse entailed reading a book a week, along with attendant homework. Finally, I did not want to present some half-assed piece--the words, the images, the thoughts and stories of my fellow challengers (yes, I have read these on facebook, and marveled) are too beautamous for me to sully.

But... even though I have not posted every day, I have written every day, and these observations have found their way into my other works. I am working on a larger piece that backfills using these fragments from the past 18 days and will, in my own time, present it for public consumption.

100 Days of Summer has yielded a tapestry of beauty and feeling. I have enjoyed the journeys.

My favorite post to date? 19-25/100: A Week of Summer Sounds. A feast for the ear.

Peace...

26-32/100: SCRATCH and SNIFF

Day 26: Tomato leaves as they brush against the skin of your hand.

Day 27: Coconut oil and sweat on a sweltering beach.

Day 28: Ozone in the air after a thunderstorm rolls through.

Day 29: Char from burgers on a neighbor’s grill.

Day 30: Brown sugar and cinnamon melding with peaches in the oven.

Day 31: The chlorophyll of freshly mown grass.

Day 32: Cantaloupe on the way back from the farmer’s market.

Another sensory compression. Try to describe smell without using the word 'smell' (or any of it's synonyms). What scents do you associate with summer? Peace...

19-25/100: A Week of Summer Sounds

Day 19: The cicadas' thrum lulls me into afternoon.

Day 20: Lawnmowers whine, incessant bee-buzz of summer shearing.

Day 21: An ice cream truck circles several streets over, a lonely calliope of sound.

Day 22: Ocean waves crash on wet sand, a dull roar; louder still, the boom of thunder.

Day 23: The thwup-thwup of thousands of tires traveling homeward over the bay Bridge.

Day 24: Pop! Fizz! Soda bubbles tickle my nose, rock my mouth with commotion.

Day 25: Quiet fills Sunday morning streets, everybody everywhere but here.

18/100: Re-Cycle (Retread II)

Rubber shards litter the highway

more than I remember.

Perhaps it is the economy

driving truckers to a cheaper tire,

or maybe it is our green mentality

re-using a resource until it blows.

17/100: Outside Starbuck’s on the Way to Work (Retread I)

Every morning he’s there, his cart heaped with bags, staring at our coffees and scones. I always step around his mess, head to the hospital to crunch admissions, discharges, deaths, but today my iced caramel macchiato feels heavier, his eyes harder. I hand him my drink. He shuffles away, not even a thank you.

16/100: Road Trip

The road beckons.

From Baltimore to DC, to visit with family 'in town' for a conference.

Hotel pool, free coffee and mini-Danish; children frolic, high on sugar and an empty pool.

The drizzle relents.

A stroll down 12th Avenue, skateboarders jumping stairs 8 at a time.

Lunch of salad, flat bread, cookies.

Dorothy's ruby reds at the American History Museum.

Lemon water ice.

Hugs at the top of 12th and K.

From DC to Baltimore.

The road beckons.

15/100: AURORA

Remember.

Peace...

14/100: How Do You Like YOURS?

Sliced and salted, white bread toasted, extra mayo?

Diced, dashed with balsamic and olive oil, extra virgin?

Pureed, a shot of icy vodka, crowned with a celery stick?

Tossed into a pie crust and baked with fresh mozzarella and fresh basil?

Eaten fresh off the vine, still warm from the sun?

Tomato. Summer is here.

13/100: On the Corner on the Way to Work

Fifteen seconds.

Waiting for the light to flip.

Cars fly twenty over, a hospital zone. A lanky young man, pants hanging low hips like a magic trick, bops to his silent music, fingers clacking, knees bending.

"X-rated, x-rated," another man, this one silver templed, peddles boosted nips of high-octane booze.

Across the street, a woman wavers. Already you can fry sunny-side ups on asphalt. She crumples, implodes inward slow-mo.

Cars stop. The white walking man says walk.

I cross. A half-dozen attend the fallen woman. The pusher makes a sale, and the bopping dude vaults through the cross-walk, a gazelle on speed.

Fifteen seconds on my way to work.

Peace...

12/100: Hammock Time

Peace...

11/100: Pooped

We had us a shin-dig last night, a garden party complete with daylilies, a guitar-cello duo, antipasti (cheeses, prosciutto, fresh tomatoes with basil, tiramisu), vino, and, of course, fiori!

Much fun with friends, but now it is time to rest. Peace...

10/100: DAMN BUG

Look.

Closer.

See that bug right there? On my Asian pear? That is the best thing China has sent us since the whoopee cushion--not! Stinkbugs. They ravage the garden in spring and summer, feasting on soft fruits and vegetables, leaving behind a taint of yeast that makes the produce ferment from the inside out. When the weather cools, they head indoors and nestle among wool sweater (they prefer cashmere and merino), leaving nasty stains.

Birds snap these critters up, and some say cats find them rather tasty, but there's more stinkbugs than birds, it seems.

Here's hoping we get at least one Asian pear out of this summer. Peace...

9/100: DRIP

Every day you Mama flirts with Constantine in this goddamn market, maybe he you daddy. But you lick you ice cream, little pink tongue like a cat’s, flick, flick. Lick fast, girl, the heat’s gonna melt it. Like summer’s melting me. I ‘member when I ate ice cream with my mama. Ten years? Twenty? Dunno how old I am, but I ‘member how the cold creamy freeze my brain. What? You holding that cone out for me? Spit rushes, my fingers twitch close, and you jump, drop the damn thing, laughing at me scooping the mess off the sidewalk, all greedy.

***

Friday. Payday. Everyone out at Lexington Market, chomping on peanuts, drinking malt liquor wrapped in brown paper bags, kids in strollers licking ice cream. Originally Published in Dog Days of Summer, an anthology of 100 word stories pulled together by Michael Solender. Read on for more summer heat. Peace...

8/100: Butterfly Bush

The butterfly bush

persists through summer

swelter, surpassing

lilies blooming but

for a day;

the garden peaks,

a memorial.

7/100: Joy

Baltimore feels 10 degrees warmer than my home on the outskirts. All that asphalt, the tall buildings of glass reflecting sun and heat, the lack of shaded green.

But Baltimore has coffee shops, and nothing beats summer's swelter better than iced coffee.

Today, I went to my regular Starbuck's and ordered a venti iced with milk, unsweetened. The cashier waved her hand when I presented my gold card.

"On the house," she says. "Rather, on the anonymous customer who paid for your coffee."

Turns out the gentleman who produces the Grand Prix in our city drops a hundred when he visits this particular Starbucks. Thank you sir, whoever you are--you made my day, mine and quite a few others who received complimentary drinks. Peace...

6/100: Moon

I captured this image last October. Fog rolled in, the moon tangled in branches, and I remember thinking of a good friend of mine, living over the Atlantic, and wondering if the moon he had seen seven hours earlier was the same. Peace...

5/100: Down the Highway

We spent the day in the car, my family and I. We passed fields of rain-soaked Golden Burley and acres of soy, replaced by stands of loblolly pine and creeping kudzu. Further north, truck stops and strip malls, half-empty, replaced nature. Outside of Emporia, Virginia, the sulphur smell of a dead swamp filled the car, with each occupant pointing fingers at the party guilty of imparting such stench. Chicago filled the speakers, good things in life take a lot of time, and the car flew under cloud-studded blue, the temperature never cracked 90, and it seemed we could drive forever.

Peace...

4/100: OASIS

By nine in the morning, the temperature hit 96 degrees. The small breeze felt earlier sucked into the vortex of heat. Sprinklers whish-whished the canna lillies and other plants sweltering in perlite-packed pots. In the fields, daylilies, thousands of them, their leaves withered yellow, mustered another step towards life and offered up their blooms.

Peace...

3/100: SWELTER

We barrel down washed-out asphalt. The mile ahead shimmers and buckles. A white humid haze covers baked fields, the red dust lofts behind plows churning up futility. Our passing whips the leaves of trees, their silvered undersides turned up as if in prayer. At the exit ramp, crepe myrtles drip red.

July 7, Day 3 of 100 Days of Summer.

Paint the town red.
We travel south, in one of the hottest days of the summer. Peace...  

2/100: LONGING

Night. Cold as ash, cold as ocean deep, come, collect me: cells, bone, teeth.

Creep beneath moon snarled

in shade of night, primrose,

jasmine, sickly scent seep

under borders brambled

vigilant heart keeper:

through garden bare

of heliopsis, daylily,

glory of morning

prostate to light.

Come.

Collect me.

July 6. Day 2 of 100 Days of Summer.
Out like a light.
My imaginings of a night garden; fragments of living in a night world.
Peace...

1/100: Currants

Currants. Tart bomblets burst on your tongue, juiced into jelly, chiffon pie, sorbet to reset your tastebuds. Eat them--quick--before the catbird makes his feast. 

July 5. Day 1 of 100 Days of Summer. 
Paint the town red.
Indeed. Let's start in the garden. Peace...

Mama Nature

There is nothing more humbling than Mother Nature throwing a tantrum. We spent a good thirty minutes in the basement last night, waiting for the red square on the weather channel radar to move east. Tornados had touched down throughout the afternoon and evening in the surrounding counties, so we took the warning seriously.

An inch of rain later, we emerged, unscathed. Peace...

Berries

Between the rain and the busyness the past 2 days, I had not gotten out to pick the strawberries. Tonight, I did. The leaves brushed almost up to my knees as I waded into the thicket, chucking those that had begun to rot and plucking those in crimson splendor. I ended up with two gallons, even after tossing the berries in salad and wine and atop ice cream. They went into the freezer, to be made into jam later this season. Peace...

The Music!

I am always slightly cranky before going to a school concert--the crowds, the heat of the gym, the noise--but as soon as the music teacher lifts his baton, the children bring their instruments to their mouths, a magical peace fills the room, my soul.

Peace...

For Judy

I remember more than twenty years ago when I lived in Boston and the phone rang. It was a woman, a girl really, who was in a Master's program in Health Policy at Harvard. She was a pharmacist and had heard of me, also a pharmacist in graduate school, through a mutual friend.

We had talked a few weeks ago about collaborating on a grant proposal. We emailed about having drinks next month at one of our professional meetings, as we do most years. We would meet for an hour to share gossip, to commiserate over the travails of the Ivory Tower, to talk about our 'kids'--my son and daughter, and her two show dogs.

Judy died yesterday in a head-on collision when another car crossed the median. I will miss her sincere laugh, her kindness, her passion for research and scholarship, her red hair noticeable in a crowd. Peace...

Tonight Tastes So Sweet

A long week in a long month in what felt like the longest spring. Tonight, hanging in the hammock, the cool air around me, tastes sweet and deserved. Peace...

Pomp and Circumstance

Tonight I hooded my former doctoral student. She amazes me, her quiet fortitude and persistence. From China, she lives the American dream--highly educated, newly married (to a newly-minted doctorate), a tenure-track position in a up and coming School of Pharmacy, and they just bought their first house.

I learn so much from my students, and from JJ I have learned patience and to never stop striving. Peace...

Sweet Singer

For weeks my daughter has been angsting over her solo in the school musical. She often freezes when onstage with a group, but tonight the director handed her the microphone and she opened the song, with a voice sweet and pure and honest.

Almost made me cry.


Peace...

Day Under the Quilt

Woke up with chills and fatigue so strong I went back to bed after drinking my coffee. I can't remember the last time I took a sick day. Peace...

14 Full of Graces

1. The river birch throws dappled shadows, branches dancing in sunshine.
2. Chinese wisteria corkscrews around the railing, a cacophony of purple and green.
3. Strawberries lush green, fruits budding white.
4. The catbird sings from the Asian pear tree, eyeing the robin's nest.
5. Clusters of currants hang with promise of red.
6. Lilacs, a froth of pink and lavender.
7. The hummingbird whizzes past my head, dive-bombing for nectar.
8. Rhubarb grows hale and hearty.
9. The air smells of cut grass, that fresh chlorophyll smell.
10. Far-off, a chain saw buzzes.
11. Maple seeds whirligig, a flurry of pink and green.
12. Tomato plants in their pots droop from lack of rain.
13. White butterflies flutter around the iris, nature's kites.
14. The hammock swings me in the breeze, clouds pass on their way to the next garden.


***

14 graces for the 14 days of missed posts. Observations from yesterday, a day spent in the garden. Whew! All caught up.

Peace...

Yikes...

So much happening I forgot about this alter-bloggo of mine.

I owe like 8 posts. All that poeming pooped me out. Peace...

When Spring Comes Around

When spring comes around

tractor beams of sun
rub out winter white
the pitchfork turns
leaves molted a season ago;
all returned to humus
energy for the coming light.

Birds darken the sky,
replace blue with grey
and the lonesome cry
of gathering, and in branches
and under logs mossed velvet
life scurries awake,
erasing slumber.

There comes a day,

just one, when tree limbs
stretch to clouds, shake off
their grey and cerise buds
unfurl to peculiar yellow
green before fading
to drab, the burnt-out
monochrome of summer.



***
Prompt=fading.

And like this month of poeming, winter fades to spring, and soon, the heat of summer. Peace...

Mortality

What trouble this body

poor vessel for my soul,
and tawdry, wet
with dirt and sweat
and more, secrets
from the deep, moored
in corpuscular rafts
swirling in circles,
held in by skin
a tangible thing,
and common: mere
cells, bones, teeth
grafted into some
present-day urn.
 

And when the vessel

cracked--a gasp
of blue turned red,
surrendered to earth.




***
Prompt=line from another poem. Peace...

WEEDS

 

You tell truths

the way an Englishman
keeps a proper garden:
boxwood-rimmed
white-fence trimmed
to contain the fruits
and keep out the rabbits.

But, like a rabbit,
I persist in digging
under fences, carving
through hedges
to reach tender leaves
of daylily and sage,
rhubarb and thyme,
only to wallow in
tangles of chickweed
and dandelion
creeping over all.




***
Prompt=problem. These days I struggle with dual demons: garden weeds, and understanding how a person can lie with conviction. Peace...

the trouble is this body

my skin cannot

contain my spirit,
my bones cannot
maintain my position,
my blood cannot
feed far or full enough,
my muscles cannot
move my ego,
my nerves cannot
implement my will,
my heart cannot
leverage my love.

what trouble this body,
poor vessel for my soul







***
Prompt=the trouble is (blank). Inspired by my yoga practice, coupled with general strife and approaching a new birthday. Peace...

ANT

Once upon
my time
you stood
mighty,
a mastodon,
able to carry me
and mother
over mountains,
across years
mine-strewn.
Now, rendered
to bones and skin,
wizened from
weeks of radiation
beamed through
your blood,
you stand
weaving,
brave
ant you are.





Prompt=animal. Inspired by my father and his journey through cancer. Peace...

FENCING

We go at it
with our bladed weapons
foils stashed under tongues
epees hidden in our hearts
brought out only under
extreme duress
when the parry fails

We circle around it
each spar a prick
in this verbal blood sport
and wait for the other
to yield right of way
but neither awards
the other the point.



Prompt=sport. Inspired by an argument. Peace...

APPLE CAKE

Today I baked an apple cake

three apples firm, not bruised.

New crop apples,

you would have said,

best for eating out-of-hand

but all I had in stock

It is the dice of apples

that makes the cake;

too small and applesauce,

too large and teeth break.

You supervise even now

your admonishments louder

than the radio’s bray.

Flour sifts, ghost veils

brown sugar churns

with butter, nuts cracked

chopped for adding later.

For crunch, you said,

bones of the cake.

Collected, the cake settles

into its greased glass pan,

baked until the apples soften.

Baking apple cake reminds me

of mountain afternoons

walking through sweet hay

fields to orchards, fallow

now, and frost-bitten,

wizened apples hung

still in cider-spiked air.

We carted our rare prizes

in brown burlap, bundled

in your lap, by your feet.

The truck bounced down

the rocky hillside, you laughed.

Later, with apple ache

rounding our bellies

I cut into the cake

still warm, vanilla ice cream

puddled on our plates.

***
Prompt=love poem. Peace...

MORNINGS AFTER

Mornings after the fire-fight,

mornings after the last words flung
careless buckshot memories.
Mornings after the plates shattered,
the glasses fractured, words razored,
all thrown at highest pitch-- irrevocable.
In the mornings, after the bottles
get rinsed in soapy water, dropped
in recycling bins, regrets well deep
and darken what remains.
We always regret the mornings after;
why do we repeat the nights before?



Prompt=mornings. And yes, this is a fiction. Peace...

Bullied in the Bible Belt

Every Monday

you brought your Sunday
finest to the bus stop:
harsh words, hard fists
inflicted on the infidel
who kept Jesus
in her hope chest—
along with a copy
of Anne Frank
and a sugar-
sweet stopper
from a Drambuie bottle—
and who prayed
at night between
bed sheets to
whoever listened.

A good Christian boy,

you went to church,
then spent your Mama’s
tithing coins on gum
and candy, spent
your envy on those
not forced to make
the Sunday commute
to a cross-covered
space, spent your
fear on those
who believed
in a different fashion.

Prompt=judging poem. Being beat-up by the good Christians at my bus stop in the 6th grade because I did not go to church formed the foundation of my non-theistic philosophy. I find it ironic that I fell in love and married a man who is a Unitarian Universalist minister. Peace...

A MINISTER'S WIFE

Sundays when I sit
in the front pew
and listen to the words
a path to God
your hundred eyes
bore into my back
steel pinions
a butterfly to velvet.





Prompt=under the microscope. The prompt could as easily be: in a fishbowl. Peace...

Let's drive north

past the exit ramp
that returns us
to the formstone
bungalow all shady
with pin oak
and diapers, soiled
plates and the
neighbor’s son
dealing dope
on the corner of
Church and School.

Let’s drive past
the ramshackle five
and dime now
a dollar general
and the Purina plant
where horses burn
to chow and glue
and hope exits
at the five o-clock whistle.

Let’s drive north
where air moves
dustless, stars break
through god’s detritus
let’s drive until
the asphalt peters
out the sun kisses
the ocean green
and baptizes us.



***
Prompt=Let's ____. Somedays I just feel like driving until the road ends. Peace...

This, a Life Event: or, When Cancer Invades a Child

This, the seashore:
scallop shells, soft
serves swirled high
in cake cones, sunburn,
swimming pool, your son
splashes, then wades out
shivering; his stomach
aches.

This, the sudden cry:
splits the night,
breaks the dream,
tomorrow’s scavenge
hunt of shells and sea
glass broken, tumbled
tears that contain
memory.

This, the hospital:
hushed murmurs,
latexed fingers prod,
prick, neat white coats,
white cells dry up,
tubes tether your son
to machines, to
life.

This, a life event:
an event that alters,
an event that mutates,
crushes and bends
futures. God is not
at the sea shore, not
at hospital; God plays in
details.



***

Prompt=life event. This inspired talking to a friend whom I had not seen in more than six months. Since we had last talked, her young son, now ten, was diagnosed with 3 forms of renal cancer, two rare. I cannot even imagine the horror, the pain; this poem tries to recreate what happened, if for no other reason than to understand. Peace...

CRABS

Here in Baltimore
they eat their crabs
steamed in Old Bay
pepper-hot so they can’t
taste the sweet
of the meat

dumped on newsprint
covered tables
a tangle of legs and claws
wooden mallets
pummel fat blue bodies
dusted with boil...




***

Prompt=regional food. Yum? Peace...

SUBTERRANEAN CEMETARY

If you press your face
Against the glass
Of the subway heading south
In the last car
With lights dimmed
And if you stare
Hard into the tunnel’s black
Against the wall hands
Grab at sparks
Flung off the third rail
Eyes stare back, hard.




***

Prompt=sci-fi or fantasy poem. I do often wonder what lives in the Baltimore subway system. Peace...

AT MILEPOST 33: A Memorial in 10 Parts

iii.
The sun burns a hole
through blue sky,
waves churn grey-cold, a wintry coffin.
By the time we gather one mile
past the ramp, the sea mirrors
sky.

iv.
The wind lifts
sifts you fine between our fingers;
you want to leave.

With hands lent-like
we walk our paths
salt spray on our cheeks,
hearts to burst, we scatter
you, a final wish.

v.
But I cannot let go.
I have regrets.
I have memories.



***
This, three parts of a ten-part poem taken from parts of five other poems, and re-assembled with linking language. I wrote the five poems over the past 3 years during and after my father's struggle with cancer.

Prompt=mix-up poem.


Peace...

POEM FROM A SOLDIER IN AFGHANISTAN

At night, perched in the Pamirs
high above the Pech
the air thins cold
and vision is possible:
you seek the slash
of poppy orange in grey rock,
yellow gleams from copses
of holly and cedar,
the silver of wire lining
the goatherd’s path.

The thin cold air
magnifies night-sound:
the snap of twigs, the soft
snap after the bullet
slashes air, the snap
and slap of gear
buttoned on and down,
magazines loaded,
soft violences masked
by mortar thrum.

In the cold night air
dark stretches and thins:
tracers limn clouds, yellow
dust balloons behind ridges
illuming villages
on fire, rockets explode
and reflect in the Pech
red and black streamers,
some reverse fireworks,
some strange awesome
terrible celebration.



***
Prompt: use these words in a poem: slash, button, mask, strap, balloon

I have war on the brain: I am reading it, writing it, all to make setting (hopefully) believable. This is where the prompt took me. Peace...

THE WATCH

After the wolves killed the sheep, then the children
I fled the backcountry; without cricket and tree frog song,
the silence grew too deep.

I packed light: food for a lifetime, clothes and boots,
all the guns, a photo of my love, sewn into the pocket
over my heart, the audio of our poetry...





***
The first two stanzas of a doomsday poem. Feeling prose-y today. Peace...

BEHIND

On the street
before me a man
dragged his right leg
behind, a blue plastic
bag banged against
his thigh, the bottle
of malt sloshed
against his jaw
slack as the waist
of his jeans
sunk lower
and lower
with each lurch
more chalk-dusted
buttock revealed
I did not want to look
but could not help
myself or him,
or the shame of it all



Prompt=unlucky. Inspired by a man stumbling down the street, just as this poor man. I am so lucky to be who I am, to have enjoyed the privilege I have. Peace...

Something About the Uniform

compels some to pump
a hand, grasp a shoulder,
offer a hug,
whisper thanks.

Others hurry past
with bowed heads
as if straw stuffs the suit,
the jacket but a prop.




Prompt=Something (fil in the blank). Since I am writing war, got a uniform in mind. Peace...

AUTUMN AND ALL

Across the river from the nuthouse
under the gush of grey
sodden sky flirting with the
sun—a fickle breeze tumbles
autumnal leaves through the last gasp
of meadows, golden and rusted

brambles and milkweed
the glimmering of winter berries.


***

Prompt=season. Inspired by William Carlos Williams's SPRING AND ALL. Peace...

At the edge of the wood

There is a tree
at the edge of the wood
silver-bare bark
hole-riddled, branches
twisting toward clouds,
the only green
mistletoe hanging
from highest limbs...


...I wait for my son
to finish his day.
When the school liberates
the children, a rush
of black and blue, a blur
of chatter, small panic
worms under my ribs
until his gold mane shines.


***

Prompt=tree and/or forest. This inspired by the struggle of all children to belong--and to individuate. Peace...

UNDER THE TREE AT LEXINGTON MARKET

...You lick your ice cream, little pink tongue
like a cat's, flick, flick. Lick fast, girl, the heat

gonna melt it, like summer melts me...


***

Prompt=shade/shady. Shade made me think of heat, of obtaining relief. Peace...

STEEPLE

Sunday morning before church
you wrenched the last
small bits of care
and flung them,
indifferent,
to the floor.

In the tremulous light
our son stacked one block
atop the other.
We watched until
the tower wobbled
and you walked out.



****
Prompt=rejection. Happy Easter all.

Peace...

transplant

when the specialist arrived in his shiny white jacket the room stilled, a sterile still life colder than the air used to keep the bleating machinery needed to push red cells through my arteries, to gush antibiotics into my veins like city hydrants when summer swelters hot from the pavement, to keep tiny engines from shorts that would gum wires and tubes and send electric shocks down lifelines to the system--my system--and when he shook his head, his mouth a hyphen, the air grew colder yet and my heart heaved into a pulsing mass of valves and vessels, one last gasp before it puttered into a puddle of tissue necrotic and grey, of hope gone south with the geese


***

Prompt=communication between two people with no words said.

My attempt at a prose poem. Peace...

THE ROPE

It was ordinary rope
the type used to bind parcels to carts,
or carts to horses.
You thought nothing of it,
I am sure, when you left
your crooked house
down the steep wending steps
through the iris and gladiola,
to the dirt street and Sir’s house
to mop his floors, polish
silver that saw you
reflected, blond and worn...


***

Prompt=a person, place, or event that happened before you were born. This first stanza relates the suicide of my great-grandfather, an immigrant from Finland. He and my Mumu came to the United States and settled in Massachusetts with little more than the shirts on their backs. She worked as a maid; their son, who had tuberculosis, died two years later. My grandfather found his father swinging from a beam when he returned from school. Peace...

100% SPRING

Robins scurry after grubs
bunnies hop under shrubs
trees leaves flutter, yellow-green
daffodils bow in the warm breeze
puff-white clouds bring April showers
to sprinkle on bright spring flowers
rainbows stretch across the sky
pollen gives us itchy eyes
the sun sets on a perfect day
paradigm of a true cliché


***

Prompt=100% _____ (fill in the blank). Got a little silly, such a fun, frivolous day (I am on vacation after all). Peace...

16 DAYS

If I could peel away time
each second a papery layer
I would go back to the moment
sixteen days ago when you
were settled into the hospital bed
white sheeted, stuffed kitty-corner
in the downstairs spare room
and the hospice nurse
showed me how to peel plastic
from patches and crush
pills fine as ash...










Prompt=apology poem. Inspired by my father's entry into home hospice two years ago and my regrets in not helping him to end it all. Peace...

STORM

Ceaseless, snow drifts down
shimmers pure on starless pine--
a choir of silence.




Prompt=visitor. I chose an unbidden spring storm. Peace...

THE MINISTER'S WIFE PENS A SERMON

You call this timbered space
a church, yourselves
congregants communing
as one to find a One

but behind your crooked
smiles, your hoary handshakes
stand adultered hearts
and gluttonous envies

...

April celebrates poetry, and so shall I. To mark National Poetry Month, I write a poem every day (as I have for the past 5 years) and will post glimmerings here. Join in the fun, leave a line or two in the comments. Perhaps I shall fashion a posey of them all at the end of the month, a communal poem of sorts. Peace...

Blueberry

Felt a little sad.
So we threw the kids in the car and went out for a proper dinner.
Calamari, bangbang shrimp tacos, salmon, arctic char, and coconut custard pie. Oh my.
And one of these delectable martinis.

A pleasant evening with the best possible company. Peace...

TGIBT

Thank God It's Bed Time.




Namaste...

Bluster and Blossoms

The wind came from the east this morning, scattering pear and cherry and plum blossoms, a spring storm.


Peace...

A little wine will do ya

as will a little whine.

sometimes the best medicine is dinner and drinks out with a friend or three.

peace...

Singing in the fog

Walking down the foggy street towards my office, a baritone singing Old Man River, louder than the clatter of the market, the whine of traffic. I never saw that man singing, but the tune played over and over in my head all day, and made me smile.


Peace...

Too Much

Mondays feel too much. Too much to write, to think, too many emails logpiled in the inbox, too many students with too many questions. No other day feels too much, only Monday. Why?


Peace...

An Hour

Today, an hour to write: sweet bliss!


Peace...

Rain, rain

Your sweet patter lulls me to sleep, makes me dream sweet.




Peace...

Early Spring

The first asparagus poked through sometime between yesterday afternoon, and this. Usually my favorite vegetable makes its first appearance the last week in March. We shall be in our dinner glory in 5 days.



Peace...

Big Umbrella

I like to think of my purpose in life as holding an umbrella, tall and wide enough to include most every person, every thing, every viewpoint.



Namaste...

Hump Day

Heading home, the middle of week done. Enuf.


Peace...

Harbingers of Spring

Daffodils.

Rhubarb bushing out.

Robins pecking at the ground for grubs.

Cotton sweaters.

Stuffy noses, itchy eyes.

Strangers who smile.

First burgers on the grill.


Yes.


Peace...

Just What I Needed

That small wedge of fudgy brownie... just what I needed this afternoon. Thank you to whoever made such deliciousness and left them in the kitchen for all to enjoy.

Namaste...

Morning Ghost

This morning fog enveloped the neighborhood, a thick soupy white that veneered my skin on my morning walk. Birds called from trees I could not see, and it seemed they were calling for lost friends. The corner streetlight appeared from the white, an ancient lantern, a ship lost at sea.


Peace...

Luck

I find it funny that today is commomerated by all things green and the drinking of beer when, in fact, Saint Patrick drove snakes from the island of Ireland. It still is not clear whether the snakes were the literal animals, or the pagans that had occupied Ireland before Christianity.

At any rate, a day to remember my Irish roots, as well as drink Irish pear cider with friends. Peace...

Holes

There is something pleasurable in the ardor of digging holes in the garden. Peace...

Ides of March

Today is the birthday of Benjamin Michael Taylor, one of my dearest characters. At least, this is his fictive birthday; the Ides of March are so fraught with tragedy, as is much of Ben's life. I created him on January 2, 2006, but he had been present in my mind for some months before.

Today he is 32. So young. I wonder if he is still living in New Hampshire? I wonder if he is still alive? Peace...

So Far So Good

Today is over. Now, another wait, though the first test looks very good. Peace...

Waiting

One more day. Tomorrow I have some medical tests, the possible results of which make me rather anxious. It is the waiting, though, that makes me panicky, the not knowing.

Namaste...

Crocus in the Sidewalk

On the way to work, in between the emptied Vodka bottle and the spent condom, a small wee crocus wedged its way through a crack in the asphalt.

I wished I had my camera with me.

Namaste.

Spring = Sore Tushy

And arms and legs and shoulders and thighs.

I had an appointment with a personal trainer/physical therapist. He made me do 30 squats with weights. A variety of upper-body exercises, with weights. He pushed on the base of my spine and found out the left side of my pelvis is 1/3 inch higher than the right, so he yanked on my left leg while I coughed and voila! My lower back pain almost disappeared.

I may not be ready for bikini season, but at least I will be able to fit into last year's granny suit.


Peace...

Spring = Yardsales

Which means the house empties of husband and children early. An hour of quiet before class. Bliss.



Peace...

Yoga Is My Saviour

Being in the space, in the quiet, focusing on the breath and making it slow. down. reminds me to not let life carry me away in a tumult of worry.

Writing is my other Worry-wort Anonymous crutch. Of course.

How do you let go of anxiety?

Peace...

The Doc is In

I often find myself frustrated by the health care system: the costs of the service, the costs of the time waiting for those services, the inability to get access when needed. But today, when I required an appointment much sooner than later, a new office found time for me this morning, examined me with courtesy and respect, and provided the follow-up care I will need.

I remain anxious about this new medical malady, but at least I have confidence in the providers who will care for me.

A well-run medical office is worth more than all the health care reforms imaginable. Fix inefficiency, rudeness, and service, and satisfaction with our health care would rise exponentially.

Peace...

Hump Day

The best part of this day is that it is over.

And that is enough.

Peace...

A glass of wine,
a shared meal--
the power in these
are their power to heal.

I went out with a few colleagues last night after work. We tend to be a stuffy bunch, wrapped up in our insecurities, not trusting the other. But wine loosened the tongue: we learned a bit about each other, we relaxed, we laughed when the bathroom stall door locked one of us in (I won't say who).

It was a nice night. Maybe wine drinking should be required for all workers, everywhere. Peace...