May 28, 2007

During a recent trip back home to Kansas, I had to attend the funeral of a dear mother's friend. I have known both mother and daughter (my age - grown up :) ) since high school, thus many sweet and lasting memories passed about me like swift moving clouds as I made my way back to the tall grass prairies of home. I was heading back to a small town boasting a convenience store, a couple of churches, several antique shops, and the local watering hole for thirsty farm hands and co-op boys. It is a town where front porches are an extension of the home, and you find people on them during milder weather, or seeking relief from a warm Kansas sun.

I just can't help myself when my writing sense takes over and demands that I work my experiences into some form of literary context to make sense of, or position these experiences. I honestly do not do this on purpose; it just happens. I suppose it is a way to make sense of an often chaotic world, thus if I can contextualize it through writing, it's my way of putting it into some kind of logical order, yet allowing it to remain organic and ever-changing at the same time. If you are of the same nature, you will know EXACTLY what I am talking about.

As a result, this poem developed as I stood on a hill side during the funeral, a hill side that from any where I turned, I could see the horizon. I had returned to a quiet, more simple place in the world. A place where smiles indicate authentic appreciation, a place where people believe God is real and not something to be disproved, taking joy and the potential for forgiveness away from others, a place where when the breeze blows it takes you in and out of sweet memories and reminds you about the precious and fragile nature of this thing called life.

Standing Separate

A light wind slipped sweet and fresh
on that cool swept Kansas hill where
a fragile and green prairie stretched seamlessly
into the arms of a fading spring sky.

Soft and sober, they placed her pink casket atop
the freshly dug earth, dark-loam ready,
for her reception where she had buried
her own within the gentle and yawning years.

The small circle, kindly hearts and neatly dressed, gathered,
a gentle spirit of loss, love, and light as
gratitude sifted through their many
and salient memories, including
the man who emerged from the red dented pick-up,
dark hair speckled gray to the collar,
no jacket, short-sleeved shirt half tucked, standing separate,
a stranger, or so it seemed, watching,
cigarette pinched between work-hardened hands.

Solitude caught his river of invisible tears
as the spirit of her settled
upon the voice
of the local high school girl,
standing among the bowed heads,
softly singing “Amazing Grace.”

May 13, 2007

Sometimes change is easy and fun to do; other times it is painful, difficult, and can seem down right impossible. That is what this quirky little poem is about, change. When you feel like you are doing nothing but spinning under the observance, criticism, futility of that which is just not working, to change it is often like a ripping away from the old, not just simply leaving it. And in the process, we can often leave tattered parts of ourselves behind. But hopefully, with integrity, character, and the ability to step up to a higher, more noble ground, despite the hits we take, the spears that get chucked at us, it leads to a better place for everyone involved.

Pale Veneer

It trailed a ring around its wing

hammered to a parquet floor.

Spinning silent subjugate

as if productive

it hovered

with its good wing; my god

if you looked close

closer

you would have seen

the milk-like threads,

pale veneer

fragile veil

unseen

at a distance.

Fun to watch

until they got bored

and couldn’t afford

to keep it.

Requires

special food

for thought and

it went into such a spin

one day the milk-threads tore. Enough

spinning and lord what can happen.

You should have seen it rise,

gain lift, though not as pretty

as before as it fluttered,

flapped and fretted

right out the open window,

disappearing, one day

they say

the wing will

grow back.

April 29, 2007

I've included a picture of my lovable and sometimes pesky feline, Milo, aptly named by my daughter, whose personality has blossomed since adopting him five years ago when he suffered from pneumonia. Today he is healthy, thriving, and has this thing about laying on top of my students' essays. Last week, he felt the kiss of Heaven when he discovered a little wren building her nest in the geranium plant on my patio.

Okay, now on to some poetry...and then there are poems where you do not have to be quite so obvious. Determining where to publish a particular poem depends on who is looking for what. Some publications invite work that is rather abstract and obscure, such as the poem below. Others look for poetry with strong images, extended metaphors, or poems that are easily accessible...in other words, poems that make sense right away when you read them; there is no "teasing out" required to understand them. Many times, when I have read a piece that particularly strikes me, I try to incorporate it into my poetry because it is meaningful to me. I like to add a particular reading experience and blend it with the creation of something new.

Solid Ground Still Far Away

Woolf floated; rock heavy pockets;

heard her through the dusk waters

as echoes slipped into soft silt.

Tried so hard to pass through

that Walden pond as

they said to pray and to pray harder

when feelings would not come for him;

ice locked tight below

lantern of opaque light,

search party.

Water turned eyes

whitish blue that waited

and blinked in the long quiet

disappearing light.

And then an ax slammed through,

exploding ice

lifting a limp form,

though solid ground was still yet far away.

(Argotist Online, UK, Spring 2007)

April 29, 2007

I've included picture of my lovable and sometimes pesky feline, Milo, aptly named by my daughter, whose personality has blossomed since adopting him five years ago when he suffered from pneumonia. Today he is healthy, thriving, and has this thing about laying on top of my students' essays. Last week, he felt the kiss of Heaven when he discovered a little wren building her nest in the geranium plant on my patio.

Okay, now on to some poetry...and then there are poems where you do not have to be quite so obvious. Determining where to publish a particular poem depends on who is looking for what. Some publications invite work that is rather abstract and obscure, such as the poem below. Others look for poetry with strong images, extended metaphors, or poems that are easily accessible...in other words, poems that make sense right away when you read them; there is no "teasing out" required to understand them. Many times, when I have read a piece that particularly strikes me, I try to incorporate it into my poetry because it is meaningful to me. I like to add a particular reading experience and blend it with the creation of something new.

Solid Ground Still Far Away

Woolf floated; rock heavy pockets;

heard her through the dusk waters

as echoes slipped into soft silt.

Tried so hard to pass through

that Walden pond as

they said to pray and to pray harder

when feelings would not come for him;

ice locked tight below

lantern of opaque light,

search party.

Water turned eyes

whitish blue that waited

and blinked in the long quiet

disappearing light.

And then an ax slammed through,

exploding ice

lifting a limp form,

though solid ground was still yet far away.

(Argotist Online, UK, Spring 2007)

April 15, 2007

Not all poems need to be so serious. Some can be light hearted, reflecting times when the heart feels young and hopeful. Spring, especially, as gentle rains cleanse new blossoms regaling gardens in pinks, yellows, red, and lavenders, to say the least, is a time when verse can rest against a backdrop of optimism. A colleague and poetry mentor recently assigned me the homework assignment of writing an ode, something I'd never done before. So, ladened with odes by Pablo Neruda, he sent me on my merry way. Over the winter holidays, I perused the pages, and that is what gave genesis to my first ode. The Key West Martini was recently introduced to me by my talented hairstylist. Each time I go in for a visit, she regales me with the latest cocktail she has tried, whether in a new Italian restaurant she has recently discovered or a masquerade ball she has attended. The recipe for this delicious beverage can be found under "Bon Appetit" on my website. Enjoy.

Ode To The Key West Martini

Key West Martini
tall, cool
and stately
in a spotlight;
but not before
precise preparation,
like ballerinas prior
to point-toe performance.

Clear and cold
Stoli Vanil flexes
and slips from
a smooth mouth,
mist rising
from frigid backstage
darkness.

Midori Melon Liquer,
merriment,
thick warmth
and light
sliding out
against cool glass shoulders,
leaping softly,
lifting gracefully
between silken sheets
of ice.

Fresh cream
swan-white waltzes
with fresh lime lover
pursuing,
splashing against
smooth silvered walls.

Lights dim
voices hush.
Key West Martini
tall, cool
and stately.

c.e.

April 8, 2007

I have been working on my website. Between that and this blog site, I am getting a slight feel on the discourse of personal internet domains. It is careful water to tread, and I still find myself uneasy with it as I work to get my sea legs in the idea that, potentially, many, many people can read what I write. Somehow it is different when a journal publishes my poetry. I cannot really articulate why. After all, the issue of globality is present in all aspects of web writing. It's just going to take a little getting use to.

I watched a show recently and listened to a man, redeemed, really, by age, and redeemed by sorrow, speak of his incarcerated life. There was something he said that continued to tumble gently in my mind, like a soft, fragrant sheet in a warm dryer, weeks after I had listened to him. He was trying to explain that he had to make a decision, despite being sentenced to life, to live his life as well as he possibly could. He said that is when he made the decision to change from what he had been into a thinking man. It struck me significant because there are times when life does not turn out the way we want, but we know we have to make the decision to do our best, not feel sorry for ourselves, and to just keep moving ahead. At first, I thought, hmm..a thinking man, now that would make a great title. As it turned out, it became a poem.

Thinking Man

Sitting quietly at gray and seventy-seven
among book stacks
in the prison library,
seamed lines cinched his eyes
glinting in a life sentence light
as a soft, wind-whispered past
sighed outside his cell.
A killing took place ten and
ten and ten ago
way before the decision
he said
to become
a thinking man.

April 1, 2007

What I especially like about this poem is that it takes a large natural element, the moon, with which everyone has experience with, and creates a personalized experience. Also, I found the use of the more colloquial language a nice effect in reference to the lines involving the "splintered hope line." Language does not have to be over-inflated or overly sophisticated to be powerful and influential. Take Robert Frost, for instance; a poet who used simple, ordinary language to create astounding poetry with many layers and complexity. His poetry is enjoyable and memorable on the surface as it is in its depths. Simply lovely.



Mistrust

I have passed before the thousand eyes in church
but it is with the moon I hold a staring contest

losing again.

But the moon takes pity and lifts
this mistrust stroking it gently.

We've done this before
the moon and I
when I've tossed that splintered hope line
sighting it real good
watching it hook hard
a yank to make sure it was tight
but it does fool me at times

and the moon cups this mistrust
stroking it gently.
c.e.
(A Little Poetry, Fall 2006)