The real work begins

playing with my kids
rolling on the floor
giggles and squeals
abound with galore

fairies and dragons
make their roosts upon me
I am the luckiest of places you see

For I am the Mom
home from her job

when I leave
the kids cling and they sob

fairy castles aren't meant to be out of sight
even dragons need a safe cave to make things alright

and they build their hoard in my pockets you see
toy cars, and mittens, crayons, and used hankie
which they then pull out with great glee
all over the floor

and we giggle and squeal and roll as before

What my letter to Santa taught me

A wrote a letter to Santa for my class the other day.

Dear Santa,
I want a nap. A nice, long, nap in a sunbeam. Curled up, warm and toasty.

I want time to play with my kids, build things with them, read to them, dance with them.

I didn't finish the letter since I had to give the lecture... but I realized that if I wanted time to be with my kids, then I've got to design my life to do it. These early cuddly years are slipping away and if I choose now to enter into a PhD program, then I will probably be spending way too much of that precious time shushing them up so I can write. That's not what I want to do with these years. In 10 years very few of these kids will want to hang with me any more (yikes, 5 of them will probably be grown up and moved away), but now I am the most precious thing to them. The PhD will wait. It is patient. But children grow up either way.

I also don't want to commute anymore. So I've got to design my life where I don't need to do that. That will give me back 6-12 hours per week of precious day time to be with the kiddos.

So I think I see possibilities opening up for me that would allow me to get an MBA in sustainable management - all on-line while working/being trained in as grant writer, and still have enough time to spend more with my kids then I do now. My schedule would be ultra-flexible and adjustable to whatever challenges come my direction for a while. Plus it would let us stay put in our house, stay near my family, and it would allow me to serve a wider variety of people than a specific PhD discourse community. (oh and it pays better now and probably 15 years down the line). Those reasons are all really appealing.

dino

You can't defeat the dinosaur that is hunting you. But you can train it not to think you're food.
Don't attack the guard dog, that is misguided action

One by One

I have been a teacher of record for Freshman Comp as a graduate assistant for the last 2.5 years. My stint is up in December, as I will graduate. We were given minimal guidance on what or how to teach. So I naturally pulled on my 40+ years of experience teaching things like Nursery, Primary Music, Sunday School, Relief Society, Ballet, and as a homeschooling mother.

The most important thing I ever learned about teaching is that everybody is an individual. I do not teach a class of 30, I teach 30 individuals in a class. Each comes with different experiences, different styles of learning, and different skills they need to build. Their brains and bodies each work in their own unique ways.

I try hard to learn every name every semester. I try to remember their strengths, weaknesses, tolerances for complication and to adjust my discussions, expectations, council, and encouragement for each one.

We can never choose what others are ready to learn, and if they are not ready to learn it, no amount of lecturing or assignments will get them there. What a true teacher really needs to do is meet the students where they are at, and work with them where they are at. If that means sectioning your lecture to cover different needs for different students, then do it.  A beautiful, cohesive, focused lecture will only help the students ready for that material. But if you hit 5 topics, perhaps you can help 5 times as many students.

The other thing I think is crucial is to love them, everyone, individually. Get to know them. Acknowledge their presence, and thank them for coming, discuss their favorite topics. Moving away from home, to a dorm, being in classrooms or lecture halls with 100s of other students, eating dinner in a noisy dining hall, can all be human processing- even dehumanizing. It is easy to become a number or an ID login, and everyone, especially those in emerging adulthood need to be reminded that they are more than a grade or a transcript. So I look in their eyes, write down what I like about what I am seeing in their papers and make a point to call them by name at least once every class. I grade individually, looking for growth in their skills and thought processes, and try to challenge appropriately.

No, I do not teach according to the latest techniques or theories, even if I know them, they are only useful to a small subset at any one time. No, I try to teach what each student needs.  I teach one by one.

Love Winter's Coziness

the need to feel another's heat

                         another's touch

to know

          smiling faces are waiting

at the end of this long, dark, cold road

   A reason to Push Through

                       Keep Slogging

stars overhead - bright

                         known configurations

Why should I fight, when I could enjoy?

trees silhouette against the moon

bare birch limbs

                        glow in its light

What a Night!

to be

                   almost Home

November Haiku

gossamer wings tied to the piano
winter boots, miss-matched gloves
night starts before dinner

Grandpa's Lap

I go back to my grandfather's lap
place of security, serenity
warmth
vibrating with assonance
vowels
sounds
the alliteration of consonants
hitting his lips
his beard bouncing
tickling my neck

this is where my writing begins
every time when I find that authentic voice
buried deep inside daily concerns
constantly interrupted with the needs of the many
outside of pancakes and diaper changes
outside of due dates and tests

inside that carves space-
hearing his heartbeat
through his sweater
connected with poetry
that space is my well

I go back to my grandfather's lap
to find my voice

The seas are boiling

Large methane leaks in the arctic sea .... cause so much gas to rise to the surface that the seas look like they are boiling. https://desdemonadespair.net/2019/10/russian-scientists-find-giant-methane-fountains-in-arctic-ocean-this-is-the-most-powerful-seep-i-have-ever-been-able-to-observe.html

Naturally, it is hidden deep in the news.

A plague of locus hits Texas- (don't have the link to that right now)

What will it be like when the seas turn to blood? Will Nestle continue to bottle it?

we wait

We are staying up late,
waiting for that cool of the night to make it possible for us to sleep
But it doesn't come
It is September
and the cool doesn't come

air thick
humid
a blanket smothering our desire to act

we want to breathe
to move
to hear the birds and crickets chirp

but it doesn't come

we wait

will next week reach the promised lows?

or do I pull out my summer clothes once more

When I am a Grandma

When I am a grandma

I will set out cut glass candy dishes
filled with black licorice
and red hot cinnamon gummy bears
when my grandson asks
if he should put it in the fridge
I'll say "Of course dear,
that's what you do with hot things."

I will make sure I have gum in my purse
so all my grandkids can have a piece
when they get it stuck to their hands
I'll tell them to use a paper napkin to get it off
and laugh at the ensuing hilarity

I will dress differently from everyone else they know
I will show up at school events in houses dresses
with an apron on- bringing fresh-baked goodies

I will give the best hugs
and the best Christmas gifts

because I will the present

Great Pomp

With great pomp
High on their horses of sin
Arrayed in splendors
Of the world- they enter in

Eyes that squint
Ears full of their own wisdom
cannot see hands reaching out
cannot hear the pleas of the kids
     they've locked away
Their hearts beat for money
doesn't break for the ache
     their policies cause

No tears to waste
Not worth the gold

Everyday Joy

Every day there is joy

Sitting on my lap

Snuggling into my breasts

Asking for pushes on swings

Giggles

Alphabets

Car keys

Gas money

College tuition

Holding the hand of Superman

Walking to grandma’s

Playing games together

Sitting side by side

Each absorbed in our own devices

just to be near

To be with family

Is a joy

Stories for our Grandkids?

I helped load a moving truck on Thursday. We thought it was hot enough then. Today we helped unload a completely different moving truck- but today it was sweltering. Part of this moving things around was setting up a king size bed in a garage. And I was joking about the stories my kids could tell their grandkids about the day it was sooo hot, that we had to set up a bed in the garage.

But then I realized that that story would pale without our kids and grandkids will experience. Maybe the garage will melt? Or get covered by feet of hail?

News of the day "Alice and Wonderland on Steroids."
https://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-48821306?fbclid=IwAR1ByexxK-0QtwpE3_7vssPVyljjGF1gKaeN5GGgVPZoEWP1v2Nonzjyk1U

https://returntonow.net/2019/05/14/koala-bears-are-now-functionally-extinct/?fbclid=IwAR3AJrk_Ur0ZsGAuu-LVXGFyijv91maGoM8HFc2K37jcBtjmJyV2gYbpJBI

Mommies are not synonymous with trampolines

and other things you say to naked three-year-olds right out of the bath

I think: they call him the streak... fastest thing on two feet
then wonder why kids are so slippery when wet

Batman wants to wear his sister's pink winter boots on a 90-degree summer's day

Who would have guessed so much of motherhood would be spent trying to explain that?
winter clothes for winter, cold, snow
summer clothes for hot weather, sweating, swealtering days
the twain shall not cross

and of course
 mommies are not designed to be jumped on
chewed on
 bitten
   hitten
colored on
or ignored

Ovulation

I want to be banged like a Salvation Army Drum

by a volunteer
an amateur
one who does it for love

hard, steady
day after day
especially on special occasions

deep
     long
         resonate

making beautiful music

until my timber shakes
my frame quakes

membranes moan
and cry

I'm about to die
         AHhhhhhhhhhH

Pollinator Heaven

tall, with crowns of gold and white
wildflowers are a breathtaking delight

dew as jewels upon the blades
glisten in this quiet glade

grass in the back went to seeding
son said "Mom, it looks like Eden"

butterflies dance along the row
now I'm glad we didn't mow

Grandma's House

I walked the steps
the deck
overlooking the lake
memories
came in waves
large, small
seeing through the glass doors
white brick fireplace
bookshelves
previously carefully curated
half my life
 my grandparents lived there
now
sold to new owners

Old White Men

Old White Men

Old white men

With degrees Daddy bought them

Pretending they know something

Distrust all decisions

They never made themselves

They shun the poor

Because they don’t understand

They shun the “colored”

Because they don’t understand

They try to control women

In this land

Their aim

Make money

Stay in power

They don’t understand

Those things don’t matter

that

We are all children of the same God.

Older White Men

Their wives beside them

Called of God

Serve in His name

By His word

In the middle of the night

Awake receive and write

Revelation

Having trained themselves

From when they were young

To listen

A life of service

Navy suits

White suits

Ministering

One by one

Rich, poor, men, women, children

All colors under the Son

For they understand

We are all children of the same God.

About the abortion debate

I have come to think that the impending abortion bills in states across the US
is a red herring for the real agenda.

The real agenda is more about the destruction of womanhood. Mothering is a part of the nature of every woman- we teach, we care, we uplight. We can mother without ever having had a baby.

But when we get divided over the issues of abortion, we forget the aspect of valuing motherhood.

Both sides miss it.

The pro-choice groups do have a point, being able to handle the demands of motherhood is a good idea, and having control over when to reproduce is the fastest way for women and children to get out of poverty. There are many people in this group that understand that abortion does not only mean ending a life of a fetus, but often saving the life of the mother. If you ever had to experience abortion for health care reasons you would know that any reduction in access to that care could have quickly ended your ability to have more babies, and potentially leaving the babies you do have motherless.

The pro-life groups have a point that babies should be loved and wanted, but they don't seem to see that it won't magically happen just because people can not have safe abortions. Yes, abortions make horrible birth control. It is tough emotionally and physically on the body, getting worse the farther into the pregnancy you are. But they are not trusting women to make the choice for themselves of what is best for the circumstances they find themselves in.

I would argue the best way to reduce abortion rates is through enthroning motherhood. When mothers are valued, when they are supported emotionally and physically through the laws of the land; have access to reproductive healthcare (includes birth control and full ranges of OB/GYN and midwifery care),  paid maternity leave for a year, or when wages are high enough that a mother can afford not to work and still eat. When all the work in the mother's day is counted in the value of a country's economics. When these things happen- when mothers are trusted to make choices of what is best for themselves and their families- then both sides of the issue can see eye to eye.

That's it folks

My poetry notebook has been emptied unto this blog- everything from here on out will have to be new

Memorable events in my Life

learning to tie my shoes in kindergarten
kindergarten circus, paper plate dumbbells, and tumbling clowns
stretching in ballet class, walking little fingers down to your toes
claiming to be the special needs kid in preschool so I could sit in the special chair
Mrs. Jendero reading "I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor" out loud
giggles of the kids at the rhyme of "oh heck, it's up to my neck"
bringing my own snack for milk break- a peanut butter sandwich and hot cinnamon candies
trying out the push pews in our new church building
twirling around and around in my full skirted dress at my baptism
the only kid in the primary choir
after dance class, waiting for a friend's dad to pick us up, we would play in a storage room- giggling to pop, and stories and making Phyllis Dillers out of the Christmas ornaments
Piano lessons- my teacher would hold a sharpened pencil under my palms
making mud pies, in broken dishes my neighbors threw out
my sister losing her glasses in the snowbank- we found them next spring
the bike my parents said was my size- I swear it reached to the sky
story time with Dad
my mother, dressed as a witch- making witches brew for our Brownie troop- she had disgusting names for everyday stuff like canned peaches
twirling around with my head on the cafeteria floor, just for fun
mom said my hair looked shiny
standing in lunch lines
always wondering what teachers did in their lounge
the school got new machines, that would sell 2 pencils for 25 cents
Mom made sure I had a quarter, even though I didn't need another pencil
drawing an oak tree in the fall, winning center placement on the bulletin board with it
loving the first teacher who actually took me seriously
waking up to a new birthday outfit laid out to wear to school
hiding one year because I didn't see it, until Mom pointed it out
it was second hand- I was disappointed
Grandma Hunt making noodles for the soup she made for my sick mother
Grandma Ruth making dozens of Christmas cookies, many varieties, all in one day, spread across our kitchen table
Grandma Ione always having gum in her purse when she came to visit
Grandma Bree- always with beads and a hat, skinny and wrinkled with a twinkle in her eye
I got gum stuck to  my fingers, Grandma Bree advised that I used a napkin to get it off, All the adults laughed at me as the napkin begin to stick all over my fingers
Grandpa reading poetry to us
Butter and margarine puns at the Thanksgiving table. I had a whale of a time sculpting it, then would it be butter if I worked longer on it, or was it only marginal?
My aunt knitting, darning a sock. I peppered her with questions about what she was doing.
Ripping the broken tiles off the bathtub wall, so they finally redid the whole room
My life slowly separating from my sister's
Grandma Ruth- proudly showing my the rags she made for my baby. I didn't get it. I do myself now.
Dying of sinus infection, but flying in spirit
Moving to Pequot- nothing worked in the new house
First day in Utah- 90 degree, walking alone along the city streets, independent and free
Autumn Meller- her name still brings a smile to my face-some people are just instant friends
Crisp Cold Winter in Nauvoo
When I was told on for bringing a book to a play- only a fifth grader would be so petty to feel a need to tell the teacher you had a book in your pocket and might not actually watch the play, apparently, no one thought about reading on the bus ride
Blowing bubbles in my Sister's hair, everything stuck in her curls
looking in the mirror after Egon was born, the worn out, wrinkled face, with dark circles and drawn expression- life seemed only to exist in the eyes, suggested to me what I always imagined a hag to be
camping under the expense of the desert sky
scenes of eternity opened to me

Is Every Sound in the Universe Poetry?

as I read
     my kids are crazy
hyenas laughing in the night
bouncing off the walls
house of monkeys
howling at the moon
chasing each other
in ecstatic circles
around and around
     noisier and noisier
bedtime becomes
a zoo break

Pink Recesses

My pens keep disappearing

into that black whole that is my purse

deep recesses

many folds

pink pockets

velvets, silks, leather

endlessly stretching, accommodating

contents always growing

backaches caused by carrying it

until- had enough!

upside down you go

squeeze

squeeze

squeeze 

it out

Thoughts on Walt Whitman

Alan Moore's speech left me more confused than inspired.
He suggested Walt Whitman was a flake
but that the old dead poets should drownd us and support us in the salted sea of Western Literature.
I am not so sure

I liked that Walt Whitman's poem today was about the laborers- not race not ethnic heritage
the work that we do that contributes to our nation, not where we came from.

Amy

Amy-
you died
yet you live
everyday infused
with life
because of its uncertainty

Grandma, How did you do it?

Grandma, how did you do it?
eight kids, spouse often disappeared in to drink
or just away for work

how did you survive in a culture
where you were supposed to be happy
vacuuming rugs

with frog legs, caught with children's hands in the swamp
you made dinner

how do you keep moving when your husband passes away
what kind of tears did you cry when your granddaughter died
you plead that that burden might be placed on you
instead of your son
God listened

she lived and a few years later your youngest took her place

American Humorist Novelists

I am at the Mayo Clinic this week, for my son's yearly appointments. School is done for the semester, so I have time to kill, without homework to fill it. I picked up a Terry Pratchett novel. Ever laughed out loud in waiting rooms? or explained to a nurse what you found so funny?

I have found that the best humorist Novelists seem to be English, and not American (of course, it is very hard to read a humorist novel that is not in your native language and understand it well enough to find it funny).

So I looked  up a list of American Humorist Novelists- the list seems to start and stop at Mark Twain- yeah there was a few stand up or TV comedians who wrote books and made the list- but I discount them as not being primarily novelists, as they don't make their bread and butter from it.

So why can't Americans write funny novels?
Perhaps it is National Health Care (Ok, does anybody know if Canada has any humor novelists?)
Maybe Americans are too concerned with earning enough money from their books so they can afford health insurance, that they can not be as off-the-wall funny?

If you look at the English Humorists Novelists, they are zany, they know they can have fun with words and ideas, whereas Americans always try too hard to make things make sense.

When was mark twain funny? When he was taking things lightheartedly- when he was making fun of things or just wondering. This question could make a fun Ph.D thesis. THis the
y can have fun with words and ideas, whereas Americans always try too hard to make things make sense

20 years

What do you see when looking at 20 years of pictures?

I'm no longer skinny, you never really were
You no longer have hair, I have grey streaks in mine
wrinkles meet at both our eyes
does every wrinkle hold a story of laughter and mirth?
or is there pain buried in those lines?
are the war stories we tell verified there?

What happened between these photos?
twenty years or more
kisses + sex + babies
Homes + Cars + chores
anger at your unfaithfulness
not to me, but to yourself
why could you not push through
why would you not finish anything?
but always leave half done chores
for me to finish, often behind your back
because you never admitted defeat- just quit
rooms left with undone art
full of tools, unutilized
no hope nor dreams of yours
ever withstood the test of time
no dream was worth achieving
always found excuses to why it was no longer worth the work

then why was marriage worth it?
Did I make it too easy?
I gave you everything I had
I wanted you to grow and flourish in my feathered nest
I wanted you to grow into a man
a man who is not afraid to do things
and occasionally do them well

Happy Knees

A simple keys to happier knees
it to wear long johns
when its below 40 degrees

 . . .

weak women often have weak mothers
but I have yet to me a weak woman

Womanhood is bestowed by strength-
that comes only from
smashed drams
empty bottles of hope
labors and tears
pains and joys

of taking a deep breath
and continuing to put one
foot in front of the other

 . . .
Where did Grandma get the guts
in an age when women were supposed to be quiet
to protect the domestically abused from their husband's riots?

Where did Grandma get the guts
when she was supposed to be sweeping the floor
to go to school evenings and night
so they'd no longer be poor?

Where did Grandma get the guts
 to raise her kids with compassion
when the role models abounded of the toxic masculine?

Where did Grandma get the guts
to kiss a total stranger
then she later married him
Where did Grandma get the guts to defy the female conventions?

Dawn Of Erotic

often, I have wanted to share
the sacred feelings of the erotic
but how without giving away too much
or too little?

First Communion

We took the sacrament of marriage
now, finally alone
we are almost shy with each other
not sure how to touch
to connect into this new world

erotic horizons await
but I still close the door to pee
to change into my neglige

tentative we tease
sit close to each other

we have no idea what we are doing
  order a milkshake
  then head to bed

How do we fit together?
  tab A in slot B
what angle do we need
  we try all night
 snoozing off and on
between the acts

and finally
as the dawn creeps over the eastern mountains

legos

Legos spilled upon the floor
careful to tread only the right spots
kick them out of the way

Deeper I go into the toys
untying the knots of children playing all day
weaving in and out of the minefield
trucks and garbage
balls and dirt
papers and crayons
one by one removed
until the floor is clear

sweet release

Days for Dancing

I believe there are days built for dancing

I don't believe
    all science is  right
    that God causes pain

I would never
    yell at a tree
   discuss physics with oysters
   lie in a poem

I want to
    blow more dandelions
     hear more giggles
    listen to the universe
dance to its music

Sweet Grief

Sweet Grief

Love continuing cycle
loss and renewal
 hope and despair

Love continues beyond the grave
Beyond the short time we see
reaching through the mists of eternity
to tug our heart string

in moments of silence
   we hear them
      we feel them
         calling to us
vibrations of earlier songs

gratitude
work
owe them ourselves

to become what is possible

The last ride of Sam-Wise Padfoot

The last ride of Sam-Wise Padfoot

With Princess Arwen he was conveyed
to the place to be carried away
Grey Havens

years of loyal service
companion in good and bad
A mighty warrior
to share the load

Lambis bread in my pockets
I didn't keep any
for the return trip
for the Eagles would bear him hence

the sweetest baby
always at my feet
side by side
layers of black fur
worn down teeth with brown centers
he laid down and was petted
matted fur, cataracts
shaking legs
always wanting to be with me

safe from pain
he slipped away
the unending isles

Cat Cell

The Cat got a cell phone
I am texted if I don't feed her by 9
    * Buzzz* Meow
    * Buzzz* Meow
    * Buzzz* Meow

Her texts says *Buzzz* Play with me*
cat eyes say if you dare

Spring Break Weariness

Poetry is something that needs time
and energy to feel
     rushing through you
     out your pen- unto paper
only to be changed again and again

hurried body and brain constrain the flow

but for me,
right now
it's just
deep bone weariness

Bilbo said - like butter spread over too much toast
like old winter snow that turns grey, but doesn't melt away

Like piles of books
each one with assignments due
 in your backpack
trudging wearily home
Friday after five

like time has sped up and you're standing still

like when you escape to a tropical island for your first break in years
and you spend all three days napping

like you haven't had time to clean up one thing your toddler did to
your house this month
the ominous of it feels oppressive
     floors unswept
     recycling overflowing
     crayons on every wall
     toilet paper unrolled
    books that have been scissored
     half eaten apples
     unwashed dishes
       hide in the couch
   handprints in jelly decorate your windows
But at least I did the laundry
   broken crayons litter the floor

like a coat worn all winter
without being washed
mittens smelling of gasoline
hair permanently mated
shaped as your hat

Snips

She tripped on the powerstrip

9-11
watched in disbelief
looked poorly animated
the plane was so small
eaten by the building

punch in the gut
no longer able to stand
I knew it was going down

then the other plane coming
how could they not see and stop it?

a second punch

the world changed in those few minutes
witnessed on my laptop screen

then hours and days and weeks

Nap Incarnate

She looked soft
dressed in shades of glowing blue
brown hair gently pulled back
framing serenity
nap incarnate
like windblown grass
she moved
rolling hillsides stretching out to sea

Alone

at night when I am alone
 I do not wait for my husband
the night is too short for that
life is too short

I try to wait during the day
to be patient and kind and long-suffering

but at night, I sleep

Giggles

She giggles as she
pulls my arm away
from my work
and wraps it around her

corn muffins

Don't forget your corn muffins in the oven
while writing poetry
let it be written in your mind
while little one entwine your heart
keep your hands busy today

after your corn muffins and chili
have been served and cleaned up
babes are fed and asleep across your lap
take up your notebook
 thoughts of the day
unwind with the movements of a pen

Winter

Layers of snow
sedimentary rocks
layers of stories
successive storms of winters
deep they get
mountains with passes
carved out
bitter winds slap my face
pull my heat
from layers of wool
readjust my scarves
Trudging forward into
expenses of white

Valentine's Day 2019

Styrofoam containers
steak, lobster, shrimp
like my heart
      overcooked
      underdone
alone I sit
      sauteed mushrooms
     green beans
a meal meant to share
tasteless, rubbery, cold
waiting for you to come

Hope

I'll see you next spring
after the snow melts
      trees begin to bud
      tulips bloom
when the days are longer
      warm wind whispers
you are here

You'll wrap your arms around me
     make promises of dawn
your warmth I'll feel around me
     forget that you are gone

Dog gone it!

Due Tomorrow

Only a few pieces of paper
left on the floor
a particle dangles from his chin
the rest of my work must have gone in
My dog ate my homework
what do I do?
DO I bring the whole dog
or just scoop up his poo?

as I age

My youthful beauty slowly fades
I get better as I age
power deep within my grows
shooting out my fingers, toes

do I harness it
or let it harness me?

give me a few more wrinkles
and we'll see

No Longer

My belly is no longer flat
my waist no longer nipped
instead, my hate is flat
my envy nipped

I can no longer do the splits
but I've learned flexibility in my plans

my face no longer smooth
my chin no longer taut
but my eyes twinkle out
through lines that come
from decade of laughter and love

my lips no longer lush and plump
but my heart is

A choice

A couple of years ago I made the decision to enjoy
the hundreds of small things in life
to live in the glory of each second
to partake of each moment
 in all of its beauty, emotion, stickiness, and irony

but words, prose, often fail to capture
 each precious moment
so I've turned to poetry
which like a sticky spider web of words
captures each moment
arranges it in sounds
to grab the feeling of each moment
and allows us to savor it again

Memories of Grandpa Don

Grandpa brought home
6 black and white kitties
to catch mice
He grabbed a cardboard box
filled it with sand from the yard

Sit up straight in the chair he said
we were at a restaurant
I lost balance as the chair tilted backward
spilled my pop
his eyes flashed with fire
I would have belted your mom for that

Chocolate chip cookies and bananas for breakfast
musty basement
macrame cords holding mirrored tables
long countertop
holding a menagerie of
decorative perfume bottle
swans, children, ancient

Years later- Hugo, OK- circus town
cement blocks to enter their small rental house
smoke hung in the air
he put his cigarette out
when he saw us at the door
met his new wife, not pretty, but nice
nothing like grandma

shag carpeting
smashed down
orange worn over brown
his wife went out for a smoke

they served us
pop can biscuits with garlic and butter
I asked for more
grandpa took me to the store

small dingy fluorescent lights
brighter than anything else in town
black and white tiles leading down to the refrigerator case at the end of the aisle

the next day we met him at the circus museum
fresh made lemonade

Egon

Like a rapper
his hat backward
Mickey Mouse ear sticking out
green striped pj
holds a light saber in a front stance
Vooom Voom Voom
daring me to tickle him

Love Poetry

Sickly Love Poetry

by those unexperienced in life

love is all emotion and moment to them

not work and toil and prayers

building a home

a family together

work of weaving

two different people

into

One

Old Sam

Old Friend Sam

I wonder if he just died
until I see his chest fall and rise
black fur on the floor
always at my feet
His eyes watch me
darting back and forth
to see around cataracts
matted fur shakes
with each breath
Sam

More stray notes

Poets know how to write
how to share the world in words
the best books on writing I've ever read
are those on poetry

Reasons to live in Minnesota
family
Lakes
because you like mosquito bites
Grandmas died here
Lakes
because you are tough enough for winter
five generations have lived here
Lakes
Trees
Trees
Trees
Family

 . . .
Fighting the urge for chocolate cake
lets try the celery for pete's sake
. . .
Some Similies

tired as parents of a colicky newborn

Hot as the anger of a woman called "girl"

Waves unfolded like airplanes crashing into the twin towers

Distrusting as a millionaire made president

the child trembles like a dog taking his last breath

the airplane rose like a cough
rough, deep, studdering- until it finally
caught air

black as midnight in my living room
computer screens aglow, no sleep
only thoughts
endless night of thoughts

He entered the room like a seagull
squawking and looking for food
 . . .
A good name for a poetry book: Textual Pleasures
 . . .
I am trying to think
but she crosses my path
and I smile
. . .

Random notes

Thursday Afternoon- Haug Sauer, 3rd floor

I laughed out loud at a funny story
ended up with a line at my door
I had to tell the story 3 times more

. . .
I'd leave school those days
tired from teaching
drunk with poetry
eating raw veggies
for dinner
my car's thermometer
read forty below
driving to and fro for over an hour
an hour to myself
to think
and study
or pray

 . . .
Too bad I can't bring a butterfly back
with every poem I write
Maybe I should dedicate proceeds from one of my books
for butterfly sanctuaries

Edge of Extinction

Edge of Extinction

I push my poetry

out the window

flutter down

until caught

by a current of air

transposed into a butterfly

takes flight

3000 miles to Mexico

Covering Cacti

in colorful wings

global warming

pesticide use

bulldozers for trump's

 * W * A * L * L *

When Butterflies Die does poetry too?

Shrew Poetry

I have a little shrew
he visited my house
smaller than a mouse
he crawls into my shoe
underneath the piano
behind the laundry bin

I see him
long in tail and nose
scampering everywhere he goes

 . . .
I have a shrew
in my shoe
his name is Roo

Whinny Pig

I have a little guinea pig
he likes to cry
a whinny pig
he thinks he's hungry
a thinny pig
oh, silly little
Guinea pig

3 ways

This same poem has been written many ways- here are a few

My last touch with you
seeking the comfort of your heat
entangled around and through
plastic tubes and wires
beeping and buzzing

drowning out your breathing
nurses running in and out
asking questions, interrupting
I can not share with you
thoughts circling in my mind

. . .

When I hugged out
I wondered
is this what it will be like

when you die?
my last touch
entwined and around plastic tubes

beeping and buzzing
distract me
from the rhythm of your breath
nurses run in and out
I can not open up

for fear my heart will bleed out
can't discuss, think
thoughts circling in my mind

 . . .
hugged you
between us
your headset

like this
will you die?

last touch
entwined
plastic tubes
beeping and buzzing

can't hear
you breathe
nurses in and out
I can't
   talk
   think

Last Sunset

Driving out of Brainerd
white mist rises over the lake
into the red sunset
pink and white tulle
layers over the trees
I must take a picture
where is that *dang* phone?

Favorite Time of the Day

in twilight
the car idyls
He pulls up next to me
looks over and grins
I smile back
time for Karate

grab your bags
get dressed
stretch
Bow into class

now I can
yell! I can
punch! I can
scream, growl
make ugly faces
and kick every
thing that
gets in my way

oops- sorry
Morray

poetry in a diner

in a small diner
my daughter, eating pancakes at four pm
interrupts the poetry I am reading
eternities cascading around me
pause to answer her question

Nonesence

Fee Fie Fiddily die dum
hum thumb meedle deedle bum
iffy niffy giffy dee dum
feedle needle bum bum bum

cat dog guinea pig some
eat at the diner until they are done
pancakes bacon ice cream fun
need me, feed me dim sum some

Dog

crossing my legs
pants half way down
I wait while
     he drinks

"Out" I yell
pointing at the door
cold air billows into the house
     but up on my chair
     he hops

     hopeful eyes
      tails wagging
I share my
peanut butter sandwich

All he wants
to be with me
everywhere I go
everywhere I go

Magic 8 Ball

All day I am asked
           Questions
yes, no, maybe, never
seems to be my responses

there must be more
than yes or no
ask me why or how
or even what to do next
          Shake me up!

Falling

Falling
      Endless abyss
        I used to fear
          now I embrace

Falling
     Endless abyss
      let go
       to blackness

YUMMY FUN

Chocolate Chip cookies YUM
I love the sweets we make
brownie ice cream cake FUN

I dream of good things to come
I love to bake
chocolate chips cookies YUM

come hang with me some
imagine the wake of our bake
brownie ice cream cake FUN

into the pie, we'll throw some rum
just enough for flavor's sake
chocolate chip cookie pie YUM

and know I start to hum
feeling a little bit fake
hopped up on brownie ice cream cake

the totality of our sum?
from the sugar, I start to quake
chocolate chip cookies YUM
Brownie ice cream cake FUN

At the Dentist

I write in waiting rooms
waiting in rooms, I write
in rooms, I write about waiting
in writing, I wait in rooms
I wait for my son as I write

Snippets

The child spins in circles
she sings, flaps
nonsensical ditties
of joy and pain

they make love by holding hands, while the world dissolves around them

you, the one that took risks, not playing chess, choosing instead your own rules. your own board, and all the characters of your creation

Kitchen counter-
littered with pizza boxes, pop cans, piled with papers- bills of years long past, bags of last month's groceries, never put away- shots of insulin, prescription papers still folded in squares and doctor summaries- All this I get to clean out when you die

All that I love tonight:
sunsets of chirping birds
acrid smell of leaves tossed on the fire
flaming marshmallows
crisp air
might be lost tomorrow
when I return to school

I remember the scent of my father's halitosis but his conversation was too interesting to turn away

I wanted to return to the sunbleached shores with unstable fishing piers
home to the ten families that remained in adobe huts
faded, by the jade sea

My grandmother's
voice rises and falls
songs of old
of ancestors
of heritage

Shower hope
confess the possible
Earth
Created
lucky soothing
electric vibrations

Grief

wrinkled, tear stained face
looking at his hands

across the grass
a grave he knows too well

his tears had watered the flowers
he had planted

he knees won't bend anymore
so he won't kneel
unless he chooses not to get up again

a tempting thought today
to lay down there and stay

It starts with C

Breakfast and brunch
nothing but cookies
dinner and lunch
nothing but cookies

my blue fuzz
hidden under a peachy complexion
stretches the waistband of my pants
but I won't shave
everyone wants to hug
pet me
pat me
bring  me cookies
 and we'll C

20 years ago

20 years ago
I was a ballerina     now     I am a martial artist
20 years ago
I decorated cakes     now     chocolate cakes count for breakfast
20 years ago
I made sense out of the world around me     now     I see reason in nonsense
20 years ago
I thought the right business model could fix the world     now     I believe becoming our best selves is the world
20 year ago
I saved clothes for special days     now     I make every day special