if everything is one big thing
as it could well be argued
being bound in these imperfect forms
people persistently muck up the whole
we are inferior manifestations
of the one
we kill
we maim
we eat our own babies
we proliferate evil
being bound in these imperfect forms
a sardonic dance ensues
BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO
I want a drink
I want a long line of coke
snorted through a rolled dollar bill
I want Earth’s crude blood energy
I want something to keep me going
I want that damned diamond ring
I want food and TV
I want narcotics
I want five million board feet of timber
I want anything and everything
and I want it
now
being bound in these imperfect forms
the whole contracts and blackens
into wanton singularity
obliterating now with desire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sadly, this is the last prompt for Big Tent Poetry. I wish I could have ended on a note a bit less dark, but here you have it. I took the line "being bound in these imperfect forms" offered up by Mr. Walker at Sadly Waiting for Recess. Thanks for the line, Richard. Hopefully my dark take on it is okay with you. :)
Showing posts with label BigTent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BigTent. Show all posts
13 May 2011
06 May 2011
urban chickens
Cheryl’s constant attack on the others
made wringing her neck easy.
That left sweet Sheila, Gita,
funny little Francis, and Mabel.
Yadi did not have the heart for more slaughter.
Gita’s eyes held reproach,
Francis ran circles round his feet, and
Sheila shuddered on the passenger seat.
Screeching, Mabel charged Yadi.
She was the next to go.
Grabbing Mabel’s neck,
Yadi stepped from the bus
and wrung it.
Two down, three to go.
Five years earlier Randy, Jim and Pryor
converted Phil’s old VW bus
into a coop for chickens-
one named for each roomate's mother.
Since that day, Randy and Yadi
turned cooking eggs into art.
Every day the men devoured eggs.
Strata, soufflés, quiche, and frittatas
scrambled, over easy, and baked.
When the city condemned their house,
they chose to make a meal of their momma hens.
Randy, Jim, and Phil held the three remaining girls.
Yadi and Pryor sang a whacked out version
of the Ozark Mountain Daredevil’s Chicken Train
while three necks twisted then
simultaneously snapped.
The men settled in to plucking the birds
and telling tales
about these five feathered friends.
Too much wine with dinner
led to turn-taking
with sledge hammers
to bash the bus in.
Randy squawked
a fine imitation of Francis,
flapping his arms
and dancing circles
through their yard.
Yadi chanted and started a fire in the pit.
The five of them sat
facing flame, feeding it,
filling it with wood and stories,
watching one another
drum the earth
until dawn
colored the edges
of the sky.
Ten days later,
right before dusk,
the fire department
burned their house
to the ground.
From across the street,
the men watched it disappear.
Yadi said,
“If I was God,
I would be fire.
Fire keeps people humble.
Fire leaves only ash.
Fire annihilates with no remorse.”
Then his voice broke.
Yadi grabbed his head in both hands and said,
“I cannot tell my mother I ate Gita for dinner.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a (mostly) true story. When the Big Tent asked us to revise a piece, I went straight to Urban Chickens. It didn't require a huge revision. I played with line breaks, changed the phrasing a bit, and did some general polishing.
Head over to Big Tent Poetry and take a gander at some more poems that were revisited this week by their constructors.
made wringing her neck easy.
That left sweet Sheila, Gita,
funny little Francis, and Mabel.
Yadi did not have the heart for more slaughter.
Gita’s eyes held reproach,
Francis ran circles round his feet, and
Sheila shuddered on the passenger seat.
Screeching, Mabel charged Yadi.
She was the next to go.
Grabbing Mabel’s neck,
Yadi stepped from the bus
and wrung it.
Two down, three to go.
Five years earlier Randy, Jim and Pryor
converted Phil’s old VW bus
into a coop for chickens-
one named for each roomate's mother.
Since that day, Randy and Yadi
turned cooking eggs into art.
Every day the men devoured eggs.
Strata, soufflés, quiche, and frittatas
scrambled, over easy, and baked.
When the city condemned their house,
they chose to make a meal of their momma hens.
Randy, Jim, and Phil held the three remaining girls.
Yadi and Pryor sang a whacked out version
of the Ozark Mountain Daredevil’s Chicken Train
while three necks twisted then
simultaneously snapped.
The men settled in to plucking the birds
and telling tales
about these five feathered friends.
Too much wine with dinner
led to turn-taking
with sledge hammers
to bash the bus in.
Randy squawked
a fine imitation of Francis,
flapping his arms
and dancing circles
through their yard.
Yadi chanted and started a fire in the pit.
The five of them sat
facing flame, feeding it,
filling it with wood and stories,
watching one another
drum the earth
until dawn
colored the edges
of the sky.
Ten days later,
right before dusk,
the fire department
burned their house
to the ground.
From across the street,
the men watched it disappear.
Yadi said,
“If I was God,
I would be fire.
Fire keeps people humble.
Fire leaves only ash.
Fire annihilates with no remorse.”
Then his voice broke.
Yadi grabbed his head in both hands and said,
“I cannot tell my mother I ate Gita for dinner.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a (mostly) true story. When the Big Tent asked us to revise a piece, I went straight to Urban Chickens. It didn't require a huge revision. I played with line breaks, changed the phrasing a bit, and did some general polishing.
Head over to Big Tent Poetry and take a gander at some more poems that were revisited this week by their constructors.
22 April 2011
NaPoWriMo 22 ~ street talk
From a Big Tent prompt that asked us to "write a poem about what you would shout down the street," I came up with a story poem. If someone dropped their purse in the street, I would shout. This piece transpired from that thought. It begins and ends with the narrator shouting in the street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Street Talk
“Hey Lady!
Hey Lady!
You dropped your purse!”
I hold it up, running
knowing she heard me.
Her arms hail a taxi.
She steps into it and vanishes.
Later at home I plan to
go through the contents
of her purse for identification
and to satisfy my curiosity
about what a high heeled lady
with a real fox stole biting its own tail
carries in her Prada purse
on a soggy Great Falls afternoon
especially when it looked like
she dropped it on purpose
But for now,
I have a lunch date at Penny’s.
Her pesto pasta salad with capers
and a hint of feta cheese
always lures me
into lemon bars later.
An explosion cracks the air.
Patrons rush outside
where flames engulf my Jeep.
I fall to my knees and weep.
“Not the Jeep!
You fox furred bitch!
Not the Jeep!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Street Talk
“Hey Lady!
Hey Lady!
You dropped your purse!”
I hold it up, running
knowing she heard me.
Her arms hail a taxi.
She steps into it and vanishes.
Later at home I plan to
go through the contents
of her purse for identification
and to satisfy my curiosity
about what a high heeled lady
with a real fox stole biting its own tail
carries in her Prada purse
on a soggy Great Falls afternoon
especially when it looked like
she dropped it on purpose
But for now,
I have a lunch date at Penny’s.
Her pesto pasta salad with capers
and a hint of feta cheese
always lures me
into lemon bars later.
An explosion cracks the air.
Patrons rush outside
where flames engulf my Jeep.
I fall to my knees and weep.
“Not the Jeep!
You fox furred bitch!
Not the Jeep!”
31 March 2011
NaPoWriMo 1 ~ Stilettos & Feathers ~ Big Tent
~Process Notes~
One of the prompts at Big Tent Poetry this week was to use feather and stilettos in a poem, but to use them without people wearing them. The first thing that I did to tackle the prompt was brainstorm a list of words that shared sounds with stiletto and feather. I added to the list all day today. Pairing the words in several variations, I said them aloud over and over. When I sat down to write, the first sentence I wrote was, “Ethel’s stiletto left a divot in Devin’s head.” I looked up divot and discovered it isn’t the hole left behind, but the chunk popped out…ew! Anyway, that sentence started my first piece for NaPoWriMo. The rest of the poem took some time and I tried to incorporate the sounds, which ultimately drove the content through an admittedly bizarre landscape.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Ethel came home and found Devin dead
Ethel’s stiletto left a seven centimeter
pit in Devin’s head that became a haven for maggots.
Writhing, white and wormlike
they fed on Devin’s flesh.
Sentience ceased
and his energy lit the Ethernet’s libretto.
Feather’s fell on Ethel
like a soft warm snow.
Downy dark quills
covered her computer
and she cried.
Devin kept her tethered
far above the nether,
where they metronomed together
Eskimos against death’s cold.
Feathers enveloped Ethel’s ankles:
Devin’s final caress.
Steeling herself against the stench,
she dialed 9-1-1.
Ethel knew she’d never wear those shoes again.
One of the prompts at Big Tent Poetry this week was to use feather and stilettos in a poem, but to use them without people wearing them. The first thing that I did to tackle the prompt was brainstorm a list of words that shared sounds with stiletto and feather. I added to the list all day today. Pairing the words in several variations, I said them aloud over and over. When I sat down to write, the first sentence I wrote was, “Ethel’s stiletto left a divot in Devin’s head.” I looked up divot and discovered it isn’t the hole left behind, but the chunk popped out…ew! Anyway, that sentence started my first piece for NaPoWriMo. The rest of the poem took some time and I tried to incorporate the sounds, which ultimately drove the content through an admittedly bizarre landscape.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Ethel came home and found Devin dead
Ethel’s stiletto left a seven centimeter
pit in Devin’s head that became a haven for maggots.
Writhing, white and wormlike
they fed on Devin’s flesh.
Sentience ceased
and his energy lit the Ethernet’s libretto.
Feather’s fell on Ethel
like a soft warm snow.
Downy dark quills
covered her computer
and she cried.
Devin kept her tethered
far above the nether,
where they metronomed together
Eskimos against death’s cold.
Feathers enveloped Ethel’s ankles:
Devin’s final caress.
Steeling herself against the stench,
she dialed 9-1-1.
Ethel knew she’d never wear those shoes again.
24 March 2011
Three haiku and she floats
1
whirling illusions
polish deception until
clarity dissolves
~~~
~~~
2
fingers move across
introspective ivory
air becomes alive
~~~
~~~
3
secret renewal
intoxicates deep regions
hitherto unmoved
~~~
she floats
Neurotic introspection
caresses hysteria
encouraging destruction.
Merging hallucinations incessantly chant
. . . shackles . . . shackles . . . shackles . . .
undering perception.
Futiitly polishes darkness
while Earth hibernates
in hyperspace.
Dodging destruction,
she floats.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspiration for these pieces came from Big Tent Poetry's Monday prompt. Here’s an excerpt: “This week we are going to try bending, maybe even breaking & re-stitching words together. And we’ll use Big Tent Poetry’s latest resource page: Poetry Toys! For these pieces, I visited the Language is a Virus website, where I found moveable refrigerator magnets with words from famous poets.
Anais Nin’s multi-syllabic words captured my attention. Almost all of the words in the haiku are from Nin’s fridge. The last piece, she floats, has Nin’s words woven with my own. To find other poets' refrigerators, visit the electronic poetry kit at Language is a Virus. Thanks again to Big Tent (this was fun)!
10 March 2011
black swan slipper car
fascopy paper formed into ballet toe
will cushion an egg,
(it’s sharpee black body dons a
skull sticker with wings)
one centimer folded columns
bumper the slipper’s toe
fronting a pool of squirted glue
that ups the car’s mass to
meet challenge requirements
fins provide balance and finesse
they streamline eyes that
admire the black swan slipper’s promise
--challenge next week—
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Process Notes:
will cushion an egg,
raw, wrapped and
nestled in its egg-protector
as it sails to rain-gutter glory
(it’s sharpee black body dons a
skull sticker with wings)
one centimer folded columns
bumper the slipper’s toe
fronting a pool of squirted glue
that ups the car’s mass to
meet challenge requirements
fins provide balance and finesse
they streamline eyes that
admire the black swan slipper’s promise
--challenge next week—
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Process Notes:
Monday’s prompt at Big Tent Poetry asked us to incorporate science into our poems. This week at school was a high stakes (think NCLB, AYP) testing week. Kids tested in the morning, and our middle school team (go Dynamos!) worked their way through four different 45 minute stations in the afternoon. Fortuitously, I worked in a science classroom, in which we constructed paper cars. I noted that my car looked like a ballet slipper, and one of the students, said, “Yeah, the Black Swan, maybe…” My car took a turn toward the dark side. :-) Allotted only three sheets of paper to make the car, it had to have a mass of 40 grams(that’s where the glue came in handy). For next week’s addition of wheels, I glued on the axle housing (straws)--after I took the picture. Next week the cars will run down rain gutter tracks carrying an egg. The gutter will end in a cinderblock. The challenge is to have the fastest time with egg intact. Go Black Swan Slipper Car!!!
31 December 2010
gleaming possibilities
Pieces from puzzles and frames holding faces
bathrooms with drawers full of ribbons and laces
brown cardboard boxes beginning to fill
with things from a life that never more will
Dogs run through hearts, and give out wet kisses
while snakes on the hillside share rattles and hisses
the river below will continue its spill
far cry from a life that never more will
Betrayal uncovered set moving in motion
the kids are quite certain you need a love potion
But what can you do when the lies overspill
and cover a life that never more will
When the dad lies
and the mom cries
and the dog says goodbye
Nothing is simple when everything ends,
but the birth of a new life gleams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Big Tent prompt this week was to construct a list poem. I used the song "My Favorite Things" as inspiration to get going on this one. I recently helped a friend pack up a life---this came from the experience. May the gleaming grow into a beautiful life.
bathrooms with drawers full of ribbons and laces
brown cardboard boxes beginning to fill
with things from a life that never more will
Dogs run through hearts, and give out wet kisses
while snakes on the hillside share rattles and hisses
the river below will continue its spill
far cry from a life that never more will
Betrayal uncovered set moving in motion
the kids are quite certain you need a love potion
But what can you do when the lies overspill
and cover a life that never more will
When the dad lies
and the mom cries
and the dog says goodbye
Nothing is simple when everything ends,
but the birth of a new life gleams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Big Tent prompt this week was to construct a list poem. I used the song "My Favorite Things" as inspiration to get going on this one. I recently helped a friend pack up a life---this came from the experience. May the gleaming grow into a beautiful life.
16 December 2010
The Dead Woman and the Mad Hatter
Live as if you were already dead. –Zen Admonition
Oh yeah, you are. –Me
The dead woman smoked Top rolled
tobacco with the Mad Hatter as they walked
through oceans of tassel teased grain.
The dead woman and the Mad Hatter
roosted on a railroad trestle’s black iron
undercarriage as their words ebbed and flowed.
She closed her eyes and she laughed
as a train rode the rails over head,
blowing over the Mad Hatter’s rant
about nuclear endings.
The dead woman’s cattle marker
in bright red spread
from wonder into wonder existence opens
The Mad Hatter called her a hippy,
and placed her in his heart.
The dead woman watched as the Mad Hatter
danced a disk sander over his old brown Sirocco.
“I named him Rusty,” said the Mad Hatter.
She relished his whacky cackling
beneath a screeching shower of sparks
sailing stars over Rusty’s silver-swirled hide.
Later, the Mad Hatter drove
Rusty and the dead woman
screaming over Montana gravel,
gallivanting, galvanizing, gathering
baby’s breath, rosebuds and skulls.
The dead woman piled bones like the Mad Hatter piled pianos.
She roller-skated circles
around the Mad Hatter’s Chickering Grand.
Hardwood gymnasium floors facilitated her flow
as the Mad Hatter’s limber fingers
set the piano’s strings resounding
between the spaces of places
that grew through their lives.
But that was a long time ago.
***
More about the Dead Woman and the Mad Hatter
The dead woman soaks in some story
of car trouble, the highway, a truck.
Her husband explains the Mad Hatter’s mistake
from a medical point of view.
The dead woman ascertains that he
sustained injuries beyond return.
She hears on the news that the Mad Hatter jumped.
Deep coma sets in and she waits.
She silently wishes for one more walk
with the Mad Hatter’s rants running by.
But the Mad Hatter loses the battle, and
they harvest his heart and his eyes.
The dead woman swallows sorrow’s dark weight.
She rants, she writes, and she cries.
She rides her bike to the ranch supply store
then heads to the Interstate bridge.
She crawls underneath on the iron supports
scrawls the missing Mad Hatter a message
and places him in her heart.
The dead woman wishes him serious peace, and hopes
Death takes the Mad Hatter dancing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to all the poets at Big Tent Poetry! I've missed you. This piece is my take on a prompt offered under the Big Tent. Pieces of the story are true, but in keeping with my history with the "Mad Hatter," there is plenty of embellishment.
In my take on the prompt, I am the dead woman. Enjambment is a new idea for me, and while Dead Person poems true to form include it, mine does not. I wrote part one in the past tense, and part two in the present tense.
My friend is gone, he passed last week surrounded by his family. Forever he'll live in my heart.
Oh yeah, you are. –Me
The dead woman smoked Top rolled
tobacco with the Mad Hatter as they walked
through oceans of tassel teased grain.
The dead woman and the Mad Hatter
roosted on a railroad trestle’s black iron
undercarriage as their words ebbed and flowed.
She closed her eyes and she laughed
as a train rode the rails over head,
blowing over the Mad Hatter’s rant
about nuclear endings.
The dead woman’s cattle marker
in bright red spread
from wonder into wonder existence opens
The Mad Hatter called her a hippy,
and placed her in his heart.
The dead woman watched as the Mad Hatter
danced a disk sander over his old brown Sirocco.
“I named him Rusty,” said the Mad Hatter.
She relished his whacky cackling
beneath a screeching shower of sparks
sailing stars over Rusty’s silver-swirled hide.
Later, the Mad Hatter drove
Rusty and the dead woman
screaming over Montana gravel,
gallivanting, galvanizing, gathering
baby’s breath, rosebuds and skulls.
The dead woman piled bones like the Mad Hatter piled pianos.
She roller-skated circles
around the Mad Hatter’s Chickering Grand.
Hardwood gymnasium floors facilitated her flow
as the Mad Hatter’s limber fingers
set the piano’s strings resounding
between the spaces of places
that grew through their lives.
But that was a long time ago.
***
More about the Dead Woman and the Mad Hatter
The dead woman soaks in some story
of car trouble, the highway, a truck.
Her husband explains the Mad Hatter’s mistake
from a medical point of view.
The dead woman ascertains that he
sustained injuries beyond return.
She hears on the news that the Mad Hatter jumped.
Deep coma sets in and she waits.
She silently wishes for one more walk
with the Mad Hatter’s rants running by.
But the Mad Hatter loses the battle, and
they harvest his heart and his eyes.
The dead woman swallows sorrow’s dark weight.
She rants, she writes, and she cries.
She rides her bike to the ranch supply store
then heads to the Interstate bridge.
She crawls underneath on the iron supports
scrawls the missing Mad Hatter a message
and places him in her heart.
The dead woman wishes him serious peace, and hopes
Death takes the Mad Hatter dancing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to all the poets at Big Tent Poetry! I've missed you. This piece is my take on a prompt offered under the Big Tent. Pieces of the story are true, but in keeping with my history with the "Mad Hatter," there is plenty of embellishment.
In my take on the prompt, I am the dead woman. Enjambment is a new idea for me, and while Dead Person poems true to form include it, mine does not. I wrote part one in the past tense, and part two in the present tense.
My friend is gone, he passed last week surrounded by his family. Forever he'll live in my heart.
19 August 2010
dispersal
silken stream moisten my spirit soften its pineapple thorns plant me naked in baked fields bouldered with broken cars near Juniper’s deep-rooted soul hose the spot make me summer clay shape me into earthen pots render me useful hand blown zeroes whisper infinity, infinity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is one of two pieces I wrote for the Big Tent Poetry prompt wordle. Visit the Big Tent link to read some more poems. You'll be glad you did.
I wrote one other piece earlier in the week using this wordle. It's called Huh?
16 August 2010
Huh?
hose off your pineapple dude
knock off the silk mumbo jumbo
you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference?
the baked days of summer are blown
the gig is up
moisten your pencil lead
plant yourself deep
pot’s not gonna save you now
stop driving your brain car
through barren tundra
learn to deal
chill
get a towel and
dry off
~~~~~~~~~~~
This came out as fast as my fingers can type. Bizarre, but it makes sense to me.
My only prompt to myself aside from a wordle at Big Tent, was to write something in an angry tone. I'm not sure this is really angry...but that was my starting intent.
If you haven't already, check out the prompt at Big Tent Poetry. That way you can contribute your own whacked writing. Or perhaps something deeply moving and profound. Either way, wordles are fun. I'll try my hand at another for Friday's posting under the Big Tent.
I also posted this in Poets United Poetry Pantry. Go there to check out some awesome work!
knock off the silk mumbo jumbo
you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference?
the baked days of summer are blown
the gig is up
moisten your pencil lead
plant yourself deep
pot’s not gonna save you now
stop driving your brain car
through barren tundra
learn to deal
chill
get a towel and
dry off
~~~~~~~~~~~
This came out as fast as my fingers can type. Bizarre, but it makes sense to me.
My only prompt to myself aside from a wordle at Big Tent, was to write something in an angry tone. I'm not sure this is really angry...but that was my starting intent.
If you haven't already, check out the prompt at Big Tent Poetry. That way you can contribute your own whacked writing. Or perhaps something deeply moving and profound. Either way, wordles are fun. I'll try my hand at another for Friday's posting under the Big Tent.
I also posted this in Poets United Poetry Pantry. Go there to check out some awesome work!
12 August 2010
treasure, black & white
A turquoise
metal
filigree
frame
holds the first picture
of you and me.
Look at you.
So tiny.
So new.
I tried to
smell you into me as
everything about you
enveloped who I am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Cynthia Short, who provided the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week, to write about a possession. I chose this picture because I needed to write something affirming.
05 August 2010
metaphor
The Big Tent Poetry prompt this week had poets check back on their previous dozen or so poems and write something different. Metaphor is different for me in two ways. I wrote it with the intention of creating a metaphor for the prompt itself. I also played with the structure of the piece. I don't do a great deal of either. Formatting text for blogger can mystify me so I used my computer's snipping tool to take a picture of the piece and ensure its integrity. (That's how I turned the downside-up, upside-down, too...pictures can be manipulated.)
Through the process, I explored the way I use metaphor in my writing. More often than not they come naturally. To force the process is something I'll try again.
Thanks for the prompt, Deb!
30 July 2010
Imaginary Guest
for Thyra and M. M.
The night Marlee Matlin came to dinner
at our house, my daughter’s face became a
glowing orb. Matlin felt her pull and was
drawn into an exquisite expression of thought
flowing from fingers faster than I could read.
Third wheel, I served curried potato soup
and refreshed tall glasses of Arnold Palmers
to tinkling ice singing for my ears, a private
symphony echoing the clinking of silver
on ceramic plates. Dessert followed, hot cherry
pie topped with old fashioned vanilla ice cream.
Plated pie entered to noses exploring air.
Eyes exchanged rapture. Fingers kissed from
lips spread yum. Pie disappeared and my daughter
laughed as Matlin reached across the table to
dab a cherry red drip from her chin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In this picture you can see how excited Marlee was to meet Thyra. ;-)
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry for the prompt.
“This week, start with a list of pop culture icons that interest you. Imagine one of them in a mundane setting: Marilyn Monroe doing the dishes, Elvis mowing the lawn, Lady Gaga carpooling the kids to soccer practice. Poem an icon into a situation they may never, in real life, appear.”
While Marlee Matlin is not exactly a pop culture icon in the hearing world, she is a pop icon in the Deaf world in the United States. Matlin is an academy award winning actress and a role model for many deaf and hard of hearing girls across America. My daughter looks to Matlin as a role model.
To keep my conscience clean, the movie Matlin won an award for is Children of a Lesser God. The treatment of Deaf people as needing to be fixed in that movie raises Thyra's hackles. Deaf people do not need to talk to live full lives, nor do they need to be fixed. They are not broken.
The night Marlee Matlin came to dinner
at our house, my daughter’s face became a
glowing orb. Matlin felt her pull and was
drawn into an exquisite expression of thought
flowing from fingers faster than I could read.
Third wheel, I served curried potato soup
and refreshed tall glasses of Arnold Palmers
to tinkling ice singing for my ears, a private
symphony echoing the clinking of silver
on ceramic plates. Dessert followed, hot cherry
pie topped with old fashioned vanilla ice cream.
Plated pie entered to noses exploring air.
Eyes exchanged rapture. Fingers kissed from
lips spread yum. Pie disappeared and my daughter
laughed as Matlin reached across the table to
dab a cherry red drip from her chin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In this picture you can see how excited Marlee was to meet Thyra. ;-)
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry for the prompt.
“This week, start with a list of pop culture icons that interest you. Imagine one of them in a mundane setting: Marilyn Monroe doing the dishes, Elvis mowing the lawn, Lady Gaga carpooling the kids to soccer practice. Poem an icon into a situation they may never, in real life, appear.”
While Marlee Matlin is not exactly a pop culture icon in the hearing world, she is a pop icon in the Deaf world in the United States. Matlin is an academy award winning actress and a role model for many deaf and hard of hearing girls across America. My daughter looks to Matlin as a role model.
To keep my conscience clean, the movie Matlin won an award for is Children of a Lesser God. The treatment of Deaf people as needing to be fixed in that movie raises Thyra's hackles. Deaf people do not need to talk to live full lives, nor do they need to be fixed. They are not broken.
23 July 2010
chase a monkey
Chase a monkey through your poem
let it swing through the stanzas to come.
Make it the piggy backing shadow
of your character’s dark desires.
Send it to the aid of an organ grinder,
where its dancing fills cups with coins
and keeps them in bananas and rum
lifetime friends, monkey and man.
With a bright moon rising
pursue your primate
through the dusty streets of Mysore
simply to conjure the heady scent of sandalwood
that permeates the hot night air.
When it stops to screech
or scratch its hips
with monkey fingers flapping,
screech back at it.
Dare to dodge
the tiny pellets of poo
it keeps flinging up
from beneath your words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Big Tent Poetry, for excellent writing every week. This week we were asked to write a piece inspired by a favorite poet. Catch a Monkey is inspired by Billy Collins, Introduction to Poetry, where he suggests dropping a mouse into a poem. A monkey dropped into mine.
let it swing through the stanzas to come.
Make it the piggy backing shadow
of your character’s dark desires.
Send it to the aid of an organ grinder,
where its dancing fills cups with coins
and keeps them in bananas and rum
lifetime friends, monkey and man.
With a bright moon rising
pursue your primate
through the dusty streets of Mysore
simply to conjure the heady scent of sandalwood
that permeates the hot night air.
When it stops to screech
or scratch its hips
with monkey fingers flapping,
screech back at it.
Dare to dodge
the tiny pellets of poo
it keeps flinging up
from beneath your words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Check out Big Tent Poetry, for excellent writing every week. This week we were asked to write a piece inspired by a favorite poet. Catch a Monkey is inspired by Billy Collins, Introduction to Poetry, where he suggests dropping a mouse into a poem. A monkey dropped into mine.
16 July 2010
infinite loop
wisps unfurl
a gluttonous famine
of forgetting until
obsolete memories scratch
on the present
illuminating emptiness
opening soul chasms
into angel moons that
blind you to yourself
duped into believing
words won’t flow
unless your monkey eats
wisps unfurl
a gluttonous famine
of forgetting until
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece is entitled it infinite loop, as it should be read continuously over, and over. The hidden message is up to each interpreter(or maybe it's just words?).
Shout out to Nathan Landau at Big Tent Poetry for the prompt. Poets were instructed to use stenography in their pieces, or "hide something in plain sight."
a gluttonous famine
of forgetting until
obsolete memories scratch
on the present
illuminating emptiness
opening soul chasms
into angel moons that
blind you to yourself
duped into believing
words won’t flow
unless your monkey eats
wisps unfurl
a gluttonous famine
of forgetting until
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece is entitled it infinite loop, as it should be read continuously over, and over. The hidden message is up to each interpreter(or maybe it's just words?).
Shout out to Nathan Landau at Big Tent Poetry for the prompt. Poets were instructed to use stenography in their pieces, or "hide something in plain sight."
09 July 2010
dropping like lies
House parties seethe pretty people in
haute couture. Nose jobs, brow lifts,
and botox eat original face.
People keep dropping like lies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry for the prompt!
haute couture. Nose jobs, brow lifts,
and botox eat original face.
People keep dropping like lies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry for the prompt!
01 July 2010
Responding to Victor
I.
I am a bleeding
white woman heart
liberal
sitting in a recliner
imagining forgiveness
envisioning an educational system
where truth includes
telling
on
ourselves
II.
Could you forgive them, Mrs. Warren?
for specific atrocities, never
butchering mothers,
babies in bellies
profaning female forms
dead and spread
vaginas: cut and dried hide covers for saddle horns indigenous parts become white man’s medicine pubic scalps bring applause conqueror’s eyes shine I mean I know it was a long time ago, but could you forgive them if you was alive then? me, plunging blades into soldiers’ breasts until they take me from me, spent no no, Victor, not then How ‘bout now, if you was Native now, could you forgive them? holding onto hatred burns seething holes through spirits (don’t give them that) forgiveness frees it opens hearts— open hearts spread kindness and you already know how I feel about that Yeah, but you ain’t Native so you don’t know fer sure. III. Think about this, Victor— In 1972, I was 10. In 1972, Montana added Article X Section 1 to its Constitution. “The state recognizes the distinct and unique cultural heritage of American Indians and is committed in its educational goals to the preservation of their cultural integrity.” In my 1972 Montana classroom, we celebrated Columbus Day. Manifest Destiny rose up, a noble beacon of light. Tribal diversity never entered the room. Constitutional law, denied. In our 2010 classroom, we uncover the bullshit, Victor. Just like Coyote scams feathers from ducks, the United States government scams people to impel ideologies.
We know what Columbus did. Forgiveness? It’s nebulous. Do I forgive the educational system for lying to me? No, It ticks me off. But I’m doing something about it from within the system. Get inside of the system Victor—figure out its workings. Only then, can you ferret out change. Remember the ducks, When they understood Coyote’s motives they averted his advances.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A big thank you to the muses Big Tent Poetry inspires. The prompts offered at Big Tent get me thinking. This piece was difficult to get through. I almost didn't publish it. Something my friend Kate said nagged at me, and I hit the publish post button. "You can't censor yourself."
Here is the prompt:
Is there a question you are burning to ask someone? Is there a person (living or dead) you would love to have a conversation with? Maybe, as our IRL poet friend shared, you have had a conversation with someone that bears repeating (and examining through poetry’s sharp lens). Perhaps someone has posed a question to you that you simply, at the time, could not answer. Take some time this week and compose your answer in the form of a poem.
A high caliber of writing exists under the Big Tent. Be sure to visit for other takes on the prompt.
25 June 2010
crowds
amass
press
push
crush
oppress
throng
flock
and fashion
mentality
generates heat
from a force
merging minds
people become thing
engaged or enraged
applause
or boo-yahs
ear stomping
body smashing
murmuring mumbling
limbs knot together
individuals dissolve
and words roar into one
turbulent call
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The prompt at Big Tent Poetry this week asked that we think about something that we don't know who to write about. I selected crowds, as I just wrote about the Gulf for ABC Wednesday W(Wounded World.) A short ditty on the Gulf does follow this one on the main page of my blog, if you're interested.
press
push
crush
oppress
throng
flock
and fashion
mentality
generates heat
from a force
merging minds
people become thing
engaged or enraged
applause
or boo-yahs
ear stomping
body smashing
murmuring mumbling
limbs knot together
individuals dissolve
and words roar into one
turbulent call
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The prompt at Big Tent Poetry this week asked that we think about something that we don't know who to write about. I selected crowds, as I just wrote about the Gulf for ABC Wednesday W(Wounded World.) A short ditty on the Gulf does follow this one on the main page of my blog, if you're interested.
17 June 2010
before you go out in the dark tonight . . .
It’s dangerous in the dark these days
to stroll through streets under stars.Monsters hide beneath human veneers,
and in evening hunt weaker beings.
“Exploited” adjectifies children.
Sexuality dulls at a price.
Hungry for victims, the Ogres evade.
It’s dangerous in the dark these days.
Neighborhood kids fifty years ago played
night games like “Scream Bloody Murder.”
Milk & Honey Comfort set parents free
to stroll through streets under stars.
Today, children vanish no stories to tell,
their fingers file flesh from beasts.
Creatures, scratched, shop and sing praise.
Monsters hide beneath human veneers.
They enter the workplace, actors in part
they cough, they resent, and they shit.
In light they seem just like you and like me
then in evening hunt weaker beings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When faced with a wordle prompt from Big Tent Poetry this week, I relied on a poetic form to give the words shape. This is my first cascade.
Big Tent’s prompt draw a creative crowd. Visit the link above to see other responses to this wordle.
11 June 2010
Dutify your Dharma
A Pantoum for JW
Everything you give out comes back to you.
Dutify your dharma dudette, karma culminates.
Unless you start living a golden rule,
your pretenses of friendship will bite you in the ass.
Dutify your dharma dudette, karma culminates.
Practice kindness every day.
Your pretense of friendship will bite you in the ass.
Insecurity is no excuse for cruelty.
Practice kindness every day.
Ignite a shining in people you meet.
Insecurity is no excuse for cruelty.
Lies become soul-eating bacteria.
Ignite a shining in people you meet.
Eradicate fear and defense.
Lies become soul-eating bacteria.
Practice compassion, seek wisdom and truth.
Eradicate fear and defense.
Love yourself in spite of yourself.
Practice compassion, seek wisdom and truth.
Everything you give out comes back to you.
~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry, who had participants explore anger in a poetic form, the pantoum. This is my first pantoum. JW, if you happen across this piece, I'm only trying to help. Be sure to visit Big Tent for other creative pieces inspired by rage.
Everything you give out comes back to you.
Dutify your dharma dudette, karma culminates.
Unless you start living a golden rule,
your pretenses of friendship will bite you in the ass.
Dutify your dharma dudette, karma culminates.
Practice kindness every day.
Your pretense of friendship will bite you in the ass.
Insecurity is no excuse for cruelty.
Practice kindness every day.
Ignite a shining in people you meet.
Insecurity is no excuse for cruelty.
Lies become soul-eating bacteria.
Ignite a shining in people you meet.
Eradicate fear and defense.
Lies become soul-eating bacteria.
Practice compassion, seek wisdom and truth.
Eradicate fear and defense.
Love yourself in spite of yourself.
Practice compassion, seek wisdom and truth.
Everything you give out comes back to you.
~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Big Tent Poetry, who had participants explore anger in a poetic form, the pantoum. This is my first pantoum. JW, if you happen across this piece, I'm only trying to help. Be sure to visit Big Tent for other creative pieces inspired by rage.
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