ABC Wednesday V

V is for the villain
who visits our village at night.
To enter, pillage, and kill us
it prowls through absent light.

It creeps in family dwellings,
and opens unlocked doors.
It steal our sons and daughters
and turn them into whores.

Powdered it sniffs up noses.
Liquid it stealths into veins.
The villain catches them any which way
and slowly addles their brains.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The inspiration for this piece is the Montana Meth Project's television commercials depicting the effects of methamphetamine on young people. Visit the website, take a look around. Some of the commercials are posted there. They have had a significant impact on lowering teen drug use in our state.

Shout out to ABC Wednesday for the prompt. Visit their link to see both photo and text responses to this week's letter, V.

Ponderosa

A painted turtle blinks, stands, and plops into the lazy murk of Curry Creek. “When I was a boy that tree touched the sky. Look at it now, lying there, can’t even tell it was a ponderosa. pffft.” Jacob’s hand indicates a broad log stretched across a colony of deadfall floating stuck, from the shore to turtle island.

“Jacob, it’s beautiful, why make a face like that?”

Jacob looks at her with that sense of calm running through his eyes that tells Justice he wants to listen to her ideas. She wishes she would learn to keep her mouth shut. Jacob has a way of making her spill her soul into words. Jacob is ancient—older than her grandfather. He raised her when a flood stole her folks. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Justice, tell me what you see.”

Justice starts slowly, “Not too long ago, Jacob, this tree touched the sky, beauty is its legacy.” Her eyes lose focus on the world in front of her as she continues, “When you were a boy, this ponderosa housed squirrels and bugs. Deer relieved itches on its bark, birds nestled in its branches, chittering chipmunks devoured its tiny pinecone seeds, and little boys? They looked up at this tree with wonder in their eyes, because this tree touched the sky.” Justice throws her head back and sweeps her hands overhead. Jacob’s eyes spark with life, and a smile plays its way about his mouth.

“See those branch stumps?” Justice points at spots where branches have broken off with time. Jacob nods. “Every one of them has moss growing around it. Moss is made of cells, Jacob, just like you. Just like me. Just like that dead ponderosa. It died, Jacob, but look at it now—it is greening over with life, Jacob!” They both grow quiet, as a turtle elder pulls itself to a basking site on the jam. “It’s not just the moss, but the turtles, too. This logjam slows down the creek. Imagine their home in the muck, Jacob, it’s dark, it's quiet, it’s safe. The ponderosa protects.” Justice falls silent when a breeze eddies up pine needles along the path, and swirls out over the creek making reeds dance circles.

She opens her hands over masses of grass poking up through the creek, and the logjam, where several turtles eye them, “Up here?  They sit in the sun on this old dead tree, worn smooth by water and time, this incredible dead ponderosa. Can you see it Jacob? How seamlessly woven it is?” She looks him in the eye. “The ponderosa is a gift, Jacob, a beautiful gift.”

“Beautiful? Yes. I see it now,” he answers smiling, “But a gift? No. You are the gift, Justice, you.” Jacob’s big hand ruffles the hair on her head as Justice wraps an arm round his waist, and nuzzles in the familiar scent of his buckskin coat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shout out to Writer's Island for this prompt:  The seventh official re-opening prompt is: THE GIFT… What is it that comes to mind when you think of the concept of a gift — given or received, large or small, personal or on a broader scale. Tell us in your words (poem, prose, flash fiction) the why, who, what, where, when, or how regarding the gift — whatever it is that moves you to write…

Shout out to the universe for turtles and ponderosas!

Click the Writer's Island link for more takes on this prompt.

my oubliette

hands release to a
swift dark descent
bone thudding crunch

last light,
a flare drops in
before the iron lid closes
on my oubliette

flare sputters, dies
blackness accentuates water
trickling down limestone
emptying in a creek
aside the breadth
of my oubliette

loved ones butchered,
me thrown in a hole
conquerors triumph
spirits destroyed
placing my face
in the creek’s cold flow
I breathe in
my oubliette

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to kuyerjudd at One Single Impression for the prompt: oubliette.  I took the picture last summer in the Lockport Caves at Lockport, New York.  It seemed to fit the oubliette prompt.

Pronunciation: \ˌü-blē-ˈet\ Function: noun Etymology: French, from Middle French, from oublier to forget, from Old French oblier, from Vulgar Latin *oblitare, frequentative of Latin oblivisci to forget — more at oblivion Date: 1819 : a dungeon with an opening only at the top.

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.

Hank and Nancy: A Magpie Romance

Hank found 1000 pencils in a box stashed in a back corner of Nancy’s Knickknack Nook. Eyes shining, Nancy said she found them in a box of poetry and prose peppered with magic. She raised her eyebrows when she said it.

“Uh, I was more interested in the uh, mug, uh, you know, for Guinness.” Hank felt the color rising in his face. Why was it talking to Nancy did this to him every time?

“Sure Hank, but I’m telling you, these here pencils? Magic. Something to do with the cup. Sharpen them.” Nancy grabbed Hank’s wrist, and looked him in the eye, “Needle sharp now, you hear? Then stick them in the cup with the sharpened end up. Do not be drinking beer in that mug Hank Sanders, or you’ll dull the magic.” She let go of his wrists, and looked down. “Sometimes it sticks, Hank. Give it a go.”

Hank remembers his heart racing when Nancy grabbed his wrist, but it’s the soft way she almost whispered at the end that made it skip a beat, still does today. Hank sharpens each pencil and puts it eraser down in the mug that never held a Guinness, until each of the final fourteen stands tall.

At one pencil per day, two weeks remain. Legions of women read his blog, Magic Pencils. Hank pencils all of his posts on pages of half-used notebooks and paper scraps from Nancy’s Knickknack Nook then takes pictures of his poetry and prose. Snapshots of magic, Nancy calls them. 986 posts inspired by Nancy. She thinks it’s the pencils, but it’s not the pencils. It’s her.

Hank started writing poetry for Nancy when he started sharpening pencils. He loves her, always has. Turns out, Nancy loves Hank, too. Hank figures some kind of magic stops him from tripping over his words every time he talks to Nancy. He attributes that magic to Nancy, too. Yup, this Magpie Tale has a happy ending.

Nancy wrote the sidebar ‘About Hank’ for his blog.

***
His name is Hank. He likes his beer dark, a smidgen below room temperature. He understands the underbelly of a woman the way most men understand the engine of a truck. His words make women purr.

***

It’s true. Nancy knows. Nancy knows she will keep purring whether Hank has magic pencils or not. And Hank? He knows that real magic is the stuff that happens when Nancy touches his wrist and whispers, and he whispers back in couplets that burn with desire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shout out to Magpie Tales for the prompt.  Be sure to click the link and visit for other creative responses to this cup of sharpened pencils.

The Three Fish

The coleus from my classroom curls in circles around itself
calling my attention, begging me to set it free.
Hooks held its arms to framed words on the board,
as overhead it snaked its way along—
greening the chrome substructure of
suspended fluorescent lights.

A sign in my classroom says,
“Practice Fluency, Read to Plants.”
Feed them carbon dioxide,
while increasing your rate,
accuracy,
smoothness,
phrasing and
expression.

Situated near a silent angel
at home the coleus mourns
Voices from a Medieval Village
until it notices three fish,
leering at it from the porthole window.
It remembers loud mocking laughter
when Trevor pulled off its leaves,
tucked them behind his ears, and
danced them to death.

On its shelf this Wednesday, as I untwirl
its tendrils, the coleus sighs
relieved for attention.

Dear coleus, I vow to read aloud
one poem each day I wake here this summer,
until you return to the clamor of the classroom
next fall.

Tendrils at a vine’s end cling to my finger
touching gratitude at release.

I sit, open a classic, and
begin the summer with
The Three Fish,
a Barks’ translation of Rumi.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides for Wednesday prompt 092.  Visit the link to see more responses to the prompt, which is: 

For today's prompt, write a poem that incorporates three things you can see from your computer. Use those three things however you wish. Maybe there's a picture, a window and a desk lamp. Maybe a pen, a paper and a cell phone. Pick the items, then write a poem. (If you want, for fun, you can include what the three things you used are either before or after the poem.)

Miriam, wanting to be elsewhere

The sweep of lace brought
Miriam misery.

Nervous,
she thought of
the time
at home
when the swollen
lines and spaces
had unexpectedly stiffened like sticks
dreadful and resented.

She heard nothing
and stood angry
across the red hot
fire of guests
stupid people
noticing her discomfiture and
silly fear.

She had learnt her pieces by heart
trembling.
Faint notes slurred.
Almost soundlessly she played
and sung.

Twice, she astonished
the notes
back
to the day before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Angie Werren for the Erasures prompt at We Write Poems. At Erasures, you can delete words from already constructed text to come up with something new. This piece is what's left after erasing words from Pointed Roofs by Dorothy Miller Richardson.

It makes a little bit of sense, right? hmmm.... My psuedonym at Erasures is Caw, and this is my only piece thus far.

ABC Wednesday U

a cautionary tale

U is for the Under Toad
that swims the mighty Mo.
With an ardent taste for human flesh
it lurks beneath its flow.

Children often feed its thirst,
they move through water slow.
It reaches up a slimy hand
and pulls them deep below.

Thrill seekers turn into prey
with a heightened sense of bravado.
They jump from the bridge where
the toad awaits, to eat them, apropos.

U is for the Under Toad
that swims the mighty Mo.
Its favorite season is summertime
when dormant feeding grounds grow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my first time participating in ABC Wednesday. It was fun. John Irving first gave life to the Under Toad in either Garp or The Hotel New Hampshire. It stuck with me, and came to life with the U.

Every year two or three people drown in the Missouri River where it runs through our city. It doesn't need to happen, I'm just saying....

taming tangled chaos

a mess of mint maneuvers
to a rock edged border
that barely holds it in

lemon balm
peppermint
catmint

thinning the peppermint
a stalk of swiss chard
volunteers itself
veining red in long green leaves

urging me to create
a dirt circle empty
around
its base
a corona of mint to contrast
its striking red stalk

~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt, "mess." And to swiss chard, for volunteering itself in the bed of my mint garden.

28 January 1986 / The Challenger Explodes

“...slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God”
(Ronald Reagan addresses the nation.)

The Crew

~Commander Francis R. (Dick) Scobee, Born in Cle Elum, Washington
~Pilot Michael J. Smith, 41 year old graduate of the United States Naval Academy
~Mission Specialist Judith A. Resnick, First American woman to orbit the Earth
~Mission Specialist Ronald E. McNair, Black belt in Karate
~Mission Specialist Ellison S. Onizuka, Hawaiian, Member of Discovery shuttle crew
~Gregory B. Jarvis, Payload Specialist, Private Citizen
~Sharon Christa McAulliffe, High school science teacher


The Press Coverage

roses bedeck a ceremonial breakfast table
smiles and waves line-up to blast off
ground crew present an apple to the
first teacher in space
after three days of delay
waiting for ice to thaw
prior to the last hurrah
500 spectators
18 from the teacher’s hometown
huddle smiles in the wind


The Take Off

Flawless.
73 seconds in,
clarity dissolves
in flaming white puffs
cheers continue
plumes plummet cloud channels
back to Earth
faces fall
to silent traces
eyes up
down


In Classrooms

televised images of
teachers launch minds
as lessons of exploration
turn into a message of mortality


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I combined two different prompts for this piece. Thank you to Titanium for providing the prompt “Icarus” at One Single Impression. While I do not mention the Icarus mythology directly in the piece, thinking of Icarus combined with the prompt from Writer’s Island inspired this piece. The Writer’s Island prompt was “unforgettable.” The Challenger disaster is unforgettable for many reasons. I will always remember it because it happened on my 24th birthday. The ABC news footage posted here added inspiration for the piece.

Magpie for Isa

When I was 14 we drove from Montana to Minnesota, to Lake Vermillion. It was the last time I saw my great grandfather Evert Vaino Sulin. He was 92 (and had his driving priveleges revoked 4 years prior for pulling back and forth to the side of the road looking for a spot for his fourth wife to pee). The only person he remembered in our family was our dog, Floppy. My mom’s face changed when he didn’t know that she was Karen, his granddaughter.

~~~

I knew Evert as Isa,
which means father, in Finn.
Isa built the cabin at the lake
by himself when he was 19 years old.
(In his 50s, my father
built a cabin
near Holland Creek
in a Montana valley—
a grizzly corridor
between the Mission Mountains
and the Bob Marshall Wilderness—
he felled the timber,
peeled the bark,
notched the logs,
stacked them.)

Isa managed the dump in Virginia, Minnesota.
Isa scavenged the dump in Virginia, Minnesota.
I envy the trash at his fingertips
treasures in his hands.

He found this head of clay
hiding in the dump one day
and made of it a legacy
to send our dead away.

Sylvia, my grandma’s sister

received the head of clay—
a funeral dirge to wail away
the accordian’s quiet Polish grief
at her husband Emil’s passing
(and every member since,
of our family’s heritage,
marriage
lineage,
death).

This head of clay picked up one day by Isa at the dump, follows us to our grave. The youngest over 5 carries it: a solemn honor bestowed. Isa believed in his heart that the head came from the bow of a ship sailing from Finland to America-the ship that brought him here...he swears he could hear her wailing in the wind. "Serendipitous, what you find in the dump," he'd say, a twinkle in his so blue eyes.


~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Magpie Tales for the great picture for this ekphrastic piece.  Visit the Magpie link to check out gems others create from the picture.

heroin

The Big Tent prompt this week asked that we think of things that we would love to do, but never dared. Needles to say, this prompt led me to an odd place. A secret desire to try heroin took harbor about my being when I was a just a wee lass. Access to heroin in my experimental days did not exist. Often I thank the universe for keeping it away from me when I would have happily succumbed. Now I don't dare. I love my life. Maybe I’ll try it if I reach 80, but by then the desire may be lost in a myriad of whispers that I don’t understand.

~~~~~~~~

heroin

living for the moment
that the needle pierces skin
shhhwwwooooooo
tiny tubes of blood
pull it in
pull it in

it moves across my shoulders
and down my other arm
through my legs and to the floor
where I lie safe from harm
dirty
drugged
in heaven
where I lie safe from harm

angels brush my body
waltzing through the sky
and all the other addicts
moan and sigh
moan and sigh

turning tricks for fixes
trying to stay high
heroin’s a Judas
that I’m glad I didn’t try

Hope Beyond these Doors

A Ghazal for the Class of 2014

Middle school is finished. Life waits beyond these doors.
Your childhood diminished, it abates beyond these doors.

Rush headlong into glory. Stimulate your brain.
Generate your story through gates beyond these doors.

High school unveils riddles of enigmatic futures.
Every moment whittles your fates beyond these doors.

Countless contributions rise as possibility.
Seek out new solutions to relate beyond these doors.

While Mrs. Warren’s classroom grew with inklings of your yearnings,
the world expects a huge debut—go great beyond these doors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another ghazal, I know! Thanks to We Write Poems for the prompt, "doors." Friday is the last day of school. (woo hoo!) This is a rough draft...I keep changing it (don't be surprised if you come back to a totally different piece at some point!). Thanks for taking the time to read my words.

Ghazaling Nows

From the One spring many— distraction cements duality.
Enchantment flips a penny— people resent duality.

Tend each now . . . breathe in . . . breathe out.
Let moments rise and weave in— ferment duality.

Remove preoccupation, be the task at hand.
Tangential rumination represents duality.

When pulling weeds, pull weeds, when doing deeds
do deeds. Focus, lest diversion reinvent duality.

The author washes dishes. Laughter becomes bubbles,
setting free her wishes. She circumvents duality.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to the Monday Poetry Train, for allowing Monday posts of any kind, and to Robert Lee Brewer of Poetic Asides for leading me to the ghazal. The ghazal is a poetic form with roots in 7th century Arabia. Every couplet should stand alone, although they follow a certain rhyme and refrain pattern. The last stanza should reference the poet.

Blindsided by Hopper

To commemorate her sixth Christmas in the world, I wanted to surprise TL with a deaf dog. She asked Santa for one, so she “would not be the only deaf person” in our small family of two. An online search led me to Bangtail dog rescuers in Bozeman, Montana only 3 hours away. Most of these dogs were of herding stock, and that gave me some concern as our small house teemed with cats. Nonetheless, at $250 to cover the hand shape training and upkeep of the dog, I was about to take the plunge, when the Deaf school rang me up, urging me to come in to the office.

When I arrived, they showed me a flyer.

“Black Pete
Deaf Dog
Free to good home
Call Skyline Veterinary to set up a meeting.”

There he was, the dog of our dreams. Free.

The sheriff’s department found him on the side of highway 87, head split open, brain exposed. They carried him in to Skyline Veterinary, where they stitched his scalp together. The staff loved Black Pete for four long months, until he was ready to go. Home, with us—where TL calls him Hopper, and he knows the sign for love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Writer’s Island for the prompt, blindsided, or having something unexpected drop into your life. Hopper is a gift we enjoy every day. Serendipity.

Love Ghazal

A mantra for a woman who searches for exclusive love
ends her rumination on a haunting and abusive love.

Enveloped in a fuselage of unintended loss
she can’t escape the dark mirage of bleak intrusive love.

Words in chant when uttered, beneath a star-dropped sky
tease open unfluttered, her soul’s reclusive love.

Syllables will congregate and carry a command
to seep through hearts and generate an unobtrusive love.

In profile on Match.com, Caw chanted as she typed
“Internet Yenta, catch me a catch of mutually effusive love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ghazal is a poetic form with roots in 7th century Arabia. The last stanza should reference the poet. It was interesting to go there. And yes, I met my husband on Match.com. We will be married six years on July 31. It worked for us! A shout out to Sunday Scribblings for the mantra prompt, and to Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides for introducing me to the ghazal. (In the last stanza, I changed my name, Brenda, to Caw. It's a nick I use sometimes in reference to conversations I carry on with crows. ha! One syllable sounded better, and dot com to Caw...you get the picture.)

First Love

Kyle pressed the accelerator to the floor
“If I can’t have you, no one will.”
The Beetle sailed down
Eternity Street east,
a steep street ending in a concrete
toilet house at the East of Eternity skate yard.

“Stop, stop,
I’ll do anything.
I love you,
I won’t leave,
I promise.
I love you.
I’ll do anything
I love you.”

The words screamed
from my throat
without me.

Kyle slammed on the brakes
at the bottom of the hill.
The Beetle screeched
burning rubber up over the curb
it’s back end twirling toward the toilet house.
All four tires flattened.
Pushing open my door, I ran to the alleyways of childhood.
Hiding behind trashcans.
Heart pounding.
Love. Love.
Why did love bring fists and fury?
Why did love control?

After the alley, I walked
across our dark hometown,
climbed Mount Helena and
slept in the Devil’s Kitchen.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Devil’s Kitchen is a cave along the rock cliff face of Mount Helena. It is cool and dark. A shout out to Cassiopeia Rises for the prompt, “love” offered up at One Single Impression.

Gifts for the Magpie

Never one for heels,

Pauline used them for target practice.
Traveling fast down Montana back roads
sling back shoes shot from a catapult
anchored to the bed of her green Ford truck.
With a “PULL!” Pauline pulverized
8 out of every 10 shoes flung.

Locals say magpies still line their nests with pieces of Pauline’s pumps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shout out to Magpie Tales for the weekly prompt.

baritone

sing for your supper
sing for your sex
sing for the woman
who’ll love you the best
your singing draws her up to you
her face against your chest
she feels the deep down rumble you
and plans to later tumble you
in sheets devoid of rest
sing for your supper
sing for your sex
sing for the woman
who’ll love you the best

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Big Tent Poetry prompt this week was "aphrodisiac."  I thought about things that can get me yearning, and up popped baritone.

dragon plea

Misplaced dog on linoleum
black on yellow
curled up alone
thirsting the end
of kidney function.

Veterinary I.V.s
fluidify your form.

Please. Please.
Let them slay that dragon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hopper is in the dog hospital today. This is for him.
Thank you to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt.