Posted July 5, 2022 by ManicDdaily Categories:Uncategorized
Sherbet
We felt in the morning that we should try for red, white and blue, but more comfortable were our shorts the color of sherbet, which we wore, darting fast as fireflies, until as twilight deepened, the sparklers were passed into our grip.
We did not need to be told not to run with them— awe and a little fear pulled our skin back from our outstretched arms, which made their own outer space, galaxies fountaining at our fingertips.
Soon (as we felt control) neon squiggles grew to loops then our whole names— you could see the haloed letters if you looked—
Years later, I lay with my children on a blanket in damp grass, scanning the dome of sky for shooting stars.
Faster than fireflies—you had to keep your eyes open not to miss them— there….
There…..
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A belated poem for the 4th! The pic is from a new little book called Bug Cars. Right now it is only available on Blurb. (Sorry that I’ve been so absent–I’ve been working for days on a poem inspired by the Dobbs decision, but haven’t gotten it right–probably too much anger there.)
Posted June 24, 2022 by ManicDdaily Categories:Uncategorized
Driving Rain/Fear/Car
Fear draws fate, dread a magnet.
I think of the young boy in trial little league who, terrorized by the hardball, invariably pivoted into the pitch.
In my case, it’s the car.
A few days ahead of a longish drive I check the weather, then obsess over the hourly projections looking for the window when it won’t rain, or if it must, then not very much.
“Showers” are heavier than “rain”, right? I go through the tenths of the inch at all the various projected times, both here and there, hoping for coordinated “cloudy”ness—
The day itself dawns dry and I change my whole schedule, determined to leave in fifteen minutes, dragging the dirty clothes from their planned wash—where I’m going has a machine—
But (fifteen minutes has spread into forty-five) now the sky is puffing over—the trouble is that I just haven’t driven enough— I lived too many years in New York City—
I make myself leave, and soon marvel at how even when it does rain, it is manageably sprinkly—
But the most difficult part of this trip is the last ten minutes, when the route runs into one highway then veers into the left of another highway, and then takes an almost immediate exit four lanes to the right—
Just as I get to those highways, what may be called “showers” but should be called “torrents” flood my windshield, swish, blur, swash, blank—
I try to make the wipers faster, but they wipe as fast as they will go, while I am frozen—wait, keep your foot on the gas—for I am now in the left lane, the fastest of four—
I tell myself that I could just stay on this highway—who cares about the exit? There are other exits—
But my fear tells me that I cannot stay on this highway, for I cannot see the highway, I cannot stay on a highway that I cannot see, so, slowly—am I going too slowly? I try again to activate my foot, make myself peer into the slosh shown in my rear-view mirror, make myself trust in ten grey feet of swish and the strength of my signal light, and will myself to the right, and again, to the right, and yet again, to the right—
Beethoven consoles me, and Pablo Casals—and there in the blur is the sign overhead, and a voice says unsympathetically to take that exit and I peel off, and now, that I am the only person in a single slowing lane, the rain too slows—I do not honestly believe the sky is malicious—
I feel, I suppose, a sense of accomplishment, but also vulnerability, stupidity— as adrenaline slowly dismantles the tower it has built inside my chest, that place with a view.
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Very much a draft and probably not a poem! Have a good Friday!
All rights reserved to text and pic. Pic doesn’t really go with post, but has rain!
The wind blew so hard it seemed that it might lift the wood like a sail, but it only whipped at the pants, of the two short men, who felt obliged, at that point, to prove their own strength. The legs of the beast—that is, the Upright— transfixed as a bull’s at the bottom of a high stoop, bruised grass beneath it, and uneven frozen earth.
So, slowly, with arms stretched like cords, legs braced, spines pushing a weight that pushed back, flngers as clenched as at a recital, the men shifted the dark wood—you could feel the ivories’ smirk—
Until they were in. The men laughed then companionably, bending back one hand, then the other, and closed the door to shut out the wind’s harsh howl.
Wheeled the piano now, well, more or less wheeled it, to its allotted spot—it was like a small triumph of the human spirit— the making of our own music.
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Another drafty poem. The pic was the only piano I could find (that I had made.) The one in the poem is an upright not a grand. Have a good day!
He was so serene, I marveled how the undertaker had gotten him exactly right; his face back to a dignity it had always had in illness, and also not; his features so sweetly defined, not blurred as they could be by pain or anxiety—
He had never been fearful (not for himself), but he had worried deeply about those he loved—why were they so determined to take chances? Or, much more insistently: what would happen to her (my mother) when he was gone?
But the last time I saw him, his face no longer fretted—I had seen it before they fixed him too and I know— I know— he no longer worried, and it wasn’t because of any lessening of love,—
So that when I weep now, it is for myself only, not for his loss of life, but for my loss of him—
I do not worry about what has happened to him, where he has gone— With both hands, with his own face, he gave me some measure of freedom from that—
There is simply a kind of love you cannot bear not to have any more, even when you still have it.
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Draftish poem for Father’s Day. Have a good one!
ps – as always, all right to text and image reserved.
Posted June 18, 2022 by ManicDdaily Categories:Uncategorized
Hug
The hug was long and close and I, who come from a long line of those who could not bear physical closeness, who could only share the briefest brush—one person’s arm crossing some part of another, like a sweater sleeve slipping from a chair—
I who came from those Northern people, those who could only come close to a snuggle when children needed to be warmed, let myself hug back, subduing the alarm that must arise if you are me, my people still holding me from some long and far way off, so awkwardly, so stalwart.
******************************** I announced yesterday I’d take a break from trying to write and then came up with the draft poem above! Note that the drawing is an old one, not written for the poem. Here’s another old one below, that half-seemed to fit.
Posted June 17, 2022 by ManicDdaily Categories:Uncategorized
Hello Blog World,
I am kind of a bear market right now, in terms of creative output. In part, this is because I can’t find, or just can’t give myself, space, time, quiet. The fractiousness of the world is hard to shake-off, and the pressure of disturbance seems to infiltrate even inner life.
In these circumstances, it is also hard to believe that making one’s art matters very much. Weirdly, reading is one of the few places where I, at least, find relief. But the world is such a jumble, it’s hard to believe it needs , or will read, anything that I might put out.
Yes, a writer should write just because they enjoy the writing. And, obviously, I do enjoy writing. But working on a project, finishing a project, can be hard; it typically involves a fair amount of self-criticism and punishing embarrassment! And, of course, concentration.
Anyway, I vent/ explain/look for comfort!
Luckily, I am not so invested in drawing, which I do out of a pure almost childish love, with very little expectation, and not even too much need for encouragement (!), so will maybe post little pics for a while.
Posted June 8, 2022 by ManicDdaily Categories:Uncategorized
Hello! I’ve been away but am back! This note is a bit cheerier than the drawing above, but there it is. Hard to be too cheery, with hearings like those in DC today–
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