Archive for February 2012

Descartes With A Dash of Popeye (“I think, therefore I yam.”)

February 11, 2012
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I Think, Therefore I Yam

After Descartes (With a Dash of Popeye)

I think, therefore I
yam.  I think,
I truly love
the yam.  I bake
them almost every day,
not lining their pan
with foil (as advised by those
who think before
they yam) because
almost every time I yam–late–I
yam also
hard put.

Not having planned
for existence, I slam
them fast in the oven, unable to break
for foil, the need
for sweet hot
earth-grown sustenance
surging with a force that must be
met immediately (plus
the baking time) and so
my yams’ essence
overflows, burns, and
later (usually the next day)
must be scraped away
from the pan, to
get down to something
grey again, stained perhaps,
functional.

I break then,
at least, from the brusque
thrust of scrub,
for saved slices (that soft
bright orange), finding,
though I do not think
of anything very much,
that I still
yam,
 the cold leftovers of being,
sweet,
in morning’s light.

(Happy Saturday!  I think–and I’m jumping the gun a bit–that dVerse Poets Pub, hosted by Charles Miller, is waxing philosophical today.  I am also linking this to Painting Prose.)

If you have any time, and need an escape this rainy cold weekend, check out NOSE DIVE, a comic romp through the brain and life of Celia Pratchett, big-nosed, big-voiced, New York City High School student with a friend in trouble. Only 99 cents on Kindle!  Or if you don’t like teen novels, check out my collection of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book, 1 MISSISSIPPI.  Thanks much!)

(As always, all rights to all aspects of this post reserved.)

Friday Flash 55 feeling bedraggled before dinner out

February 10, 2012
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Not looking one's best

Going Out To Dinner Straight From Work (Not Ready)

As a child of the sixties,  a child
of a child of the Depression, it is hard
to feel deserving of a dinner at
a fancy restaurant, even if
paying for it,
without running home first
for a shower,
freshly-washed hair.  Eating
out requires
clean hair, at least until
a first glass of wine.

(I’m going to tell it to the G-man.  AND while you’re at it, check out NOSE DIVE , comic novel bargain on KINDLE and AMAZON.)

“First Grade, November 1963” – overly serious odd attempt at French Ballade

February 9, 2012
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(Doesn't Really Go With Poem, but Nice Drawing.)

Agh!  The wonderful dVerse Poets Pub, hosted by Gay Reiser Cannon, has a prompt to write another French Ballade today.  I find this a very difficult form–not so much because of the rhymes, but because it has a relatively short line–8 syllables, rather than my usual 10 or 11.  At any rate, here’s my second attempt.  (My first was two weeks ago and probably a bit better.  Both are a bit heavy for ballades–sorry!)

First Grade, November 1963

The day Jack was shot they put us
on the playground, our place for fun,
our place for recess, only dust
seemed to fill the air, a strange one
for November–was there some sun
showing overhead? Blur defied
blue; the word “assassination”–
we didn’t know that it meant died.

I mean, they told us, with some fuss,
the exact time, Dallas–and gun
flashed through our minds, surely it must
have, with that next combination–
“shot” and “head”–a conjugation
of the past tense (rarely denied).
But on the blacktop, our place to run–
we tried not to know that it meant died.

The older girls joined arms, their busts–
for their breasts had at least begun,
they ten or twelve–heaving with gusts
of young hearts’ plunge to the undone;
we feigned a game of horse, hair slung
about like reins, but the chase cried
out its halt, could not be won;
we could not not know that it meant died.

What to feel?  How not to let on?
Watching the big girls–hard they cried–
President shot–his name was John–
We didn’t know what it meant–died.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

To The Catholic Bishops

February 9, 2012

To the Catholic Bishops.  I would point out that many times people pay for expenses with which they are not in total agreement.  Think, for example, of the many donors to the Catholic Church who really did not intend for their contributions to go to the settlement of law suits related to sexual assault and child molestation, law suits whose damages grew exponentially due to years of official cover-up.

Contraception is, unfortunately, still largely a women’s issue.  The government has mandated its coverage not because they are pushing a pro-sexual freedom agenda or an anti=Christian agenda, but because birth control is, for many young women, their major medical expense.  Historically, medical expenses that were largely women’s were not covered nearly to the extent of expenses relating to men.  (Anything related to women received short shrift.)  New laws are, to some degree, trying to right that.

If one were to listen to the current debate, some might get the impression that the government is forcing contraception down people’s throats, i.e. actually taking the little wheels of pills and shoving them down.  That the government just wants to beat up on churches.

In fact, it seems to me to have started as a matter of equal protection of women employees. The government has said insurance provided by secular employers (we are not actually talking churches here) that receive  federal funds should provide insurance that allows for full health care to women. The institutions are not obligated to accept the funding; the women are not obligated to use the health care.

In this political year, it is likely that some compromise will be reached. And I do understand that some in the Catholic Church feel outraged.  (The Church has not always been particularly supportive of women; and feelings about contraception quickly mount to a crazy pitch.)

But in the media (at least talk radio), it seems that the high ground is immediately granted to the churches, the government is vilified–and issues of equal protection for women workers get lost.

 

 

(PS – just want to note here I’m not anti-Catholic, or even against the Catholic Church.  I just hate the whole bandwagon that gets started about these things–as if there’s a huge anti-religious plot in the country.  This started over an attempt to give women’s needs some equal attention.)

Crazy (in Pic)

February 8, 2012

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Not feeling terribly well (physically) today so sticking to a picture rather than words.  Or maybe I’ll hazard one word: crazy.  

“Hands On” (Steering Wheel Poem)

February 6, 2012

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Here’s a new poem for dVerse Poets open link night, and also Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.  (Check out the great poets at both sites.)

Hands On

When I think of why
we are together,
I think of your hands
upon a steering wheel.
The night was cold,
dark (the car seats stiff with it),
but the tendons–had you given me
your gloves?–ran along your grasp
like lifelines, and I needed
a lifeline.
They caught the ambients
from the headlights–inverse shadows
that I could not turn from
as you took
the curves,
then straightened;
as you laughed
about something seemingly
inconsequential;
as I laughed too, all the time
watching them
heatedly.

(P.S. And while you are checking on things, check out NOSE DIVE, my comic mystery novel, which has been reviewed with great kindness by Charles Mashburn of Marbles in My Pocket and Victoria C. Slotto of Liv2Write2day on Amazon.)

Magpie Tales – “You Too” (Light After Death?)

February 5, 2012

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Here’s a poem for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales.  Tess puts up very interesting photoprompts.  The above and below are my take on this week’s.

You Too

There is that will
in some
that assays a reach
from the grave, that
would pull from raw earth
gems
for barter, that would store
oxidation; that, below
the mine, will still insist, “that’s mine–” those
whose fingers grasp
even as limbs moulder.

And then there are those
who proffer treasure, who, in
their last sighs and beyond, exhale
a gift, their life’s blood like a current
of air a bird
might sail upon, or you too might feel
ruffling your hair beneath
the noon or setting
sun.

These last do not just raise flowers
from their remains, but instead,
a hard brilliance: someday, you too will
pass; someday, you too
will be faceless; someday,
you too will know life
as a stone; catch
light
now.

Poetics, Ponge, Sheets,

February 4, 2012

Brain In Bed

Mark Kerstetter at dVerse Poets Pub has given a prompt based on the wonderful French poet Ponge today and his poetization of objects.   (I urge you to check out the article.)  My brain is a bit fried tonight, which may be what led me to write the poem below.

Sheets

They are wide and flat and blank with the wide
flat blankness of sound sleep,
white noise, the sky
on those heavy days when summer’s head
can barely be lifted, those other days
when winter’s head
is weighted down with snow.

Except when they are not blank (or wide or flat) but
rumpled by the chased dream that moans for surrender,
ruffled by the soar of inner flight,
tangled around the angled limbs of those who are thrust
by their unconscious into a straitjacketed thrash, knotted
and wracked by those who weep, covering their faces.

Hold me tonight, sheets, like an envelope that is
mailed to tomorrow, and let me stretch
out in your cool crannies, those slices
of stillness, where, encompassed nightly
by the repeatedly touched and
untouched, I find place
for every square of my being, even
the enfisted heart.

P.S. for those who have been following this blog–I finished the novel manuscript, at least enough to submit to a silly (unwinnable by me) novel contest.  Still, a lot of revising to be done, but it has a very good story and does hang together more or less.  It is not, however, nearly so finished as NOSE DIVE!  (Check it out!)

 

Unmeetable Deadline? Last Gasp.

February 3, 2012

Trying to work on new novel tonight!  Rather trying to work on completing the revisions of an old novel.  (Ho-hum.)

It is a new novel compared to the finished one (NOSE DIVE), which I urge urge urge you all to check out!

But it is an old novel in terms of feeling, at times, like a very long haul.

Finishing–i.e. truly finishing–a novel is a lot of work.  That is, getting all the “i” dots, t-crossings, plot twists, right–is a lot of work.  Cutting out a bunch of that work–extra verbiage, descriptions, scenes, dialogue, even whole characters–that weigh down the plot–is even more difficult.

This novel will not be truly finished in time for my deadline (which is sometimes towards the end of this weekend.)

Trying to meet this deadline has haunted my last few weeks, though, in truth, I’ve only really focused on it during certain late-nite, early-morning jam sessions.

Even so, the deadline sticks in the craw.  The problem is that I’m a “last gasp” sort of person, meaning that I usually don’t quite give up until absolute hopelessness sets in.

And this, unfortunately, means that it is likely to be a stressful weekend.  (Unless, I just decide on hopelessness right now.  Ah, there’s an idea!)

The novel, by the way, is called “An I For An Eye.”  It’s a young adult fantasy.  (Yes, I know.  Crazy!)

“Glue Trap” – Martian Poetry (Or Marital?) (Ha!)

February 2, 2012

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DVerse Poets Pub has a “Meet the Bar” challenge, hosted by the wonderful poet Samuel Peralta, to write like a Martian; i.e. to look at one’s subject from an alien, or at least, different, perspective.  Here’s mine:

Glue Trap

The lie of a long-term love
is like a mouse
caught in a glue trap. Even as
you don’t want to find it, you
want to find it–you have heard
its gnaw in the kitchen, behind
the bed, inside the baseboards,
for some time.  Yet
once you catch a trace of its
stuck self–through a sidelong glance, a blur
of grey matting the glue–you
stand upon a chair, avert
your stare, splay legs,
hold arms akimbo, assume any
awkward stretch to reach
the cupboard, dish rack,
fridge, and avoid
dealing with it, until,
trying to swallow the tea that you’ve
just made from your frail perch, you gag
upon the taste of fur in your
throat, like the taste
of your own dark hair,
greying.  

Torn now by the
squirm that flays even
as it makes its play
for escape, you bend down–
propping with some long-necked
implement and heavy mitts–
and drown that distended pulse,
at which point (as tiny dabs
of air and whatnot
surface), you realize,
mourning, that what’s died
was not like words at all. 

PS – for something totally alien to the above, i.e. FUN, please please please check out my comic novel NOSE DIVE, a steal on Kindle for just 99 cents.  (Slightly more but still a bargain in paperback.)