The smoky air carries an orange tinge. Leaves droop on hot, dry trees and shrubs outside my window. Eyes sting, throat burns, head aches. Doggo whines to go outside, but I don’t want to expose his small lungs to this foul air.
My wildlife garden looks vacant. The crows that usually occupy the utility wires at this time of day are nowhere to be seen, though I did spot a lone young squirrel this morning, darting across the lawn towards the walnut tree. Talk about little lungs…
For the umpteenth time, I wonder where we humans went wrong on our earthly odyssey. But maybe this was the inevitable destination all along. I mourn for the innocents who’ve been caught up in our reckless journey. My eyes leak.
wildfires run rampant summer blooms stand powerless where do the birds go?
My thoughts are with all affected by this wildfire season. Loss of lives, homes, possessions, livelihoods.. as well as wildlife and their habitats. Incalculable. Huge thanks to those who are fighting these fires, and all who are aiding those suffering losses.
our lives unfold moment by moment by moment though we try to clump them together into years and weeks and minute-by-minute or compartmentalize them into home and work and hobby and now and then and now-and-then and maybe it helps to think there is some underlying structure to it all since otherwise we are like untethered balloons caught up in an errant breeze that pulls us right past the delineations of time and titles and self-imposed strictures and how would we ever manage to define ourselves if we just let life unfold moment by moment by moment
It’s my first excursion in my newly acquired camper van. I drive from city freeways to arterial roads to country roads to the vague essence of roads in middle-of-nowhere eastern Oregon.
I remember driving roads like this in my younger years, in a handpainted red Dodge pickup, where I sometimes had to hop out of the cab, raise the hood and shove a rod back in place so I could shift out of neutral. A simpler time, a simpler vehicle.
When oncoming drivers begin raising a hand in casual greeting as they pass, I remember this neighborly act from my small-town upbringing. Though the van and the road are new to me, I recognize this pace, this sense of community and commonality.
On reaching my campsite, I rest easy in the stillness and reminisce about times past when ruts and potholes preceded speed bumps, and when drivers raised more than just one finger to one another in common salutation.
On a wall near my kitchen hangs a whiteboard, a space for grandkids to draw or write or doodle. It also bears a list of household expectations in the form of an acrostic that spells RESPECT.
no mother needed – apparently; simply born within the patriarchal legacy, aromatic right from the start and already robed in the royal purple of kings
no mother needed as he rises full of promise, strong of his own accord, self-sufficient, one-of-a-kind, anointed with the frankincense and myrrh of his father’s own funeral pyre.
no mother needed, but the father is revered, his honor and reputation preserved and feted for eternity, ancestral ashes hidden away lest the paternal lineage become tainted by the scrutiny of daylight
no mother needed to nourish him, to prepare him for flight, to remind him of inborn vulnerabilities, no reference for humility and compromise, no haven for non-transactional love
"Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps!" ah, but the phoenix wears no such pedestrian footwear
and in the end, in his nest alone, consumed by the flames of his own making, his only solace is that a son will emerge to give his life meaning
Day Twenty prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.
They wrote it all down. The good (not much of that), the bad (though with surprisingly little judgment), and the ugly (so, so much of that).
They recalled the local boys who went from zero to hero just by donning a uniform, the surreal images of those same boys heading off to war by the trainload,
the newfound responsibilities of keeping up the homefront, the thrill of stepping out of constrictive roles: flexing freedoms, flexing muscles, revealing capabilities; still a wife, a sister, a nursemaid, a supportive prop, but now also a train conductor, a delivery driver, a farmer.
They spoke of the loneliness, the longing, the yearning, the carnal lust (“the wild cave-woman spoke”); outgrowing the “good girl,” the “good wife” roles, the soldiers, briefly passing by on their way to something horrible or coming back from something horrible, more than willing to fulfill the women's desires, allay their fears, divest them of their virginity.
They described the ubiquitous mud of the battlefields, how it turned uniforms brown (“the new style of clothing… the chic of mud”), how it disabled firearms, swallowed up artillery, drowned soldiers.
They told of the homecomings, the soldiers no longer soldiers, the bodies no longer breathing, the heroes who would rather not have been,
the mothers who weren’t mothers when their men went to war, the sainted helpmates who became whores in the eyes of unforgiveness, of hypocritical judgment, the fatherless children left to be raised by mothers who could no longer hold the jobs the men now reclaimed.
They sat opposite the empty chairs, where their partners in life once sat. They regretted scoffing at the the local boys in crisp new uniforms who became soldiers, who became heroes, who became disillusioned, haunted shells of men.
They suffered loss, but did not suffer bullet wounds, they sacrificed all but received no medals. They rose to the challenges but were shoehorned back into their stifled caricatures of weakness and dependency once deemed no longer needed in the workforce.
God bless the soldiers who fought for freedom and justice. God bless the women who fought for stability and sanity. God bless the female poets who lived it all and wrote it down so that we – a century later – might understand.
Day Sixteen prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet. Not quite on prompt today. In looking for a poem to use (as I have no favorite), I found myself falling down a rabbit hole of female poets writing about WWI. Stark, moving poems depicting all facets of the war from a woman’s perspective.
A Sampling of Poems written by women about World War One:
He enters through the laundry room, passes off his domed metal lunch pail, heavy with the stainless steel thermos that clips into the top of the box.
Boots off. Faded denim overalls and wrinkled red handkerchief dropped onto the dirty clothes pile. Now in his “suntans”: a khaki shirt and loose-fitting trousers reminiscent of his wartime uniform.
At the deep utility sink, water so hot it turns his skin red. With lava soap and a bristle brush he attacks the black tarry substance stuck to his hands and arms. Soap lathers up past his elbows.
Face washed, hat-flattened hair tamed with a black plastic pocket comb; only then does he enter the kitchen and greet his wife with a kiss. Supper is cooked and waiting for him.
Day Twelve prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.
(Text presented at bottom of post if you don’t want to wade through the erasures. )
Law Gone! Introduction: A Neatly Cut American Dream
Since the development of our earliest law, a privileged founding father of America sought to elevate our nation's fence for keeping out lives. He envisioned a wall like the aristocrat model. Drive the streets today and you'll see one law flowing into the next.
It's easy to see how the law became so popular. When maintained with regular grooming, it can be used for play and relaxation. Installing a law is fairly tidy.
Law culture applying -- and suppressants -- became firmly entrenched and today many councils have codified standards for a front. Just look at the law -- packed with big business.
The Grass is Always Greener
The fact is, traditional laws aren't well suited to our country. The particular, as well as the drought-prone law, often require copious toxic cover, require several hours of maintenance and the power comes with a high cost. Today we have a better understanding of the law's impact. We're tainted.
All around the country you can find a nation differentiated. We deserve better -- and we can make it happen.
People hardly use the law, and it can seem awful to maintain something that you never use. Other types do a beautiful job of covering, and help reduce the law that afflicts so many. Adapt and ultimately use fewer. You'll have the satisfaction of harming the environment. Let's reclaim our space.
Law Gone!will show you how to remove the law. Walk through the methods of law removal and install your new guard. If you have rules or ordinances to contend with, minimize their impact. Find picks and experts to pinpoint plans.
Day Eleven prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own erasure/blackout poem. You could use a page from a favorite book, a magazine, what have you. It can be especially fun to play with a book you don’t know, particularly one that deals with an unfamiliar topic.
I chose to usurp the introduction from the book Lawn Gone!: Low-Maintenance, Sustainable, Attractive Alternatives for your Yard by Pam Penick. My apologies to the author.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 