Tag Archives: poetry

Last Chapter

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identity1

If I were to write my memoirs,
the title would be “Reaching.”
The chapter headings:
How Far
How High
How Pretty
How Wealthy
How Meaningful
How Memorable

Maybe not in that order,
but probably so.

There would be a Foreword to explain
I’m not competitive (even against myself),
nor am I status-conscious, greedy or an overachiever.
Well, maybe just a little of all that.
It’s not about aspirations, goals, achievements…
just… reaching.

A reaching born perhaps of the low-key work ethic instilled by my parents.
(is that an oxymoron, “low-key work ethic?”)
Like this:
If you take one step, you might as well take two.
If you’re an apprentice, you might as well become a journeyman.
Once you’re a journeyman, you might as well aim for foreman.

There might as well be a chapter in my memoirs called “Might as Well.”

My memoirs would describe how I progressed through life in this mindset.
And how one day it flipped.
If I lost a step in my journey, I would likely fall back two steps.
If I missed a rung in my ascent, soon thereafter
I’d likely land on my butt at the bottom of the ladder.

And so it was.
Until finally I just stopped.
No up, no down.
Just full stop.

◊ ◊ ◊

Two summers ago I took up whittling.
I sit on my deck on warm afternoons
in the shade of a lopsided black walnut tree.
Opportunistic squirrels steal green nuts from the branches above me.
I place a glass of water or sun tea next to my chair,
and I whittle.

I don’t whittle to carve shapes into wood,
or to carve wood into shapes.
It’s just relaxing to take a sharp knife and a found piece of wood,
and shave away layers until I’ve reached… no, not reached…
until I know I am done.

Maybe this is the perfect last chapter for my memoirs.
I will call the chapter “Whittling,”
and I’ll describe my practice of peeling back layers
to see what’s beneath.
Not like some deep introspection, where I
lay bare the depths of my soul to reveal all the
rot and grisly scars.

Much simpler (and much more interesting) than that;
kind of like a low-key work ethic.

I just whittle
on found wood,
one shaving at a time
to discover the layers
of life,
of nature,
of squirrels,
of being in this world
on my deck on a summer afternoon.

finished

In response to the NaPoWriMo prompt: What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? Seems I had to go to the past to get to the future. 

RE: Journeyman/Foreman: my parents were of a non-gender neutral generation, but they never discouraged my career choices based on gender. 

Take Two

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Here’s another take on Days Five and Six of the NaPoWriMo challenge, combined. Same photo, different poem, different experiment with line breaks. 

Mt Hood 

feel this day
with the soft touch of your gentle eyes
inhale this view; safeguard the scent in your heart
listen to the sunlight; taste its warmth on the mountaintop
tuck this day into the brightest recesses of your outermost soul
and share it as often and as loud and far and bright as you possibly can
for not everyone has the means nor  place  nor time nor the luxury nor sentience
to feel days like this

 

NaPoWriMo, Day Five

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I’m participating in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge, writing a poem a day based on a specific prompt. So far, I’ve been running a day behind, but today I’m going to catch up and try to stay on track.

Today’s prompt is a bit involved. The gist is to choose a (relatively random) photograph, then find a poem in a language I don’t know. Ignoring any accompanying English translation, “translate” the poem to English as though the poem were actually about the random photo. The prompt says to “Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph.”

Whew! Hopefully easier done than said.

So I opened up the photo gallery on my laptop, closed my eyes and pointed. I came up with this shot I took of Mt. Hood in Oregon, USA in 2013. So far, so good.

Mt Hood

Then I went looking for a poem, and found one written in Slovakian, coincidentally titled “Mountain.” The poem was hecka long, though, and seemed rather daunting. I decided to see what other bloggers were up to, and checked out “Mexi Movie the Third” to see Manja’s entry for today’s challenge.

Wisely, Manja had chosen a four-line poem written in Afrikaans. Now that seemed much more manageable.

So I stole her poem to translate. (Hope you don’t mind, Manja 😀 )

Here’s the original poem, as written by poet Hester Ley Ney.  (Hope you don’t mind, Hester 😀 : )

Hierdie dag
wat ek graag wou vashou
het gesmelt
en weggedrup uit my hand

Okay. Time for me to “translate” based on my photo:

hardy day
what a great view shown
and smelled
on the way up to it with my hand

Well, now. That was interesting… Wonder what fun tomorrow’s challenge will hold.

First Session

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session 1

Sofa. Davenport. Divan.
It could go by so many names, but
in here — invariably — it’s a couch.

“So… like this?” I ask, as I lie down.
As if I’ve never reclined on a couch before
and don’t know how.

“I thought this was just a cliché,” I admit.
Therapist smiles, bemused.

I shift my weight on the sagging sofa,
try to find a comfortable position.
But of course, there isn’t one.
Lumps in the cushions, scratchy fabric.
Is that a spring poking me in the hip?

Oh, I guess not. I pull the car keys from my pants pocket.
There, that’s better. A little.

“See if you can relax.” Therapist’s disembodied words
float across the room.
I squirm. I want to see her face,
read her body language.
But apparently that’s the point of not seeing her.
It takes her out of the equation, she says.
Or some such thing.

I stare straight up.
White fiberboard tiles rest on a metal grid.
What’s it called? A false ceiling?
Dropped? Suspended?
So many names for one thing.

I squirm some more on the sofa/couch.
Suspended.

Therapist does not speak.
Is she still there?
Has she nodded off to sleep?
She could be working crossword puzzles
for all I know.
I’m tempted to sit up and check on her, but I don’t.

What should I say?
What does therapist want to hear?
Why is it called a couch and not a sofa?
How much loose change has fallen from patients’ pockets
over the years, as they lay here for their sessions?
Does therapist collect it at day’s end from amongst
the lumpy, scratchy cushions?
Does she spend it the following morning on the newspaper that
carries the crossword she’s probably working right now?

I clear my throat.
How much time has elapsed?
I want to look at my watch. Timepiece. Chronometer.
But it seems inappropriate somehow,
to check my watch/timepiece
as I lay here on the sofa/couch,
staring at the false/dropped ceiling.

If only I could relax, I bet
I wouldn’t care what time it was.
In fact, it might even feel to me as though
time — like the ceiling — were suspended.

What’s a six-letter word for vulnerability?

NaPoWriMo, day four.

BFF ~ Best Furry Friends

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When a new dog you meet,
with a snarl you may greet.

smile a

Invitations to play
will go a long way,

smile b

or sharing a tree
where you both can go pee.

smile c

A trip to the coast,
getting sand in your coats;

smile e

by the end of the day
a best friend you have made.

smile d

Dogs that smile make me smile, too.

The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Smile

Top 10

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piano keys

When I become a song writer,
my Top Ten hits will be:

Heartless Love Song
First Lip Lock
I’ll Meet You in Cell Block A
The Keg’s Gone Dry and the River’s Gone Yeller
(a country hit)
I Left my Cart in Sam’s Tan Bistro

Ursa Major in E minor
Beer Belly Tango
My Boots Died, but They’re Still Kickin’
(another country great)
If I Were a Bitch, Man
Wine and Ding Dongs

In response to NaPoWriMo challenge, day three: write a list poem in which all the items are made-up names.

Waking the Muse

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books2

On the book shelf she’d hidden for nearly a year
‘mongst the likes of O. Henry and bard William Shakespeare.
From her disheveled looks and the smell of stale beer,
I assessed that some things are quite as they appear.

“Wake up and come forth,” I commanded my muse.
“I’m penning some poems and your help I could use.
I see that your break has been sorely abused;
I assure you assuredly I’m less than amused.”

Muse swiped at the sleep in her glazed, bloodshot eyes;
attempted to focus, or so I surmised.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, yawning, her ennui undisguised.
“I thought you’d conceded your poetic demise.”

“Au contraire,” I enthused with undeserved pride.
“I’m ready to rhyme with my muse at my side.
But your slovenly sloth I shall not abide.
‘Midst these rival word peddlers you no longer may hide.”

“Is that so?” said my muse with a withering glare.
“You’re forgetting one term of this contract we share.
I only assist you when I give a care,
so your impudent tone is a risk best not dared.”

“I meant not to insult you,” I quickly backtracked
in full comprehension of the talent I lacked.
I knew it was time to attempt a new tack.
“I would be most obliged if you deemed to come back.”

“Then I’ll help you,” she said, “to write exquisite rhymes,
sonorous lyrics, unforgettable lines.
There’s just one condition if I help you this time.
I expect with each poem I shall get a byline.”

“Agreed!” I exclaimed as I quickly agreed.
(My redundant redundancy belies my great need.)
“Then be done with this drivel so that we may proceed.”
Herewith ends this poem, and it’s high time, indeed.

Most gratefully authored by Yours Truly
AND my most eminent Muse