But All I Really Wanted was Dance Lessons

This is one of those weird memories; how i remember it now..…with more than one memory pressed together in my childhood bank of memory. That year when I couldn’t swallow..was it the same year as the “no dance lessons” decree? It seemed so… either way—it came together where I reveal my secrets. Tell me if it makes sense. Are there missing pieces of info?

But I Only Wanted Dance Lessons

Mother held fists full of tension

with perpetual hand wringing

made appointments on the phone

from the dark edge of her own abyss.

Tried to fix herself by fixing me

the year I couldn’t swallow

and had to chew and chew

until food was liquid

before it finally slid down my throat.

I asked for dance lessons on Wednesdays

She said, No

she didn’t have the time to drive me.

My friends were all shuffle-ball-change

tap, point, flex 2,3,4

in their patent leathers with cleats.

Instead, on Wednesdays I was driven

downtown to a dim office

where I sat on a couch

with a shrink (who eventually killed himself.)

I threw up on Sundays

got carsick on the drive across town

lost more weight

while the shrink prescribed

Librium for a ten-year-old 

when all I really wanted

was to take dance lessons

wear a tiara, a tutu,

and tap shoes, all black and shiny.

Rash of Indeterminate Origin

This is very much a free write. Frankly, I was happy to write anything. I’ve been in such a poem-less space. Just let me know if you think it has possibility.

Pink clouds across my torso pose the question
when is a life worth living?
the earthy smell of wild geranium
doctors can’t explain
some inflammation or other
when I'm hot the sky grows angrier
it’s an effort, pushing dad and a wheelchair
to another appointment
he holds out less
hope I’m afraid
to ask him too many questions
I used to joke that if I couldn’t read anymore
I might as well be dead
now I don't joke
what is the price of autonomy?
I remember as a child
dad and I on a perpetual shore
under the cool dome of horizon
after a turbulent storm
skipping stones across the water
just to see them ripple
no, really, is it enough
to see the sunrise,
exchange a smile,
hear the ocean?
a perfect sand dollar
of irritation wonders
at the aging expectation
is he entitled to his
exhaustion?
do I help him
live or die?

Heartache Could be a Stamp

I wrote this for the Art as Poetry exhibit with Lakeshore Artist Guild. I was working on a villanelle, but they take me soooo long to write that I was worried I wasn’t going to finish by the deadline. And then the line “The first day I didn’t write the letter” popped into my head, so I went with it. I am also sharing the art that inspired it.

The Old Post Office

Heartache Could be a Stamp

The first day
I didn't mail the letter
a wedge of early sun
woke me on the other side
of what I meant to do.
I watched the river's
high water heave —
a float of phrases
knocking shore.

The second day
I didn't mail the letter
I blamed the birds,
the loud, metallic
chirping of cardinals
warning me
that more words
were not always
the answer.

The third day
I didn't mail the letter
I watched our son sleep,
gurgling bubbles
with his pursed lips.

The fourth day
I didn't mail the letter
coffee tasted bitter
on my tongue.

The fifth day
I didn't mail the letter
I remembered I needed
cream, the vast variety
in the grocery store
a wall of
faltering love.

The sixth day
I didn't mail the letter
I drove by
the post office
on our way home,
the lobby a lullaby
of light.

The seventh day
I didn't mail the letter
I lugged your chair
to the curb.
It was gone
by the time
the sun breached
the back yard.
The churn of river
calmed. I forgot
what I was
going to say.

First 100 Days

The news item in the epigram was my prompt. (and a new twist on the meaning of first 100 days…a rant of sorts. Too long? Enough showing? (not telling?)

First 100 Days

             Gun-related violence is leading cause of death for children ages 1 to 19 in US: CDC 

Melodic robins sing
cardinals whistle courting calls,
the news is “pop, pop, pop”
rapid fire from war rifles
again    –   and again.

Seven dead this time,
nine-year olds and teachers
breathing one moment
pulseless the next. 

I’d rather write about
a fresh day and the chickadee-dee-dee
not the ball that lies still in the yard
bicycle idle against the porch.

I don’t want to write about
the ones who did not come home that day,
the airless abyss of parent-sobs.

I don’t want to write about
the empty desks, no graduation,
no marriage, no new inventions or cures for disease
from bright minds of these souls.  

I want to forget the congressman
and his children posing with rifles
on their Christmas card
who boast their “right to bear.”

I’d rather write about
new life, this greening morning
instead, we grieve and cannot agree
upon the rights of nine-year olds, teachers,
the fallen of 146 mass shootings –
even before spring has started.

I’d rather write about
buds feathering maples
snow drops and crocuses
pushing up through the dark.

 REVISION: from your comments: 4/17/2023

Today’s Headline - Seven dead

            Gun-related violence is leading cause of death for children ages 1 to 19 in US: CDC 

Robins sing, cardinals whistle
I hear courting calls.
On the news I hear “pop, pop, pop”
from war rifles.
The headline – Seven dead.
Nine-year olds and teachers
breathing one moment
pulseless the next.
I’d rather write about
the “dee-dee” of chickadees
not the ball that lies still in the yard
bicycle idle against the porch.
I don’t want to write about
the ones who did not come home,
the airless abyss of parent-sobs.
I don’t want to write about
empty desks, missed graduations
and weddings, undiscovered cures.
I want to forget the dad
posing his children
with rifles on a Christmas card.
I’d rather write about
the new nest on our porch
daffodils almost opened
buds feathering maples
rather than grieve
the rights of nine-year olds and teachers
even before spring has started.

ALG

Mimi's Rolling Pin Version #3 below original, with new title

I am not sure about the ending. It doesn’t have a metaphor— the point I want to make is even though not “whole” it’ still treasured and useful. (like a person with a disability.)

Mimi’s Rolling Pin

Smooth and tan
wood-grained
whiff of pie crust
and sugar cookie
scent of prairie pantry
on a sticky July day.
One-handled and
handed down to me.
My palms press
the floured forearm
begin at the center
inch outward,
north, south, east, west
thinning dough to round.
One end amputated
the other loose and useless
opposite its missing twin,
the one lopped off
a century ago
to fit the kitchen drawer.

Revision #3

One-Armed Rolling Pin

I lift it from a crumpled box of
her household things,
one-handled and handed down
from grandmother – to mother – to me.
Takes me back to
Gramma Mimi’s prairie pantry,
the smell of old wood
sticky with July,
tall cupboards painted white.
Windowed in white light,
she was surrounded by white flour, white sugar,
stirring spoons, glass measuring cups,
and a one-armed rolling pin —
the one of flaky pie crust
and tender lemon cookies
rolled out, baked,
then fed onto our eager tongues.

Smooth and tan, wood-grained
still smells of pie crust
and cookie dough.
I press palms
to the floured forearm
begin at the center, inch outward,
north, south, east, west,
thin the dough to round
roll back time
as I maneuver the blunt end,
lopped off a century ago
to fit the kitchen drawer
of her prairie pantry.

Pendulum

Annette, here’s my attempt at an “object” poem. I am not sure about the title. It seemed better than “Beaded Earring.”

The jewelry began
after the diagnosis.
At first, a dangle
of straightforward
bead, bead, bead —
emerald, aquamarine,
agate — sharply faceted
like cheekbones,
a shine
too gold,
scalloped spacers,
extravagant hook of
earring wire,
single loop.
My radioactive
sister touches
my ear.
She guides
the wires
into the holes
of my lobes.
The earrings
pendulum
the windowlight.
They bring out
the green of my
dread.

Turn the Figs (Carefully)

Here’s another food poem. The recipe is Drunken Figs. The ripe for "Soft Peaks Form” is Strawberry Shortcake. Let me know what you think. I am reminded and awed by Sylvia Plath’s images as I listen to her literary journey and re-read ARIEL the way she intended it. Trying to dig deeper. Experimenting with no periods, but I’m ambivalent about it because I use other punctuation. Do you think the poem needs them? Also not sure of the end. Does it need more? Donna Hilbert said, “End with an image. Don’t explain.”

That summer a boy mistook her bottom for a fig
Extraordinarily light, sound, sensation,
switched hats
She didn't see him behind her
swiping the blond hair from his eyes,
flexing his jaw
She didn't see
the heartache in the room,
the give and take
like rim shots
Her friends were busy
re-arranging barrettes
She raised naïvely on tiptoe,
tried to get the bartender's attention --
her turn to buy sloe gin fizzes --
dressed for heat in cherry pink seersucker
Extraordinarily the boy bent down to one knee
and bit her meatiest on the cheek
She snapped to him,
cursed a reddish purple --
all the jammy words
What kind of unrequited
desperation was this?
His eyes were dammed
with spent matchsticks
Her hand reeled an arc
of maraschino
Extraordinarily she threw
a drink in his face
Ice cubes renounced
his brow
What odalisque nonsense!
She rubbed
the fleshy concavity,
felt teeth marks
of a bruise

Soft Peaks Form

Another recipe poem. This memory came to me yesterday during a prompt session. The pool was the center of our existence when I was a kid — trying to capture some of that along with the funny moment.

BTW, I am trying to “find” the titles of all the recipe poems from the directions of the recipe (in case you were wondering.)

That summer my sister wore a swimsuit
like strawberry shortcake — red and white,

exactly one ruffle. Mine had a belt,
complete with loop and fork.

Our youngest sister squinted
as she tiptoed the edge.

Waves in our above-ground pool rippled
with the latest shift of swimmers.

My sisters and I, our many friends,
dried on beach towels, arranged

on the warm concrete of the patio.
It was either that or take off our suits.

No dripping through the house!
Our house was an enclave of women

mostly, except for our youngest brother,
his bowl cut and Hot Wheels™.

The sun refracted sparkles through
my wet eyelashes as clothes flapped

on the line. My friends and I were hungry
for tomato and cheese sandwiches.

I sliced tomatoes and cheese
at the kitchen counter, buttered bread.

Mother swiped a slice of tomato
while she smoked, her ear to the phone.

My sister cannonballed into the pool,
whoosh whistling through the window screen.

I peeked at the sizzling bread
as my sister kicked off her swimsuit

in the back hall. "Going to Mary's,"
she shouted, dashing for the basement

in her radiant nakedness, swimsuit
wrapped up in a towel, bound for the rack.

Mother licked her fingers. "Does she know
that your brother is downstairs with his friends?"

A scream suddenly warbled, two notes of surprise.
I flipped a sandwich. "She does now."

What Love Is

I’ve been thinking how lovingly Peter and Carrie interact. Peter has to rely on Carrie; from being a doctor, an ice climber, etc… so independent to being dependent is something he approaches with such humility and dignity. I marvel at how caring Carrie is. I wrote this poem for them, this morning. I have two stanzas that dont’ fit —but are important to the “story” of the poem . I cut it back to what’s below… at the bottom I’ve included the stanzas that don’t fit. I think this needs to be an “in the moment, aka one moment poem.” But I wonder if I have lost the deep significiance of what the moment means.. Does it come through? I need a better last line I think.. I’m thinking on the whole poem…and welcome your suggestions.

What Love Is

She takes his hand in hers

as if on a second date

a moment of affection to the casual eye

as they approach the restaurant.

She whispers there’s a step here –

his toe slides forward

he taps his shoe against the concrete

finds the edge then steps up.

She holds the door open

There’s another edge here, a little one this time –

They order lunch, laugh over

a podcast they listened to yesterday

as his hand slides across the table into hers

head held high.

++++++

other lines that don’t seem to fit “ the moment “ here.

 The doctor, the ice climber, the poet and musician,

the woodworker, the stained glass artist

and the nurse, the gourmet caterer, the poet,

and cheerleader of grandchildren in sports.

(I worked in the “podcast” above…but this is more specific, but then it’s yet another moment” )

They share poetry from podcasts

read aloud each morning over coffee

and the scones, oh her scones are so good …..

1920 Vanity

Fresh write, when we got rid of a bunch of furniture and householsd things on Nov. 30. Writing helped me with the loss. Did I do the right thing? John says YES! I’m wanting to add more images (??)—need to htink on it. (My first line is weak—trying to think of something better.)

1920 Vanity

Grandma Mimi had it

in her bedroom upstairs,

to the left, at the end of the hall

then it became mother’s,

like an old-fashioned dresser

but for beauty and primping,

three deep drawers on each side

a wide one in the center

all tongue-in-groove

mahogany, solid, heavy,

a matching wood chair with a carved rose at the top

and roses needlepointed on the seat, by Mimi.

Mother kept it in a spare bedroom

drawers stuffed with combs, brushes

old makeup, sewing notions.

She stacked things on it,

piled high with mending,

wool blankets, old clothes.

Later, in assisted living

she sat at it to dry her hair.

Eventually handed-down to me,

I tried it as a desk once, too low,

then stored some art supplies, rarely used.

I stacked things on it too,

moved it a round,

too big for the bedrooms

or elsewhere in the house.

Today, I emptied the drawers

of memories

and finally let it go.

Stir Until Completely Melted

Annette, the Michelangelo experience sparked some creativity. I wrote a poem yesterday, but I need to noddle on it some more. Meanwhile, here’s the Rice Krispie poem I mentioned. Let me know what you think. Each poem appears with its recipe in my mind.

That summer my sisters craved
                        spun sugar.

The light and dark of it,
            their heads together —

one brunette and Walloon, feverish,
                        the other Midsummer fair and Swede.

The impromptu recipe
            triggered a detente of sorts.

Sisters frustrated
                        by the low slant

of the late afternoon sun,
            practically waterlogged

with swimming, sick of friends —
                        a growing awareness of

a channeling into lives
            they didn't want or couldn't change.

One would find the other
                        and pick a quarrel over

a library book or a record
            or a seat in a favorite chair —

that plush one by the window
                        in the quiet living room,

next to the lamp with an etched globe
            and crystal light pulls.

Yet they stirred marshmallows
                        into butter until completely melted,

a white confectionary meltingness
            of sugar and nice —

all the backchat in the rice,
                        snapping and crackling.

The gooey mess cooling only minutes,
            they served each other treats

in their T-square socks, leaning hard
                        against the counter and sink.

Laughing, they pulled the squares apart
            as they blew on their fingers.

Skate Key

11/19/22 Instead here’s a new poem—written yesterday—I’ve been trying to write for years but something I read yesterday sparked in me and it rolled out. Pun intended. LOL

Skate Key

The only good thing

about those ugly brown oxfords

was how the adjustable clamps

of my steel roller skates fit perfectly

over the edge of the stiff soles.

Hexagonal hole in the dull gray key

fit the nut that snugged the side clamps

gripping either side of my foot.

Thin leather straps

buckled around the ankles

and I was free.

Pushing off from the front porch steps,

arms swinging side to side across my chest

for balance, gaining momentum, breeze in my hair,

steel wheels grinding concrete

zooming up Kent Street, left on Zimmerman,

over to Ross Avenue, and on a good day,

all the way to the Dairy Queen on Grand Avenue,

a dime for a vanilla cone, plus a penny for tax,

tucked safely in my pocket.

Back then the only worries

were cracks in the sidewalk,

the only pain, skinned knees,

skate key swinging from my neck

on a piece of twine.

Version #2 01/02/2023 after Karla’s workshop on object poems: (And reviewing/incorporating your comments)

Don’t Lose the Skate Key

I tighten toe clamps of my roller skates
with a slightly rusty, metal key –
A square hollow tube on one end
slides over a prong under the wheels
snugging toe clamps to my shoes.
A hexagon hole at the other end
turns the nuts to lengthen skates
to fit my shoes.

The only good thing about those ugly brown oxfords
is how side clamps grip to leather soles.
Buckling thin leather skate straps around my ankles
I push off from the front porch steps
swing my arms side to side across my chest
gain momentum, breeze in my hair
as steel wheels grind concrete.

I zoom up Kent Street, turn left on Zimmerman,
skate over to Ross Avenue
all the way to Dairy Queen on Grand Avenue.
There’s a dime in my pocket for a chocolate cone
(plus a penny for tax)

Baby Boomer cruisin’ the neighborhood
dodging cracks in the sidewalk,
a skate key swinging from my neck
on a piece of twine.

02-07-2023 — you gave me the nudge I needed with “showing”. I think I finally got it this time: (I am so very aware of how midwestern, suburaban, white, and privileged this experience is from 1958)

Don’t Lose the Skate Key

A slightly rusty, metal skate key
tightens toe clamps of my roller skates.
The square hollow tube on one end
slides over a prong under the wheels,
snugs each clamp to my shoes.
The only good thing
about my ugly brown oxfords
is the tight grip over leather soles.
Buckling thin leather skate straps
around my ankles, I push off
from the front porch steps
swing my arms side to side across my chest
gain momentum, breeze in my hair,
steel wheels glide the concrete.
I orbit the neighborhood like Sputnik –
zoom up Kent Street, left on Zimmerman,
skate over to Ross Avenue
on my way to Dairy Queen on Grand.
There’s a dime in my pocket for a chocolate cone
(plus a penny for tax)
singing one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' purple people eater
dodging cracks in the sidewalk,
a skate key swinging from my neck
on a piece of twine.       

Every Morning I Wake from Bad Dreams

I have not wirtten many dream poems, but I found this in my notepad on my phone from a couple years ago. Editied it into a poem. The title was accurate from that time period, (when I got canned) but not sure it fits the poem. Is this too simple of a dream poem? I know it’s a bit of a conflict here since you are the guest editor of dream poems ;-) (I found other dream notes in my note pad as well..more to write and ponder)

Every Morning I Wake from Bad Dreams

I’ve started a new job, one I don’t want.

I work in a big lobby at a desk

next to two other women who welcome me.

They don’t tell me what the job is,

I try to figure it out.

I look for training materials, organize my desk.

They are counting coins at their desks

but I don’t know what for, maybe an office pool.

There are dead flowers in a vase on my desk,

I toss them but drop petals on the rug of the lobby,

a young man vacuums up the petals.

I feel bad I made a mess, pushing a pile of petals together,

pick up what I can.

Suddenly I notice it’s 5:30 pm

no one is there, I leave,

can’t find my car going through several parking lots.

I wake, hot and miserable.

Wheespers

11/19/2022 WAIT—NO NEED COMMENT ON THIS ONE YET—I AM GOING TO RE-DO IT ENTIRELY—I THINK I HAVE SEVERAL POEMS HERE. DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME ON IT NOW… MORE LATER… TOO MUCH HISTORY OF SCATTERED BITS..WILL FIX.

11/17/22-Tori- I am wriitng from an experience. Does it makes sense to those who weren’t there? Lots of word play and double entendre here.

Wheespers

You have now adopted “Wheespers” for the next two weeks - Greek Tour Director

A hearing device

worn like a portable radio,

made of plastic, bright orange,

batter-ied, dangling from green lanyards

around our necks.

Robin-egg-blue bud umbilicaled to our ears

plugged into our personal wheesper,

a local guide talking – just to me

(and everyone at once.)

Turn up the Whisper

above the crowd,

above the valley

on Mount Parnassus.

The Oracle of Delphi,

Pythia, priestess,

prophet of the Divine

listens for guidance.

Religion before religion,

eight centuries before Christ.

In stillness, stones

circle navel of the earth,

deity Gaea, mother earth,

worshipped in sacred sanctuary

with theatre, art, music,

a gymnasium for athletic contests.

Hush, do you hear it –

the oracle still speaking     in Whispers.

Cook Until Tender

Annette, I might indent lines. I’m not sure. Not sure of the ending either. I am also including the recipe it pairs with. All the titles of the poems will come from the recipe’s directions. At least that’s the plan so far.

That summer my grandmother boiled a ham bone.

I trailed after my favorite cousin,
the middle son of my mother’s sister.

The smell of salty meat drifted down the stairs.

I reached a hand inside the pool table
and pushed a hidden lever.

My Brabantine grandmother had a laugh
like three tomorrows.

I believed other grandmothers owned other taverns.

The balls rolled out into the player’s tray.

My cousin broke the balls, and they scattered,
spinning on the green felt.

My mother and aunt helped serve
behind the bar, tilting glasses to create foam.

Grandmother sat at the bar, elbowing the regulars.
She drank tap beer with ice.

Mother knew somebody who knew somebody.

My sister put a slug in the jukebox, dropping a record —
C5 “Little Green Apples.”

My cousin scratched. He understood exactly
the mechanics of trajectory.

There was more in the pot.

My cousin shrugged in his eyes.

I could win, and he didn’t need
to beat it out of me.

The jukebox clunked  to the next selection —
D1 "The Twist."

My sisters, cousins and I shimmied
on the square-tiled dance floor.

Come on, Baby.

Grandmother slid off her bar stool.

Mother and aunt, too.

No one could resist Chubby Checker.

I only had a scrap of memory of my grandfather.

Grandmother lived alone above the tavern.

The tavern was named after her — Rosemary's.

She kept an herb garden in the patch of land
between the tavern and the church,

where both my mother and aunt were married.

Grandmother shared her recipes,
stirring the pot on two levels.

Boiled Dinner

Ingredients

2 pound bone-in ham
3 large carrots, cut into 2 inch lengths
4 large red potatoes, cubed
6 cloves garlic
6 peppercorns
½ head cabbage, cut into 6 wedges
2 cups low-sodium chicken broth, as needed

Directions

1. Place ham flat-side down over a bed of carrots and red potatoes in a dutch oven. Drop the garlic and peppercorns in and place the cabbage wedges over the turkey ham. Pour enough chicken broth to cover.

1. Boil on the stove for three to four hours, cooking until vegetables are tender and ham breaks apart.

1. Serve with a splash of vinegar on the cabbage.

Everyone Has Gone to Greece in October

On FB I see many friends and acquaintances were also in Greece this month. It’s crazy! It’s not flattering to tourism—so maybe this was only good therapy for me. LOL

Everyone Has Gone to Greece in October

Humanity crushed together enters the stairs,

we are thousands-deep, move as one

watching our feet on uneven rock, then slippery marble.

We stand in wide lines to ascend the hill that hosts

the sacred seat of civilization, symbol of democracy.

No building in Athens can be taller than this hill — The Acropolis.

Doric columns dominate the Parthenon, the temple

that honors the goddess of wisdom, Athena,

from a time, centuries before Christ,

when religion was Greek gods and goddesses. 

A guide is talking through one blue ear bud

tucked in my right ear but I don’t hear what is said,

my concentration goes to one foot in front of the other,

staying upright, breathing into a tight, white mask.

Something about columns, Golden Ratio of 49, architects.

My forehead sweats, the autumn sun is warm enough to make us hot.

The mass inches upward toward the Parthenon,

guide talks in my ear, about Homer, The Odyssey and Iliad,

then takeovers by Catalans, Venetians, Turks, Romans, not sure in which order.

Everyone pushing, pushing for photos. Just photos.

Goddess statues hold up another building nearby.

Strong women in stone. We are rushed along. I am not sure what we saw.

The mass keeps moving, phones click, click.

(No one has real cameras anymore.)

Selfie sticks joust for position.

I waited decades to visit the birth of civilization,

only to be swept along in a crowd too big to care about history.

I will read about it later on Google.

Today is dozens of land tours and eight cruise ships in port

on this Monday in October.

Each group trails behind their respective guide

who holds a sign to follow, like preschoolers on a field trip.

The cruisers wear stickers with their ship name and group number.

One stray joins our group by mistake. 

I am but a small dot in this universe of over-tourism.

Dark side of marketing. Hollywood laughs in the shadows.

Mama Mia, here we go again.   

Rework: Took your coomments into consideration. Then, trying a Haibun in three parts since it’s a long poem (the haiku parts are not strict arithmatic but still work I think.)

Everyone Has Gone to Greece in October

 I

Our Athens tour guide is talking through one blue ear bud tucked in my right ear but I don’t hear what is said. My concentration goes to one foot in front of the other, staying upright, breathing into a tight, white mask. Strangers together, we move as one, watch our feet on uneven rock, then slippery marble, ascend the hill known as The Acropolis. We are thousands-deep, humanity crushing together, eager to travel again after Covid.

Tour groups arrive by sea, and land,
from America mostly
exchange rate favors the dollar.

II

My forehead sweats, the autumn sun is warm enough to make us hot. The mass of tourists inches toward the Parthenon, the guide talks in my ear, about Homer, The Odyssey and The Iliad, something about columns, Golden Ratio of 49, architects; takeovers by Catalans, Venetians, Turks, Romans, not sure in which order.

 Goddess statues hold up another building nearby. Strong women in stone. We are rushed along. I am not sure what we saw. The crowds seek photos. Just photos.  The mass keeps moving, phones click, selfie sticks joust for position.

Wind blows souvenir gowns
long-haired women pose
pretend to be models

 III

We waited decades to visit the sacred seat of civilization, symbol of democracy, only to be swept  along in a crowd too big to hear about history.

I will read about it later on Google.

Today, dozens of land tours and eight cruise ships flood the ancient sites on this Monday in October. Each group trails behind their respective guide who holds a sign to follow, like preschoolers on a field trip. The cruisers wear stickers with their ship name and group number.  One stray joins our group by mistake. 

Over tourism
Hollywood projects our desire
Mama Mia, here we go again.   

###

Crickets and Grasshoppers (See Two revisions, below)

Each late summer the crickets and grasshoppers really get to me, ever since 2011 when my mother died. I finally wrote about it yesterday on the bike trail.

Crickets and Grasshoppers

In August crickets and grasshoppers

warn the end is near

rubbing their legs together

like squeaky wheels rolling in rhythm

reminding us how far we’ve traveled

in this season of sun

deep red tomatoes

and tasseled corn.

Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon

with their pierced buzz of late summer.

And so it was the year

my mother was hanging on

in her last season

too weak to talk.

I asked if she wanted to go outside

in her bed, she nodded yes.

I wheeled her into the Hospice Garden.

Together, we listened.

Crickets clicking, grasshoppers pulsing,

and a loud, metallic cicada with its

arrow of sound.

Every summer when crickets

and grasshoppers voice what’s ahead

I think of this day, crickets clicking

grasshoppers seesawing their squeaky wheels

reminding us of the journey.

I did a major edit on this poem: 08-20-2022. How’s this. New title too.

In August

crickets and grasshoppers

warn the end is near

rubbing legs and wings together.

Whirring rasp, insistent chirps

remind us how far we’ve traveled

in this season of sun, deep red tomatoes,

and tasseled corn.

Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon,

a piercing buzz of late summer.

And so it was the year

my mother was hanging on

in her last season, too weak to talk.

I asked if she wanted to go outside

in her bed, she nodded yes.

I wheeled her into the Hospice Garden.

Together, we listened –  

crickets click-clicking, grasshoppers whirring,

cicadas with their arrow of sound

voicing what’s ahead,

reminding us of the journey.

Another new title: is it too long? (I really like the Louder than a Lawnmower, I read that while researching) The bed is “key” (she could no onger sit up) so I made it ”hospital bed” and put the nodding yes on its own line. (good suggestion!)

Louder than a Lawnmower, Cicadas Can Reach 100 decibels

Crickets and grasshoppers

warn the end is near

rubbing legs and wings together.

Whirring rasp, insistent chirps

remind us how far we’ve traveled

in this season of sun, deep red tomatoes,

and tasseled corn.

Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon,

a piercing buzz of late summer,

And so it was the year

my mother was hanging on

in her last season, too weak to talk.

I asked if she wanted to go

outside in her hospital bed,

she nodded yes.

I wheeled her into the hospice garden.

Together, we listened –  

crickets click-clicking, grasshoppers whirring,

cicadas with their arrow of sound

voicing what’s ahead

reminding us of the journey.

Toss Well to Coat Evenly

I finally read the food issue of Moss Piglet, and it converged some other thoughts/impulses I’ve had lately. For example, I am kind of obsessed with food memoir and food podcasts. I don’t know why. So I thought I would combine poetry with food and/or recipes. Here’s my first effort. Not sure of the title, but I liked it better than the name of the dish.

That summer a buttery light got into everything.
I was in between jobs.
We bought a new gas grill.

I placed chicken pieces in a large bowl,
plumped up and pale as coddled cream,
thighs stacked like palms.

The baby played on a rug in the great room,
reading a story to herself while nudging
wood blocks around with her peachy feet.

Her father mowed our long sweep of lawn.
The smell of cut grass and dirt lifted on a breeze
through the kitchen window. I snapped

cobs of corn in thirds, and kernels showered
the counter and floor. The boys slept
until noon. They moved around me in the

kitchen smelling like campfire. They overfilled
bowls with Kix(R), which rumbled in a raft
of golden milk. They talked in a code

of friends and girls and sports and elbow
jabs. They watched me microwave butter.
It separated as it melted. They promised

to be home by dinner. They were practicing
to be gone. I had bought a new cookbook
with grilling recipes. The word blackening

spoke to me from another life.
I didn't know about the spices.
Raising children was haphazard business.

I slashed the fleshiest parts of chicken
with a knife, streaming butter around the bowl.
I saved a piece of chicken and corn for the baby.

How the needs of children smoldered.
Where was bonfire? I sprinkled the spices --
cumin, paprika, cayenne, salt, pepper.

That summer was the beginning.
Before the emulsion broke down.
I fed them. I gave them new flavors.

I tossed well to coat evenly.
We laughed around the table.
Our mouths were hot. We fanned

our lips. The crust on the chicken
and corn was smoky and sharp. Our tongues
were on fire. The boys gave it five stars.

The Stretch Between Limits

Here’s another attempt to write a poem in response to Quartettsatz in C Minor, D, 703. I tried to think more “lush” this time. I’d love your feedback before I have to read it!!!

A hairstreak butterfly lilts in a certain
slant of sun, and you are ushered
into the inner terrain of the mind —
tremolo of what to eat for breakfast,
longing for love's reparation for your son
and daughter, joy of your partner’s
calloused hands. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.

The sun spangles the dew-soaked grass.
Your fragile feet walk a finer line.
The bitter roast of coffee earths you to the moment.
Tenderness reveals an aging,
pulse of a broader cadence.
You water the purple peonies.
Something in you is quenched. You reach,
you reach for a depiction of the light.

Dream fragments stream you gossamer.
You feel floating threads on your skin,
teasing what's moveable, a sense of yourself
at the opening, sighing cavern, hidden
rivers. Here. Not here. You stand in the flow
with a bowl, remembering the cool,
mineral taste. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.

Spanning is the living kind, the stretch
between limits, where your body begins
and your mind ends, and the beginning
is always beginning, where an extension
beyond what's ordinary let's in the light,
a spontaneous radiance, a benediction
of embodied words. You reach, you reach
for a depiction of the light.

Grief is a Season

Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.
You are reminded by a date, a place, a random thing.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

You spy red in the deep summer of shadow, a broadleaf
hinting of change. Once you notice you can't unnotice. Everything
a season of sadness creeping in like a thief.

Red is your sister in the month of her birthday, her brief
punctuation fells you like a ghost punch, so young, so cheating.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

Deja vu in the kitchen, your mother leans close, your unbelief
steaming from the turkey, the stuffing, the cranberries burbling.
Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.

You saved her the neck. She ate all her pie. You worried her sleep,
which overtook her (or did she will it?), her will a fierce motif.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

Black Friday is always black, in its way a relief.
Your losses don't leave you. They find ways to rebring.
Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.