Never trust a poem over thirty - Day 30 Poem

When she turned thirty, she

weighed about the same as now

was a mother of two little girls

lived in California on the central coast

didn't know what to do with her life

was lonely, all her friends had moved away

wouldn't get paid work again for a long time

kept too much hidden, even from herself

would soon cut her hair and hate it till it grew out

wouldn't understand why for many years

took pictures of the chocolate cake her husband made

couldn't know what the year would bring

would never believe what she'd be up to in twenty-two years

Today's poem, the last poem of April (unless one sneaks in later), just came from contemplating the big 30 and making a list. Between then and now I gained a lot of weight and lost it, several times. Those girls are both closer to 30 than 0. We're now on the East Coast (though farther from the actual coastline than we were then). I'm doing what I'm going to do with my life. I'm no longer lonely. I still don't get paid. I'm no longer hiding much of anything, hahaha. Never cutting my hair short again. I understand. The pictures of the cake are not digital and are in a box somewhere. That was one hell of a year. And I still at times don't believe what I've gotten up to. But all in all, it's good.

SEAF!!!

This picture is from last year's Seattle Erotic Art Festival, but as soon as there are some from this year's, which starts TODAY, I will replace and post more. I wish wish wish I could just be beamed to Seattle, because not only does my daughter live there, but I had two of my poems make it into the ten finalists in this year's SEAF Literary Art Showcase (that there is a link with the listing of all the literary artists and their work, including mine!). Hmm. Do you think I'm excited??? You're damn right I'm excited!

Also, the ever effervescent Gina Marie has not only a poem, but a short story AND a photograph in this years show! Wowza!   Also, Jacque, who has a wonderful erotic poetry blog, Black Satin, has two poems in the show too! And they will be attending the show tonight! Also going with Gina is Shanna Germain and BadAssKona. I'm sooooooo jealous! But I have been assured that we'll get a full report. I mean, Naked Girls Reading our poems!

More later!

I got a hammer - Day 29 Poem

Cultivating a Lack of Propriety

Always false, her sense of.

A front, cobbled together boards

painted to look like something

else. Suburbia hiding tumbleweeds.

Stripping down in mid-day sun

she takes crowbar and hammer,

whacks away at the general store,

the tea room, the jailhouse.

Hard work, to break down

this distorted authenticity,

expose her aged beams,

hand-hewn, full of character.

She wants to build something

else. A dance hall, saloon, brothel

maybe? Let the wild, wild west

of her mind take over construction.

Or maybe stay with the skeleton?

Bare bones of her natural framework.

Leave all open to the elements:

air, water, earth, space, fire.

Tomorrow is the last day of April, poetry month. Don't know if you're (all three of you) are sick of seeing just about only poems or what here. But this morning the phrase "lack of propriety" popped into my head (won't tell you what I was thinking about), and this poem was born! The picture is of some old barn timbers we got the other year with hopes to use some or all of them to build not just my writing cabin, but our house up in our Maine woods. In the meantime, I'm working on cultivating my true self. 

Between a rock and a hard place - Day 28 Poem

Erratic

Left behind by ice

ages ago,

this rock, warmed

by vernal equinox sun,

exposed to elementary

alteration, welcomes

deviation from the normal.

Air unseasonably balmy,

bedeviling insects unhatched,

they choose this boulder,

mossy baptismal font,

altar to their concupiscence,

for belated consummation

of primitive home.

Earth still damp with thawing

winter, muddies under

their shifting boots.

Outside, under the mid-day

sun, laces undone, bare

legs wrap around thrusting

blue-jeaned hips, skin

receives stone impression,

bits of moss, crushed leaves

cling, to be washed

away later.

This poem took a bit of time to write today. I had NO CLUE what to write, so I just went into my photos to look for some inspiration. I saw this picture, of what I've named Vernal Equinox Rock, and so, this poem took shape. Yeah, finally, a little bit of eroticism. Oh, and for those that don't know, an erratic is a rock or boulder moved from its source by glaciers. We got lots of em up in Maine. This is a pretty little one. But just the right size. Grin.

Note: concupiscence was The Fucking Word of the Day.

Kicking back - Day 27 Poem

Hooky

Just like kids they are,

so fucking tired of just

another day, work,

not enough play, weight

on shoulders needs

shaking off, after voting,

dinner, quick school kid

trip, they slap the laptops

closed, ready to kick back,

watch politically incorrectness,

in the dark, maybe with popcorn.

Okay, I'm starting to resent, just slightly, the fact that I NEED TO write and post a poem every friggin' day! I'm under time pressure here because Mr. E (who's been away on bizniss the whole dang weekend plus) and I are playing hooky from mom & dadville and going to see Kick Ass! So, once again, banging out a poem on short notice. Under pressure.

Addenda: Kick Ass kicked ass! (I'm sure that's been said a bajillion times, but it's true)

Receptive - Day 26 Poem

By Nature, Erotic

inescapable, this
elemental, essential
mere words whispered

this is my nature
denial is
futile, foolish

avid, ardor
in heat,
my molten core

I struggle with language, my
meager endeavor to explain
why eros envelopes me




This poem was hard to write. I've been working on it, in itty bitty bits, for hours. Yes, I'm distracted. In good ways. I'm pretty sure this is one that I'll want to keep working on. The idea is there, simmering just below the surface. But for me, this is just not erotic enough.


 Speaking of erotic, I have had two poems make it into the Literary Art Showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival!!!  "I Want to Watch" and "Memento Vivere." And yes, I'll probably post them here this weekend, since I cannot be at the festival (boo hoo).

I'm a natural for this - Boobquake

Yesterday I saw a post about this - Boobquake 2010 over at Janine Ashbless' blog, and I'd thought, well, of course I could help! Then this morning I woke up to an invite to the "event" on FB. And although it is supposed to be rainy and cool where I live, I will do my part.

No Typo - Day 25 Poem

Where She Rests

On the space bar, a small oval

has been rubbed clear of silver,

as have the S and E keys. Soon

to follow will be C and D. The

left side shift key has a spot

being worn away also. All this,

evidence of time well spent.

Today, a lot of time was spent typing on my computer. It's a little thing, one of those ancient 12 inch Powerbooks that they no longer make. I love it. And there is visible proof of how much. So at the end of a day when I just want to get away from that little screen and rest my eyes, I remembered I had to write a poem. So, here it is. 

Tomorrow I hope to be able to announce some exciting news. 

On a lovely morning - Day 24 Poem

For What It's Worth

words exchanged between friends

songbirds calling from trees

dishwater, coffee, cats in windows

piles of clutter, a pine cone, an ant

my own tears, to do list, too many miles

fading daffodils, new leaves, pens,

blank sheet, an empty paper bag,

that infernal blinking cursor, time

I guess maybe writing can be a dangerous thing. This poem started coming to me while I was doing dishes and ... boiling water for tea. I left the kitchen to write this down and the water boiled away. The smoke alarm went off. All is fine. This kettle is twenty-eight years old and has been boiled dry many times and it shows. And shit, LOL, that in itself is a poem I guess. It's not quite noon and the day has already been too full. 

In record time - Day 23 Poem

Gone

I am missing you she thinks

wishing she could grab

onto the letters she's typing

and race with them through

those magical connections

to pop out on the other side

and no longer be without

you

It's almost 5pm and I realized as I typed an email that I had not written a poem. So, in six minutes I banged this out. Record time, and it probably shows.

A Week Ago at In the Flesh: Emerald was Hot!

Last Thursday, Mr. E and I headed into New York City to meet up with a good friend of mine and then join Emerald and "Rick Write" for dinner before heading over to In the Flesh, where she was scheduled to read. I hadn't seen her since last summer (the great Gettysburg erotic writers dinner), and it was certainly a pleasure getting together again. And great fun meeting "Rick." I'd been wanting to get my husband down there to see what an erotic reading was like. Though this one wasn't that erotic, with the exception of Em's reading. If you would like to listen and watch for yourself, go here to her blog and enjoy!

Also scheduled to read was Stephen Elliott, who was up this way last November doing a reading that would have ... let's just say ... repercussions. He slept on our living room floor and tweeted about our "demon cats from hell." He was nice enough to stop by and say hi before he read.

It was a fun evening, and at least this time, being upstairs, we got to hear the readers. Being short, I was not able to see them read, so I appreciate the videos. The picture above left is one of those happy accidents. I was holding my camera over my head hoping to get something.  Below is what I actually got to see.

And I'll include the picture below, in which I am laughing and squinting and looking far too much like the middle-aged lady I am (hush everyone, I can hear you scolding me). Emerald of course looks lovely despite being nervous (this was taken before the reading). The other subject in the photo will have to remain unidentified (to protect the innocent and all that - yeah right). 

Well, I would write a bit more, but it looks like we're going to have a thunderstorm, so I better post this before something happens. 

Mirror, mirror - Day 22 Poem

I look like my sister from the back

my hair tucked through ball cap's opening,

old jeans and work boots, t-shirt, middle-aged,

and it's like a slap, startling me out of my sun-soaked

reverie, and this is not at all the poem I intended

to write, but instead a reminder that what I feel

on the inside does not necessarily translate

to the outside, and I wonder why this is,

why I do not look like how I feel.

Whoa! This is NOT the poem I thought I was going to be writing, was writing, when I started out. Today's Earth Day and I was writing a poem about some wisteria that had choked a cedar tree to death. And I guess I'll still write that one, but that's not my poem of the day, obviously. So, I went outside and lay down in the sun a bit, just being lazy and soaking it up. It was nice. Then I came in and was about to continue on the poem, when I got an email with pictures from the outing when I saw the wisteria this morning. And it was of the back of me (a group of people working) and I was so totally shocked because I look like my sister (at least to me). So, that's where this poem came from. For some reason I'm feeling particularly old today. And no, the picture above is NOT the picture I'm referring to. I look like me in this one. Yeah, mood swings.

Out in the open - Day 21 Poem

Making it Happen

Most of her life, she just sat around

waiting, wondering why

all the good stuff seemed to happen

to other people.

She stayed on the sidelines, spectator,

perpetual wallflower,

never asked to dance because she hid

in the shadows.

No one can see you when you keep

yourself invisible,

and she was good at that, disappearing

into woodwork.

Whenever she thought about stepping

out from the shade

or the wall, she'd see from the corner

of her eye – the mallet.

Poised to drop, purposely squashing

ambition like a repulsive

insect that threatens our semblance

of tidy, unsullied order.

A bug, often, that's how she sees herself,

sorry for bugging you,

apologizing just for being, as if there is

anything else to be.

Ever curious, she looks up cockroaches,

finds they can survive

a week without their heads, a fact that

makes hers reel.

This is how she is, never able to focus

for too long,

and she wonders if this is a strength

or a weakness.

What if that cockroach learned to live

in the open,

not scurrying for cover of darkness

when light threatens?

And now this poem has jumped

to a new page,

and she thinks I don't write long poems,

but she does.

Somehow she is learning to

make it happen,

create a life as she's always

dreamed it.

I know the picture doesn't really go with the sentiment of the poem, but it's the only bug-related picture I knew I had. And in a sense it does go with the poem, because that's often how I thought I'd end up if I was brave enough to step out into "traffic." Several verses into this poem I got a phone call. From a friend who doesn't know about this me - the Erobintica me. Today, if all goes well, I do something that I've been putting off for well over a year. Nothing horrendous, maybe not even earth-shaking. But something that's scared me for a long time. I'm going to tell her. And I think I'll take a copy of this poem along.

Oh, and thanks (you know who you are) for the missing head image - it gave my poem a certain delightful macabre turn.

I enjoy being a girl! – Day 20 Poem

Tidal

this littoral transition

from girl

to young woman

to wife

to mother

to what?

not knowing the splash

zone from the marine

will I sink?

the water

above my head

barnacles encrust

my fringes

I await

moon's pull

dream of ocean

troughs

and crests

Yeah, definitely experiencing some mood swings today. On the one hand it's good – when I took my walk I got ideas for 2-3 stories and the starts of several poems – on the other, well, let's just say I'm glad I didn't have to try to explain my tears to anyone. Such is life. My husband recommended I listen to this. Haven't had time yet. Too busy rising and falling.

Shadow Soul - Day 19 Poem

Superstitious

There's a story she won't tell,

fears it's undoing if she does.

So she holds it close, tucked

away in a pocket, takes it out

every now and then to look on

in private. She knows this is silly,

foolish even, this superstition

of tempting fate, whose wagging,

naysaying fingers might snatch

this from her. Her heart pounds,

her mouth goes dry, tears form

at the corners of her eyes, at just

the thought of losing her story,

the one not yet written.

The first couple of lines of this poem just popped into my head as I was resetting our high/low thermometer this afternoon (when the sun shines on it the temp is registered too high so once it's in shadow we dial it down). I have no clue where it came from (well, I do, but I don't know why it popped into my head when it did). I was on my way out to run errands, so I jotted the line in my little notebook that I keep with me all the time. Later, home, I sat down to write and this is what came out. The picture was chosen because while looking up superstitions (in an effort to find one that I might have a picture to illustrate with), I read that the ancients believed your shadow was your soul, or some such. And voila! I had a picture of a shadow.

Still afraid of heights, but... - Day 18 Poem

Cliff Diver

Despite my name, I rarely dream of flight,

more often of falling, into water. I sink

below the surface, look up

towards the shimmering,

wonder if it's reflections

of above or below,

inside or outside,

real or imagined,

past or present,

good or bad,

in or out,

me, or

just

me

p

l

u

n

g

i

n

g

into whatever life offers next.

Today I heard the word "plunge" and immediately I flashed on the cliff divers of Acapulco, which I remember watching on TV when I was younger. I've always been afraid of heights, and was, as a result, totally fascinated by these people that would dive head-first off a cliff into the ocean below. And because of the context of the comment with the word plunge in it, this poem came to mind. The shape was accidental at first, but then I worked with it, something I've done before.

Baring My Soul

That's what I'm doing over at F-Stop: Expose the Naked I today and the rest of this week. The brainchild of Neve Black, Donna George Storey, and Shanna Germain, this blog offers writers and other artists a chance to "expose those exquisite soft and pink parts that lay hidden somewhere inside and are usually kept safely locked up." Whether naked physically or figuratively, the authors featured there so far have given us some thought-provoking essays. My contribution is titled Fuck Shame.

Loose - Day 17 Poem

Poetry Slut

Loose words

casual punctuation

too liberal use of—

em dashes

slit skirt showing off

a poem's legs

up to the garter belt

maybe beyond

There's a story behind this t-shirt, but none in the poem other than I'm fond of using em dashes in poems. I'm exhausted today.

Take the next left - Day 16 Poem

Lost

almost there, but

one small wrong turn

shatters me

around and around

no street signs

no stopping here

useless map

outside city limits

so close to the place

of my birth

but when I was young

we rarely ventured to this side

of the river

so I'm lost

driving in circles

sense of direction

all screwed up

by exhaustion

and more

but these words

are proof that

I'm not still lost

In case you're wondering, this poem IS autobiographical, LOL. I drove to Philadelphia today, got within a couple of miles of my destination and took a wrong turn, onto an expressway (see, there was this car carrier truck in front of my blocking my view of the off ramp... oh? you don't care?) - and well then...

This is my first blog post from about a dozen or so miles from my birthplace. Kinda cool.

Next stop - Day 15 Poem

Express Train

No time to hold onto a strap,

to stay standing, retain balance.

Jerking forward – or is it backwards? –

with whiplash speed, hurtling

past those signs from years past:

YOU HAVE NO WORTH

large, garish type

DON'T WASTE TIME ON DREAMS

I want to close my eyes. Not see

these outdated messages, strung out

along these tracks. back back back

Where this train takes me, I don't wish

to go. But this train doesn't stop on it's own.

I could throw myself off, getting bruised,

torn up, risking breakage. Instead,

I wrestle the brake.

Sparks fly.

Yeah, had me a bit of a meltdown this morning. But can't afford to stay there long - it's an expensive train ride. So, I wrote a poem. Cheaper than therapy! And as I finished up this poem, this song popped into my head. I got to see Jethro Tull a couple of times, eons ago! Still great - and this song is one of my favorites.

'cause I'm lazy today - Day 14 Poem

Spring sunshine beckons

I'm going for strawberries

Screw writing poems

Bound and determined - Day 13 Poem

Latch on Leather

Never intended to buy anything,

other than maybe a bead,

but that shop is gone, and I end up

back here, where wonder tracks

have led me, and I see the journals,

leather-bound, displayed, beckoning

to me, knowing I've not bought

myself a new book to write in

for some time, and the brass latch

adorning the small, hand-stitched

cover, attracts me, says touch me,

and I do, working the lock to lay open

pages of creamy, white handmade

paper, their small size just perfect

for my small thoughts, and though

I replace the little one to examine

larger, more ornate repositories,

I return to this one, were I will rest.

This wonderful little blank journal (3x4 inches) was purchased last night. It's from these folks, and I am seriously craving some of their other ones (if not most). It's a size that will fit in my purse - my warm weather one that is - and I look forward to using it. I tend to be rather utilitarian in my blank journal choices, so this was a bit of a splurge for me at $16. But I am in love with the latch!

Oh, and I wrote something in it last night - but that's not my poem-a-day poem. 

Self-explanatory - Day 12 Poem

A Poem in However Many Parts it Takes

1.

Walking and thinking

2.

It started like this. Before the walk.

Not Said

words want

sadness brittle

heaved sigh

tears verge

Why is it we cannot break free of the past and speak to each other with the ease that should come with so many years? Why the silence? The fear? The hesitation builds a wall that we can't seem to breach.

3.

Where is my rock pick? my sledgehammer? my jackhammer? my dynamite?

4.

I have many doorways.

People pass through -

into and out of my life.

Some are pushed. Get out

until you can meet me

under the lintel. My only regret -

you never did. Father.

Some are carried. Give up

their feet, though they will

forever walk with me. Friends. lost.

Some come and go. Always met

with open arms. I'll not board my doorways.

Some are kicked through.

Welcome back. Sorry life sucks.

Come in, have some tea. Stay a bit.

You'll always have a home,

here, in my heart. You will know who you are.

Some leave, because they must, their road waiting

beyond my portal. Never will the door be closed. Children.

5.

One is the doorway with me.

6.

Music makes me cry.

Interconnections.

Reminders.

I hate that good

can come from bad.

7.

So many what ifs. A lifetime of stories

waiting to be written. A signpost pointing

many directions, all of them a destination.

8.

Somewhere in this world, is a woman,

the spitting image of me. And there is

someone with my very same name.

We don't own any of this.

We own it all.

9.

I have often felt like a fraud.

A cheap knock-off.

Dollar store copy.

10.

You can stop pretending now. Little girl

playing dress up. Poet Barbie. Complete

with beret, black jeans, and turtleneck,

dog-eared notebook, coffee cup, canvas bag

brimming with angst.

11.

I'm fiftyfuckingtwo years old! Time to grow up!

12.

My sister said to me once,

nobody drives a car like yours

if they don't want to be seen.

I hated that she was right.

13.

Painted toenails. Pine cones. Purple satin.

Weeds. Words. Wonder.

Napping cats. Knots of wood. Nasty thoughts.

Complicated. Confused. Carnivorous.

Insecure. Introspective. Indecisive.

Shy. Shameless. Selfish.

Mead. Mochas. Malted milkshakes.

Dust. Disliking housework. Dutiful to a degree.

Lust. Loyal. Lonely.

14.

I am all these things,

15.

and more.

A Wall

Actually, I think I hit it yesterday, or maybe even on Saturday. The poems had been coming fairly easily, which surprised me. But now, not so quickly. It's not that my mind is blank (that happens, but I usually have too much going on in my mind), but that what is starting to come out is NOT what I want to write. Like the poem I started this morning. I can feel the resistance in me to going to the places this poem wants to go. That's not good. Both the direction and the resistance. It's one of those dilemmas that seem to constantly fill my life. So, I'm gonna take a walk and see what happens.

20/20 Hindsight - Day 11 Poem

Backwards

All day, her necklace has been turned, wrong side faced out,

cabochon dome towards her heart rather than the world.

She tends to look inwards more often than some

might think wise, forever pondering those mysteries

that lie within. She's been accused of spending too much

time gazing into the crystal ball of the past. Time wasted

when she could be making forward progress. Onward

and upward. Not backwards. But the best way to not get lost,

while hiking, is to glance back, see the world from this

new viewpoint, because it is always changing, and knowing

where you came from helps you choose your path wisely.

At first, this evening, I started a completely different poem. While writing it, and not liking where it was going, I noticed my necklace was on backwards. It had been mentioned to me during dinner, I think, but it really didn't work it's way into my consciousness. So, as I undid the clasp and turned it around, this poem started. So, I went with this. And then it took it's own route.

Tonight a different movie please - Day 10 Poem

After Seeing a Good But Depressing Movie

Side by side we lay,

flipping pages, bumping toes.

Each sips from a cup –

you, Kahlua and milk,

me, chilled mead.

I read the same paragraph

over and over again,

have trouble with focus,

want something else

to distract my mind,

a good fuck perhaps.

We close our books,

turn out the light,

attempt to chase war away.

But my spirits won't lift,

my mind held tight

by the knowledge

of what I fear is being lost

at the mercy of nature.

That cruel bitch.

Stealing what drives me,

makes me who I am.

Common sense, speaking

with your voice, reassures me.

You know me better

than I give you credit for.

This too will pass –

I am the forever pendulum.

Still, I weep into my pillow.

Your fingers on my skin

try to soothe my spirit,

that libidinous imp held hostage

by chemical-carried messages

lost in the mail.

I cry, even though I know

there will be a fight to the death,

mine, before I give this up.

We hold each other,

skin to skin, side by side.

About time! Today it was actually pretty damn hard to write a poem. This is about the fourth try. Maybe it's because it's too sunny out. I want to be weeding in the garden, or hanging clothes on the line, or exercising. Anything but writing about what's on my mind.

oh, and the movie we saw last night was Green Zone.

99.8% Right - Day 9 Poem

You Were Right

Always, I've been guilty

of reading between the lines

seeing what might or might not be there

sure that everyone else gets it

while I'm left out

in the cold

scared

alone

just

me

You said Don't question, just go forward.

And I thought – how can I do that ? The world is

big, hard, frightening. Full of lions, tigers, bears.

My past snaps at my heels. Growls. Salivates.

I've run. Perfect prey. All that has done for me,

is left me in shreds. Tattered clothes

bloodied by my own attempts at escape –

through snarly brambles, over deceitful

logs spanning icy crevasses, dog-paddling

across raging molasses rivers.

I've heard the siren song, promising succor.

Give in to abyssal gravity, float away.

Cotton candy and clouds, whipped

cream and meringue, a cube of aerogel.

More often, I've blended in, invisible,

a walking stick bug. Just part of the tree. Move on.

Nothing to see here. I play dead real well.

But you were right. Though your answer

to my question – me always questioning –

made me angry. That's no answer. I wanted

mockery, sympathy, all those thys I thought

I deserved. Instead, was empathy your answer?

Or am I reading more than is there? I look again

at those words, see how I no longer cower,

even though I am as afraid as I ever was.

Today's poem took a strange route. The picture above is of a cube of aerogel, that I took last summer when we visited the Air & Space Museum in DC. I just thought it was the coolest. But that's not what got this poem started. Instead, I was exercising, working up a sweat on my airwalker to Lady Gaga, and thinking. I'm always thinking. It's a bad habit. And I was thinking about how lately, I seem to be getting over some of my paralyzing fear. Fear of what? Well, of damn near everything. And then I thought of the line that Stephen Elliott wrote when he signed my copy of Happy Baby last year. And I thought "he was right." So, I was off and running. I've noticed that these poem-a-day poems are taking me in some interesting directions. Not sure what it means. 

Well Done - Day 8 Poem

Hot Flash

in the pan

over coals

on the spit

at the stake

Do you wish to see me roast?

Twist in agony as flames lick,

skin blisters, flesh tightens?

Yes, I am guilty of that sin –

free thought without regret.

Here, let me be trussed,

collect life's juices, baste

myself with them. This bird

will cook to perfection. Let them

carve me to feed the hungry hordes.



Well, who the hell knows where poems come from? Yeah, I'm of a certain age, and lately I've been experiencing hot flashes. And the the phrase "flash in the pan" popped into my head. That's where I started. But then I went off into another realm altogether! Watch out for formerly repressed, middle-aged women - we can be dangerous!

Woman Overboard! Day 7 Poem

Afraid of the Deep Blue Sea

of sand, abandoned shells, driftwood,

pebbles, rotting kelp, tangled fishing line,

pieces of broken board, decaying seagulls,

picked apart crabs.

of tidepools, anemones, barnacles,

mussels, starfish, snails.

of surf, foam, waves, swells, riptide.

of the depth, of drowning, of not.

Today's poem was inspired by my belated and reluctant dive into the social network site ocean.  I've declined invitations, ranted against, despaired as real friends seemed to disappear into the abyss. And though I went kicking and screaming, the tide is rising and it's better to swim than to sink, don't you think? So, yeah. I've gotten my feet wet. Besides, I float pretty well.

Where a mind goes - Day 6 Poem

A Matter of Time

When I say those words,

to a friend, to myself, to the world,

or when they are said to me,

both joy and pain are joined,

end to end, the uroborus,

serpent consuming itself,

ancient infinity, fractal spiral,

Escher's Drawing Hands,

mirrors reflecting mirrors,

the night sky, the unknown,

the unseen, the unheard

ticking.

Seems I'm letting my own thoughts be my prompts for these poems. I was thinking (and can't even remember why now) how I once said to a friend "It's only a matter of time" - and I put that as the title on a blank sheet (digital of course) and just went with it wherever my mind wanted to take it. 

If you don't like spiders... - Day 5 Poem

I Gave a Spider a Lift

Some sort of spider, it was hard to tell,

he  or she being on windshield's outside,

I being on the inside, driving. It wandered

a bit, walking back and forth across

my field of vision, seemed nonplussed

at thirty-five miles an hour, but then,

on the freeway at seventy-plus,

my little gray passenger just disappeared.

This poem formed in my head in the course of running errands today. There was one of those jumping spiders - which I always find very cute and fascinating - on the outside of my drivers side windshield. It paced while I drove and I wondered where I would lose it. Not sure when it went bye-bye, since I was paying attention to traffic as I merged, but it was gone by the time I looked for it again. I found this amusing video whilst googling "jumping spider" - the poor guy - he's working so hard and all she does is sit there and watch, but it ends just like a PG movie. I can only hope he got lucky.

Home again home again jiggedy jig - Day 4 Poem

The Long Way Home

First of all, I don't want to.

Go home that is.

I want to stay in my woods,

visit longer with the rocks, nap

with all kinds of friendly moss,

let the breeze caress me, the sun

make love to me.

Instead we drive over the mountains,

see a moose, my first, and I am like

a child with excitement, wonder.

Remember the moose tracks in mud

down by the brook

below where we'll live

someday, not too far off,

I hope.

It is so very hard to head home after a way too short weekend up in our Maine woods. But today, on our way, we saw a moose in the road. It was a young male, but it towered over the SUV in front of us. Then it wandered up the hill to the right of us, and though I could see it through the trees, my cell phone camera could not. Oh well. It's my first live wild moose! (we saw a dead one on the side of the road in northern Maine about eight years ago) 

So my wildlife encounters on this trip are (heard or seen): a raven, owls, a woodpecker, turkeys, a moose. Pretty cool. 

Going a bit twiggy - Day 3 Poem

Cleavage Twigs

Clippers and folding saw my only tools, I cut

the trail to my future writing cabin, past pines,

birch, beech, maple, moosewood, baby hemlocks.

I let it wind it's way through woods, over mossy

stumps, no straight lines, pick my way

so the fewest trees have to be taken out.

I apologize to each as I snip or saw them,

toss aside in piles that might shelter

a small bird, eventually rot away,

become the rich humus of this forest floor.

Early April warm, though there is still

ice on the lake. Sun strong enough

that I fear sunburn, yet relish it's heat

on my skin. I lay back, soak it up, listen

to the stream below tumbling over rocks

into the pool below. White noise, the best kind,

water. A raven calls as it flies down

the valley. I smile. As I sit up, I feel something poke

at my heart, reach down and pull a small twig,

picked up from some branch, from between my breasts.

Damp with my sweat, it falls among the leaves,

infused with my salt. I am now part of this land.

Today was spent working on our land. It was close to 80 degrees and I worked in a tank top. My husband was down the hill with his chainsaw, bucking up logs that had been taken down last year when our driveway was put in. That's all we have – a driveway. But hopefully I'll be building a tiny cabin this summer – my writing retreat. Only 9' X 12', it will have a desk and chair, a teensy pot-bellied stove, some sort of sleeping-upon thing (maybe one of those futon sofas that pull out), a rocking chair. A porch to sit on. I've never had a place that is all my own. This will be. And I'm building it myself (with some help, yeah, but still...).

Breaking them thar rules - Day 2 Poem

Outlaw or

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Rules

Day one and I've broken them unknowingly

not having been concerned with them

not having even bothered to look for, or at them

in the first place.

Ha! I will make my own rules

the first of which is

there are no rules

make it up as you go is always

creative, it just naturally follows

No prompts needed

at least not yet

and if they are I will make them

myself

And who's to say this is any less

valid?  I've been following rules

all my life. Maybe it's about time

I let my inner outlaw out.

The townsfolk will  have to run for cover

and the horses will whinny

and the tumbleweeds will tumble by

as my spurs clink

And I won't be afraid to be silly

So, I didn't read all the rules at the ReadWritePoem site when I signed up - and guess what, on the very first day - yesterday - I broke them. I didn't use their prompt and I didn't post my poem there or link to it. That makes me ineligible to be included in the anthology they're doing. Oh well. I'm still going to write a poem a day. But I'll write whatever however I want to. And ya know, it feels kinda good.

First Foolish Poem - Day 1 Poem

So here 'tis my first effort. 

Fool

start with strawberries

tart points of edible red

hearts wear green skirts

plucked away, discarded

bathed in cool water

laid bare to dry

sanguine juices blot

folded paper as berries

await their fate

mound in bowl, press

until flesh gives way

becomes pulp

taste

sweeten

set aside

thick with buttery Spring

pour the heavy Jersey

whisk to soft peaks

melting mountains

spoon pomace

swirl within the cream

meld the flavors

leave streaks behind

the two never completely

blending, always

simply complex

So, today is April Fool's Day. Spring. I can hear the birds twittering outside as the day lightens. On weekdays (like today), I plan to do my poem-a-day in the morning after getting my son off to school (yes, his bus comes at 6:25am - high schoolers don't need sleep do they?). I plan on giving myself a half hour in which to write. And it worked. I finished this poem at 6:55am today. I like that it's slightly erotic.

Am I a fool? Today this worked, tomorrow? And what of weekends? Why should I worry - they are just poems, right? Maybe out of the month I'll get one or two good ones - only time will tell. 

So, when I fired up my laptop this morning, I was reminded that today was a day dedicated to fools (or making fools, or fooling people, or just being foolish). But my mind was not on that. Last night my husband gave me a title of a poem (not this one) - which maybe I'll write tomorrow - and THAT was in my head, so when I thought FOOL, I thought of the dessert, and since Spring means strawberries to me (from our days of living in a strawberry-growing area of California) - I thought of this. And I think I'll make it for dessert tonight! I use, when I can get it, a heavy Jersey cream, which in the Spring, when the cows are eating fresh grass, is tinged a lovely yellow. That's why butter and margarine is colored yellow, so that it "looks" like it's supposed to (grain fed cow cream doesn't look like that). 

Sorry, I'm off on a tangent - I must be getting hungry.