Correspondence

 

Onion Skin

We would write each other - a lot!

All of us in the family - impossible

- there are even many letters from my father

to my brother!- stunning - as history would have it was

all silence between them.

But there were letters, details of bright new living, 

penned 

in the tiniest handwriting possible,

on the lightest of all papers,

the blue, self-sealing onion skin air mail sheet

which left us three folds worth of space to detail

our travels, our observatons, our current moment, 

drinking a citron-pressé by a glorious fountain and its

collected punks and street artists. And the begging man

beyond, half-hidden by his sign, but entirely covered in burn scars.

The day before I was lost,

let out, the bus shut down, at the end of the line 

nothing to do then but get to it -

shuffling, homesick, miles back to the center.

What has vainished from this era

is not just the letters

but the gaze, gazing itself

through an excellent smoke ring

through the lucky present

past the sparkling water

towards some (promising, was it?) opaque future

where we are now

let out again at the end of the line

unable to see back through, or navigate towards,

or even feel, locate,

the truth of it.

My father wrote my brother!

A lot!

History is revised into its own oblivion.

Habitat Loss, I might call it

I build my nest now  out of advertisements

and curl there, exposed to schemes

and discounts. I drift to dream, lulled by

hypnotic self-improvement plans

that will never make me feel as clear-headed

as proud of myself

as I did, in France alone at sixteen,

knowing to write

below the address

PAR AVION

and underline it twice

so my moment 

- the fountain gone salmon pink in the evening light - 

my legs still on fire from my long walk back

but not like that poor man, that poor man!

who sits forever in a small curve of my brain behind a sign that

says "Merci"

might be shared

back home, far away

on this lightest of papers

the thinnest of histories

mist sprayed from the fountain

and I turned to face it

– the wriiting itself

the illegible root of memory

Poem a Day 2 0 Disguise

 

Reflection

The mirror is the mask

- as is the lens -.

In an instant

I am hidden

behind some face

that couldn't possibly be the sum of

my loves and pains,

my inner, roadless, borderless landscape,

my, in fact, genetic attendance

to beauty. Always.

It is a face

twenty years into

hammering it out alone.

It is ugly, puffed, pinched, - a bit pissed.

And behind the eyes -

even the sad yearning from abadonment has gone stale.

In somehow the same life in which I loved you,

I have become pure stranger to my self.

So says the mirror

which calls me 

the disguise.

Chapbook poem a day. might avail myself of these prompts to finish my Lifeguard book..

 Before you go

Before your mouth falls away into invisibling ash

and cannot same my name

(or yours)

Let us speak of how you might try

through what? a slant of light

an adagio

a quaking leaf

to modify

(i'm sure without hands)

without will?

a surface of this world

to announce yourself

to call to me

to remind

remind

as if you needed to

of you, of me, of of

And let us speak of how I might try

When also gone vanished, to connect with you

How will we, as light waves,

as magnetic fields,

as vapor or less

meet?

Let's sort this out now.

Let's make a plan.

small dream

 We are supposed to be miles high over the Atlantic

but out the window trees rush past. We have already landed, maybe in the Philippines, and soon are emptying out of the plane down and down into a bodega town, steps and more steps and switchbacks and steps. I know she cannot do this without help and is where?  still on the plane? I call her name up the hill, not finding her, but soon see a group of seniors being taken care of together and white hair I suspect is hers.

on the plane most had found a place to stretch out fully. I was trying to curl on the floor and then there was a place to rest then the trees rushing past.

not too interesting but was physically interesting, felt the full weight and momentum of a giant plane full of people. and the sudden new location for us.

How long has it been, little invisible blog of mine?

A couple of years that were actually dog years. Everything feels different.

*****

Marguerite 

We have become old people,

us kids, remaining.

Somewhere, in the bones that suddenly cry out

then stop, is a folded sense of sense.

Sense folded up in layered, rolled sheaths -

- brittling palimpsest of selfhood.

Our neighbor's son is also an old person. His mother: much older.

He is a raving maniac and he chased her and she fell and her femur snapped.

And this is not good. Not a metaphor.

She was a walker, striding brightly through the neighborhood, to the rose garden

and back.

She won't be striding anymore.

The sidewalks will do without her.

Kids these days. 60 year old kids these days, raving and failing to have ever left home.

And so angry about that.  

The writing that was vivid on my bones

leeches out into my blue veins.

And still I dream that I have - have always had -  two houses. 

Here it is again, my other house, with the beds just as we left them.

Her purse still left there, spilled open - the menthol cigarettes, the felt pens, and lip gloss -

just as it was when we missed the plane.

As if, in some rooms, time has stopped.

It is the other house - my actual house? - in which the crazy man wandered.
Or the house next door?

Which room does the dream make? And why?

Marguerite lies today in a bed of light oblivion, 

she may never stand again

and yet may still fall 

to sterile ground, searching down the cold corridor 

for the felt quality of light

that once emanated from the heart

of one her one good son.

Hachi Dream Visit #1

 he was with Joel now...

neither were particularly friendly and the dog looked different, but he did still want to go for a walk.

not a minute after we entered the park, his innards started flowing out of his right armpit in great quantities and fast until the dog shape reversed and was totally drained, emptied.

I believe I am being told: he was fucking really sick. 

There is nothing I could have done.

Introduction Poem - PAD 1 2021

 

Introduction Poem I would like you to know me the many of me girl of the spongy cracked oak balls, young self of the lifted, held and held, turned, and held soft tangerine light infused in the tiptop of the eucalyptus row that could offer a view across some of the vast valley to whatever light mind could alight there. This valley - central plain plane of much of my life not all though - not thunderstorm cracking porch-sitting, cup-holding self, not train-starer, city-commuter, older metropolitan-me who would wait until the gallery cleared and approach a Gaugin and its held tangerine light alone (with my many accumulated selves) as if approaching someone where no introduction is needed. Conversation is between color and eye, I and color. Nature rocks me like a baby. Painting holds the light presence of ancestors. in a scumbled moment, held fast. My accumulated selves are hues in a spectrum. I, a lucky specter, - ghost in living color. Hello.

PAD 16 - The Last ____

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “The Last (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “The Last Cookie,” “The Last Roll of Toilet Paper,” “The Lasting Impression,” “The Last Word,” and/or “The Last Starfighter.”

The Last Camellia

They fall like open hands

and float for a time

waterlily-like.

To the fish, below,

perhaps for a time

the camellias are lit up

pink setting suns.

They fall, so many,

so many open hands

and float

in their full color

so many setting suns

and then

they brown and sink and turn 

to muck

and cloud the water

and obscure the fish

and clog the system

with the end of Spring.

The last camellia falls

like an open hand

and floats in full color

under the bluest sky

ever.

It has been the most perfect day.

PAD 15 - Dream

For today’s prompt, write a dream poem. The poem can be a remembered dream. Or it could be a dream about the future (like getting out and about without worry again). Of course, some dreams are good, but there are nightmares too. So let’s get dreamy with our poems today. After all, Blondie said it best: “Dreaming is free.”


Forgotten Dream


I was wearing her wedding dress
but it wasn't the real one - 
this had a red overlay.
I looked good.
It was fine.

I was going to marry my ex-boyfriend's brother.
I don't know why.

If someone asks me
if I dream in color
if there is an atmosphere

then yes

I wanted to take a picture in the dream
of that green horizon
so vivid
the sky, blue but darkening,
someone walking away
no one important
but - a perfect composition - 
a lithe figure reflected in the creek
or in the mud or sludge

sparkles

I am out of work
I am wearing a wedding dress, red,
but hide it for now in a peasant's coat.

I am leaning into the wind 
which funnels through the verdant valley
and am suddenly lifted
too high up now
where I can see all the areas of the
(now forgotten)
dreamscape, like a board game

there, where they wouldn't pay for me to 
take the meeting in Australia

there, where again, I am about to marry 
my ex-boyfriend's brother

all the bicycle deflate at once and fall over
the hills roll away - kelly green

he still loves me
and is listening to the ceremony
from behind the door

I interrupt the start of the service
and go to him

and am younger.

I dream in color
of landscape
of wind
of love

of lift
of story
and of things that just happen.

PAD 14 - form

We’re two weeks into the challenge now, and our second “Two-for-Tuesday” prompt falls on the 14th, which gets me thinking about sonnets.

For today’s prompt:

1. Write a form poem (here are 100 poetic forms to choose from) and/or…
2. Write an anti-form poem. I get it; some people don’t like forms.

Erasure Poems. Like blackout poems, but without the markers.

intricately intertwined by our own making

resurgence, clutching fears

connections, real.

emerging people overwhelmingly

refocus

on the root of destruction

exacting a pound of flesh,

unwilling to change.

PAD 13 - Purpose

Write a purpose poem.

Purpose

Today, again,

I'll stare at the space between

my heart and the window.

Perhaps like an animal

whose cage door has been left open

whose keeper waits for a bolt

into god-given freedoms

I'll stare and wonder

who am I 

if I am no longer not enough

if I am no longer unqualified

or overqualified

if I am neither desirable or even

undesirable

a bubble in the foam

water in water

all the marks are washed away from 

the field

all the nets

taken away

What is my purpose here

if I can only do what I love

only

only

because I love it.

What to do with a ball

when there is no game.

PAD 11 - Control

For today’s prompt, write a control poem. That is, write about having control, losing control, or sharing control with others. Of course, I expect at least one person to mention the control key on keyboards. And well, y’all always surprise me, because I can’t control which direction everyone is going to go with this prompt.

Control

I suppose

deep therapy would try

to elicit from me

rage, RAGE - let it go

a primal scream 

(didn't I try that then too?)

self-forgiveness

rage

a primal scream

compassionate distance

self-forgiveness

rage

a primal scream

self-love

compassionate distance

self-forgiveness

rage

a primal scream

So what?

Were you not still grey like dead

in the bathtub

in the hallway

by the side of the house

on top of the wild shards of glass

then

dead like dead

afloat for a day,

sinking for a day,

afloat for a day,

sinking for a day

Is that news to me

that I had no control?

Is that news to me

that I am damaged

and have a right to be angry?

I don't want to scream.
I don't want to rage.

I want to sit in the garden now

and, finally, learn guitar.

Or just watch my fish

who control nothing

and can just be

underwater 

forever.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “The (blank) Who (blank),” replace the blanks with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “The Runner Who Walked,” “The Scientist Who Decided to Make a Monster,” “The Poet Who Loved Me,” and/or “The Teacher Who Couldn’t Learn.” If you’d prefer to write about a thing instead of a person, feel free to replace the word “who” with the word “that.”


The Abstract Painter Who Closed Her Eyes

I suppose I could paint
without seeing

What does it matter in the end?

The way I dance around, insist on the spontaneous.

Just put the colored oil goo in my hand
Blindfold me and set me in the right direction.

What about this matters anymore
or ever did?

What image would do good work?

I think I'll go sit by a dirt pile
with a bucket of water

imagine / make a city there, in a muddy puddle,
deluged, the citizens calling from their rooftops.

I feel the clay dirt like a sculptor, eyes closed.
The mud has meaning.

Before waiting too long, I break the levee myself,
above the town, where it's safe.

I create an overspill. I feel it.
My gesture matters,
the water draining away from the drowning thousands.

I open my eyes when I hear their joyful cries
of survival
and hope.

I know no more now
than I did when I was nine.

PAD 9 Exphrasic

For today’s prompt, write an ekphrastic poem. An ekphrastic poem is one that’s inspired by a work of art, whether that’s a painting, photograph, sculpture, or some other creation. I’ve included five ekphrastic prompts below. Look them over and choose one (or more) to prompt your poem today.


Abstract

I suppose I need now
to find something in the void

To call that something a name
To give it an edge

for the void around to become the void around

what is there
in a color field

it is not here/there forever
it has/has had a name

look it in its face
if it has one.

say something about existence
other than

everything/we all are in a field
of constant change.

PAD 8 - Future

For today’s prompt, write a future poem. The future is a never ending well of worry for some. Others harbor a great deal of optimism. Still others see a mixture of awesome flying cars and terrifying robot overlords. Regardless of your outlook, I hope there’s a poem in your very near future.


The Future Ain't What It Used to Be


These days, there is always a moment,
when my leg moves between warm sheets
or my hand slides under a cooler part 
of the pillow

and my eyes open, before or after, I've thought:
Oh. We are in that time, ... this time.
and everything that happens next is newer 
than it's ever been.

I build the floor, floorboard by floorboard, 
to get to the bathroom. I roll out the carpet before me
to get to my kitchen. It is not a flying carpet.
It lays there as I step off its edge.

Every moment is stepped off of,
into another world that assembles itself,
just in time.


It is up to me to imagine the whole world 
around my coffee pot.

To see its beauty.
To insist on its sense.

It is up to me
to make gratitude my food,
kindness my money.

To live on that
into a new day,

belly 
and heart
and imagination

full.

PAD 7 - Lucky/Unlucky

We’re a week into the challenge now, and we get to celebrate with our first “Two-for-Tuesday” prompt! You can pick your favorite prompt, do both separately, or combine them into one poem. Your choice.

For today’s prompt:

1. Write a lucky poem and/or…
2. Write an unlucky poem.

LUCKY

Earth can breathe.

The Milky Way is crushed into the sky

above the dark and sleeping city.

Creatures venture out,

gambol and nap in the road.

UNLUCKY

The tent is wet

and folded into mud.

Limbs touch limbs

and some have grown cold.

Day 6 - Trap

For today’s prompt, write a trap poem. There are physical traps—like mouse traps and bear traps. But people also sometimes fall into language traps or social traps. Many competitive types in business and various games try to set traps for their competitors. Of course, for every person setting a trap, there’s likely another person trying to avoid falling into traps.


Trap


We are told today
there is a huge spike
in domestic violence

Men trapped with their wives
Trapped with their children
Trapped without sports
Trapped with only the bottles 
at the back of the home bar left

Trapped in all the space
they could once barely pay for.
Trapped within their father's face.

But she is there - always there -
doing everything wrong.
There are two releases left
and both leave her

curled in a ball
a scream echoing
off the small walls.

pathetic.

PAD 5 - Moment/Spring

For today’s prompt, write a moment poem. The moment could be this very moment in time. Or pick a moment from your past and dive into it. It could be a huge moment or event in your life (or the life of another). Or you could share a small, private moment–like a walk at night or solitary adventure.




Spring


Others will want to know
maybe

what this moment was like.

I'm an ill-drawn character of unclear age
(without compelling flaw or situation or motivation)
in a weak creative writing prompt:

    Imagine the world has stopped still.
    People aren't dead. They are just all inside.
    All of them. Everywhere.
    All separate, looking out windows, maybe. 
    What happens next?

No car rolls past my window. After an hour,
one runner in a mask stops and checks her watch.
The wood on the fence across the still street
stains down from the top and up from the bottom
with welcome rain.

And the green of the tree above is, in fact,
the green of a new world.

It's that green.
It's that new.

It is almost blinding.

PAD 4 - Wish

For today’s prompt, write a wish poem. The poem could be about making a wish or granting a wish. It could focus on the fallout from a wish granted or denied. Or think up a wishful scene to share in your poem.



Wish

We understand
with the dandelion

that the way to make a wish
is to be sincere
to focus
to gather your intention
and then blow the whole damn thing apart

so that all parts
 - light, gentle, designed for journey

can float and lift and drift
in a breeze

random and tender

just on their way now

some catching light

some  
will grow into another weed
radiating like a little sun
for a time
then aging into another

– gathered puff of hope.

PAD 3 - Follow

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Follow (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Follow the Leader,” “Follow Me on Twitter,” “Follow Your Heart,” and/or “Follow the Light.” So many things to follow or not.


You Know
Follow, will we?
your lead
– you always lead – 

out of the body
out of the story
out of the beating needs

that seem to come from the heart
or the blood
– the blood we shared

away from the bones
that have always worked together 
to propel us through space
with purpose

out of space itself perhaps,
and, I suspect, out of purpose as well.

What, then, was purpose?


Follow, will we?
Away into what 
will we follow you?

And how soon?

PAD 2 - space poem

For today's prompt, write a space poem.



A Room of One's Own


I am lucky
I have this box.

I am lucky I have this box
to be in.

I am lucky I have this box to be 
in alone.

I am lucky I love to be alone.
My world is calm and gracious and full.

So many, so many, have no space, no space,
no room to turn around, even in their own minds.

The lemons explode outside my window.

Outside my window, the geese fly in form
across the clean, broad sky 

like fingers, a light scratch across
the broad surface of his back.

His back. Come back.

I am lucky to be 
here alone

to have all 
I need  

almost all 
I need.