Reasoning
(or "of pair o' dimes")
Inductive reasoning bores right in, finding a you, you didn't mean, but there you left the door you see. If you are here and I am here it must mean just.... a whole lot more.
Deductively, said Sherlock Holmes you seem a bore to me, I'll make a test, from my theory that's best, and check it out to see. Oh yes, it's true, my party crew confirmed, it's really true a bore you are, you shooting star, and tested you shall be.
Seductive Reasoning is widely known but spoken of quite quietly, with charms and luck it pulls out sighs, warms up your old big hairy thighs. It has oil and mirror tricks, on fur you happily try to lie. (And then you think you really must die.) The mind it says a sweet goodbye.
Selective Reasoning that's when you see that there's a you, but you can't see me.
Dogmatic Reasoning umm....bark, bark, bark, bark and pee
Reactive Reasoning is in the dark, impulsive lashing, whipping it out. It's rapid like you strike a match and then you put one out.
Psychic Reasoning requires some robes and strange glass globes and uses toads. It's got us in a blanket knitting, and closing eyes to see that we just dropped a stitch and should probably purl three. But it looks as if there isn't time so we will look ahead and back with spirit guide and lucky tea.
Ah, Reductive Reasoning is the one I never really found so fun. It strips away your flesh you see to leave you just with bones, for all you learn and all you guess, they'd like you to consider less.
Destructive Reasoning isn't kind, but it's all the rage. We'd show you how and rant a cow, but built this wall inhead.
Prescriptive Reasoning cures the need to figure out the whys, we write the script and check the box and send you out to pay.
Counter Reasoning is underground... with manifesto braids. Turn around and get you lost, never to be found. You hide and dodge, the rules away, it's concealed beyond the mob. It never likes the way it is and definitely fears power, erodes and sabotages the authority; often loses to the hour.
But reasoning like this is wild, a card you might just play.
Pragmatic Reasoning thinks of the ways to hinder life's surprises, in practical reality you figure out all tomorrow's losses; it's better to control your day so nothing ever collapses.
Aritistikal Reasoning is probably me, projecting an image from my mind.
To canvases in human hearts that carry echo feelings. Today I made a piece of truth, it was so badly painted, but just as soon as it got in place, it went and sadly faded.
Artistic reasoning makes some sense, but often it's my second stilled. It's what was going on in time, dissolves upon reflection, (and lasts just poorly stated).
Make this better, I haven't found time, left like this it seems a crime.
I need to understand and now I'm seeing with less light.
Constructive Reasoning appeals to me it's yet to be invented, it'd help us build a better day to work away from "final words" and thinking things exotic, instead it would feel quite positive -to figure out the best you are and how to make you stronger- and then in turn we'd turn around and think a better me. In reasoning inside construction a "you are wrong" is rarely ever heard. And happy is that sound.
With my apologies to those who think. It's just I feel artistik.
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Things that end in "iatry"
Aceptiatry, I'd be delighted
Aceptiatry sounds so very nice
As if the bouquet comes to the door
Enfolded inside the lovely blooms
A small price tag
Reminding you that
The bloom on the rose
The blush on the cheek
Oh yes, could be a little weak.
Andriatry
Aceptiatry sounds so very nice
As if the bouquet comes to the door
Enfolded inside the lovely blooms
A small price tag
Reminding you that
The bloom on the rose
The blush on the cheek
Oh yes, could be a little weak.
A griz-o-i-atry to run
From the grizzly bear and fawn
Raccoon and wild boar I do run
But I'm just the forest receptionist
To the wild Agrizoiatrist.
I put my foot down about the worm
That came down with a polar germ
Or when the buzzard said he heard
A canary was bloodthirsty bird.
You can comb the hippopotamus
But there is lice enough for one of us
A telephone I seldom answer
Walk-ins tend to stampede in faster.
From the grizzly bear and fawn
Raccoon and wild boar I do run
But I'm just the forest receptionist
To the wild Agrizoiatrist.
I put my foot down about the worm
That came down with a polar germ
Or when the buzzard said he heard
A canary was bloodthirsty bird.
You can comb the hippopotamus
But there is lice enough for one of us
A telephone I seldom answer
Walk-ins tend to stampede in faster.
Andriatry is a tender topic
When mentioned some might swoon.
Then there is the affair
With the big boys that just don't care
But for me
I'd rather just leave the room.
For this little topic in iatry
Requires inside knowledgeable panoply
Of hernias and inguinals
And things with foreskinueles
Oh, my, now I'm turning quite blue.
He's up, you know it's true.
Cheery chiriatry
At a service in San Fransisco
We went unitarian
It was Easter and I had my pangs
Of wondering what I was missing.
The doors were open and the crowd
Was warm like yeasty dough rising.
So I said, "Oh please
Let's just do this please
It won't matter in the next week or days
And I am longing for the olden ways
Of hunting for eggs and finding the bunny."
And like all young love days, he consented.
Unhappy to do it, sneaking a nuzzle.
From the depths of disbelief and
Scientific objectification and him a little weed.
And in we popped to a service for
Those on an easter day that heard that
Having was literally fine
That giving it all away to follow me
Really meant you could have the
Volvo and the nice teak settee,
The modern equivalent of the ascetic.
I listened with my head but my heart
Couldn't follow it. Ever.
But I was pregnant three months
And knew that now I had to have that home and the books
And build a little place
To nest.
Then they called us to the sides
but I stood in my thick white sweater
And watched as they oiled their hands.
Man, I thought, things are really going to get
Strange. And now said
Maybe we should go...
The preacher or priest or holy man said
Wait please....
We are laying on the hands
Chiriatry before my eyes.
And then I saw looking up
As they were led over to receive
this blessing of oil and hands wrapping together
that those.....really...
Intended for this blessing
Were shrunken and so very ill.
Almost like paper wrappers on a gum stick.
Teaberry.
In 1989 I met the first of many
Men whose lives were lost to AIDS
Untreated then, that wasted
Away under the loving hands
Of a congregation that was answering back
To those then afraid to touch the sick
Or breath the air
Or bounce the basketball on the court of a man
Whose blood carried the virus that
Stripped their immunity
And left them as
Open sores on our humanity.
And then I saw something another way
Through the hands I saw laid and the men
I watched caressed that day.
When hands became another
Kind of miracle.
When mentioned some might swoon.
Then there is the affair
With the big boys that just don't care
But for me
I'd rather just leave the room.
For this little topic in iatry
Requires inside knowledgeable panoply
Of hernias and inguinals
And things with foreskinueles
Oh, my, now I'm turning quite blue.
He's up, you know it's true.
Cheery chiriatry
At a service in San Fransisco
We went unitarian
It was Easter and I had my pangs
Of wondering what I was missing.
The doors were open and the crowd
Was warm like yeasty dough rising.
So I said, "Oh please
Let's just do this please
It won't matter in the next week or days
And I am longing for the olden ways
Of hunting for eggs and finding the bunny."
And like all young love days, he consented.
Unhappy to do it, sneaking a nuzzle.
From the depths of disbelief and
Scientific objectification and him a little weed.
And in we popped to a service for
Those on an easter day that heard that
Having was literally fine
That giving it all away to follow me
Really meant you could have the
Volvo and the nice teak settee,
The modern equivalent of the ascetic.
I listened with my head but my heart
Couldn't follow it. Ever.
But I was pregnant three months
And knew that now I had to have that home and the books
And build a little place
To nest.
Then they called us to the sides
but I stood in my thick white sweater
And watched as they oiled their hands.
Man, I thought, things are really going to get
Strange. And now said
Maybe we should go...
The preacher or priest or holy man said
Wait please....
We are laying on the hands
Chiriatry before my eyes.
And then I saw looking up
As they were led over to receive
this blessing of oil and hands wrapping together
that those.....really...
Intended for this blessing
Were shrunken and so very ill.
Almost like paper wrappers on a gum stick.
Teaberry.
In 1989 I met the first of many
Men whose lives were lost to AIDS
Untreated then, that wasted
Away under the loving hands
Of a congregation that was answering back
To those then afraid to touch the sick
Or breath the air
Or bounce the basketball on the court of a man
Whose blood carried the virus that
Stripped their immunity
And left them as
Open sores on our humanity.
And then I saw something another way
Through the hands I saw laid and the men
I watched caressed that day.
When hands became another
Kind of miracle.
Cresciatry
We were visiting a farm
For my father to work on an apple production study
They gave me a little lamb, the darn pygmie goat
And my little pig Freddie.
Going to the Panhandle was always kind of interesting.
So I thought I could
Maybe enter them in the fair and get ribbons some adulation,
But my father said that the end of that
Process would put me in the "local home."
He always had a way with words.
But even then he had to add "mint jelly."
So, finally, I got it. Then he said.
"You know there is a "science" to plumping up
These little creatures you've got.
We study this in agriculture
In medicine there is very specific
Way to systematically feed and grow."
And so we did things proportionally
Measured and to the letter of his way.
Our own Cresciatrics,
But I had him fooled a little
With my own little treats I called
The "Never You Mind" cart that visited in the afternoon
And was a bit of an all you can eat buffet.
ergasiatry
I hate to say it but if we called it this name
"A bit of ergasiatry perhaps sweet one "
Sounds like we'd be served
A plate of luscious feelings that
Brought a shiver from toes to top
And a hot little button steaming through the chill
That might curl right down that
Plump litlle abdomen.
A silky smooth confection
A womb kissed security
In a hammock in the valley
Between the willows, lulling your
Sleepy self into the feeling of
A happy and wonderful you.
Ah , yes, ergasiatry, yummmy.
We were visiting a farm
For my father to work on an apple production study
They gave me a little lamb, the darn pygmie goat
And my little pig Freddie.
Going to the Panhandle was always kind of interesting.
So I thought I could
Maybe enter them in the fair and get ribbons some adulation,
But my father said that the end of that
Process would put me in the "local home."
He always had a way with words.
But even then he had to add "mint jelly."
So, finally, I got it. Then he said.
"You know there is a "science" to plumping up
These little creatures you've got.
We study this in agriculture
In medicine there is very specific
Way to systematically feed and grow."
And so we did things proportionally
Measured and to the letter of his way.
Our own Cresciatrics,
But I had him fooled a little
With my own little treats I called
The "Never You Mind" cart that visited in the afternoon
And was a bit of an all you can eat buffet.
ergasiatry
I hate to say it but if we called it this name
"A bit of ergasiatry perhaps sweet one "
Sounds like we'd be served
A plate of luscious feelings that
Brought a shiver from toes to top
And a hot little button steaming through the chill
That might curl right down that
Plump litlle abdomen.
A silky smooth confection
A womb kissed security
In a hammock in the valley
Between the willows, lulling your
Sleepy self into the feeling of
A happy and wonderful you.
Ah , yes, ergasiatry, yummmy.
gyniatry
Opps, I thought you said
Guy-iatry
I know that one.
It's what you get
With love sweet love.
Minus the cellophane wrappers.
hippiatry
Wearing my tie die
And carrying my broom
You conjured a horse
And sent me to pasture
After a sweep of the stable, missus.
Hippiatry will keep us from glue.
I mumbled under my breath.
We old hags
That have lost the bloom
Thrown over for the filly
As you spread your oats
Proud of your stallion
And another companion
We won't win your race
Or be a remembered face.
And the hippiatrist cannot reverse
The damage of this last race
From us
When a bet was placed
And she had no gas
Too many years of running
In last. When she can't
Go again will
Her ship finally come in?
Ah to travel to Fiji to take the waters
Or to lay upon the sand shores
And wash the loves traces away
While attending to the coquina shells
That wrap my hair in luxurious
Braids. I tumble myself over to
Pool in the jetty where we wait and watch
The birds flying over our heads as the water tumbles
Down the natural falls onto the bodies
That are toned and tanned by being
Awakened in the hydiatrists hand.
Do you know the notes to sing?
He began my daily lesson
As we la and dah'd and slowly
A lovely lotus arose from the verdant
Pond of the scales transposed.
I love laliatry, Let's look over the lake
Where lovely larks do flutter and wake.
And while we are saying our vowels this luncheon,
I'm quite sure that my tongue can touch
These lips in the exact correct place
To cause a perfection of oral embrace.
Opps, I thought you said
Guy-iatry
I know that one.
It's what you get
With love sweet love.
Minus the cellophane wrappers.
hippiatry
Wearing my tie die
And carrying my broom
You conjured a horse
And sent me to pasture
After a sweep of the stable, missus.
Hippiatry will keep us from glue.
I mumbled under my breath.
We old hags
That have lost the bloom
Thrown over for the filly
As you spread your oats
Proud of your stallion
And another companion
We won't win your race
Or be a remembered face.
And the hippiatrist cannot reverse
The damage of this last race
From us
When a bet was placed
And she had no gas
Too many years of running
In last. When she can't
Go again will
Her ship finally come in?
Hydriatry
Ah to travel to Fiji to take the waters
Or to lay upon the sand shores
And wash the loves traces away
While attending to the coquina shells
That wrap my hair in luxurious
Braids. I tumble myself over to
Pool in the jetty where we wait and watch
The birds flying over our heads as the water tumbles
Down the natural falls onto the bodies
That are toned and tanned by being
Awakened in the hydiatrists hand.
laliatry
Do you know the notes to sing?
He began my daily lesson
As we la and dah'd and slowly
A lovely lotus arose from the verdant
Pond of the scales transposed.
I love laliatry, Let's look over the lake
Where lovely larks do flutter and wake.
And while we are saying our vowels this luncheon,
I'm quite sure that my tongue can touch
These lips in the exact correct place
To cause a perfection of oral embrace.
maschaliatry
A Herculean task I embrace
Strong and manly
Thing I do that only the few
The bold
The brawny
Can tackle
This well.
I am the one to stare
Maschaliatry in the face.
Take off your shirt
Put it here on the chair
I want to look
Up under there
Raise your arm
And grab the Ban
I'm going in,
I'm armpit man.
museiatry
muses just inspire
say they love you
kiss you all over
and they
never criticize
or go get some pathogen
look a-like
and start writing
themself.
(In a PJ they got from
The bunny mansion
And a velvet jacket
With a cigar.)
They are "muses"
Not Moses.
Thank you Mr. Rules
And tablets.
And all that jazz
No rock.
Just try the
watermelon
and see if you can
understand
That the things
I write
are all love
Even the crappy stuff
It's not Olympus down here
In Oxnard.
It's write with sticks and invent
An alphabet with binary units
Made of sea-foam
and nitrates.
Muses, muse.
Museiatry is
as much an art
As the art
That's made.
I'm asking that Mr. Ivory Tower
Accept the role with
understanding.
No one
Asks to be a muse.
It's a kind of
Pedestiatry.
A Herculean task I embrace
Strong and manly
Thing I do that only the few
The bold
The brawny
Can tackle
This well.
I am the one to stare
Maschaliatry in the face.
Take off your shirt
Put it here on the chair
I want to look
Up under there
Raise your arm
And grab the Ban
I'm going in,
I'm armpit man.
museiatry
muses just inspire
say they love you
kiss you all over
and they
never criticize
or go get some pathogen
look a-like
and start writing
themself.
(In a PJ they got from
The bunny mansion
And a velvet jacket
With a cigar.)
They are "muses"
Not Moses.
Thank you Mr. Rules
And tablets.
And all that jazz
No rock.
Just try the
watermelon
and see if you can
understand
That the things
I write
are all love
Even the crappy stuff
It's not Olympus down here
In Oxnard.
It's write with sticks and invent
An alphabet with binary units
Made of sea-foam
and nitrates.
Muses, muse.
Museiatry is
as much an art
As the art
That's made.
I'm asking that Mr. Ivory Tower
Accept the role with
understanding.
No one
Asks to be a muse.
It's a kind of
Pedestiatry.
otiatry
What?
Can't hear you
Speak up?
What's that you say?
Can't quite hear you,
Whose mother is a duckling?
What kind of person would
Say something like that in a church
Speak up if you need something?
Did you ask me for butter?
Get over here so I can see you?
You say otiatry?
What kind of
Sense is that?
Psychiatry
Of psychiatry I know so little
I met a man who said he was
Going to try to take it up
But didn't know why.
Now after an extended connection
I'm convinced even more
That I couldn't tell you
A thing about what he does.
Except remain elusive and I'm less sure
Of what it really is
Supposed to be for.
However that said
He examines your head
To see what you do
Or don't and why, that everyone might
Likely lie,
Not he however
So he said,
Better think a little more
About the meaning of the door.
He said that he should see a shrink
I think while passing a friend in the hall
That's practicing the art.
A kind of truth that was like
Slight of hand, a bit like forgetting
Who said "I am."
But nowadays I think a pill
Is substituted for
Those parlor tricks.
I'm never sure
because his hand
While sliding over my
arm appears to be
Attached to his father's charm.
You have to love
Psychiatry, the healing of the
Wily Psyche, with Cupid's love
The driving force
And adoration the bond they formed
Oh...that's my problem.
It's something
"normed."
Podiatry
I believe where I went wrong
Was with the foot.
When I said it held the soul, my essence
And released the demons of my life
I think I meant "I'd like a massage."
And ended up wrapped in gauze
The podiatrist wasn't the one, after all,
With fancy oils and dreamy incense.
No, he was the one into the bunion
That took a look and found poor arches
To make it all a little worse
My ingrown nail was operated on first.
Beauty and the Beast you see
Really means podiatry.
Can't hear you
Speak up?
What's that you say?
Can't quite hear you,
Whose mother is a duckling?
What kind of person would
Say something like that in a church
Speak up if you need something?
Did you ask me for butter?
Get over here so I can see you?
You say otiatry?
What kind of
Sense is that?
Psychiatry
Of psychiatry I know so little
I met a man who said he was
Going to try to take it up
But didn't know why.
Now after an extended connection
I'm convinced even more
That I couldn't tell you
A thing about what he does.
Except remain elusive and I'm less sure
Of what it really is
Supposed to be for.
However that said
He examines your head
To see what you do
Or don't and why, that everyone might
Likely lie,
Not he however
So he said,
Better think a little more
About the meaning of the door.
He said that he should see a shrink
I think while passing a friend in the hall
That's practicing the art.
A kind of truth that was like
Slight of hand, a bit like forgetting
Who said "I am."
But nowadays I think a pill
Is substituted for
Those parlor tricks.
I'm never sure
because his hand
While sliding over my
arm appears to be
Attached to his father's charm.
You have to love
Psychiatry, the healing of the
Wily Psyche, with Cupid's love
The driving force
And adoration the bond they formed
Oh...that's my problem.
It's something
"normed."
Podiatry
I believe where I went wrong
Was with the foot.
When I said it held the soul, my essence
And released the demons of my life
I think I meant "I'd like a massage."
And ended up wrapped in gauze
The podiatrist wasn't the one, after all,
With fancy oils and dreamy incense.
No, he was the one into the bunion
That took a look and found poor arches
To make it all a little worse
My ingrown nail was operated on first.
Beauty and the Beast you see
Really means podiatry.
phthisiatry
It sounds as if thistle type
Has been detected in the meads
As we were crossing
The harrow, the phthisatry grew upon us
Wild and clinging to the yarn stockings we
pulled and clawed as we
Gathered our skirts around us trying to make the field.
Irritated and scratched by the
Yarrow and the Phthis' we
Drug our way to the milk freshly gathered
Taking long drink we fell to benches
To swab the aloe and the mint
On wounds, now all over us.
Has been detected in the meads
As we were crossing
The harrow, the phthisatry grew upon us
Wild and clinging to the yarn stockings we
pulled and clawed as we
Gathered our skirts around us trying to make the field.
Irritated and scratched by the
Yarrow and the Phthis' we
Drug our way to the milk freshly gathered
Taking long drink we fell to benches
To swab the aloe and the mint
On wounds, now all over us.
tachyiatry
Would you hurry up and finish this
task of poetic- iatry
I'm rapidly developing
Tachyiatry.
task of poetic- iatry
I'm rapidly developing
Tachyiatry.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Pieces of Eight Cut in Half With a Dull Knife
Bridge
I lie suspended
Disbelieving
Willing myself
To Balance.
Mocking Birds
can't get you
so they fly around your head
Looking at your bald spot
and nose hair
saying
"hey bald spot, hey nose hair
you looking bad"
it gets you
the mockers eyes
are really sharp tuned
to what you sound like
in the shower
keeps em flying
thats for sure
you never hear their notes
not out loud
a mocker is a
self that's mute
Voodoo Doll
If you stick in
Any more pins
To the heart, head, or hands
My mojo is going
To spill all over
Rubber Balls
Aim them high
Rebound traction
Give your balls
A lot of Action
Fling them high
Watch em go
Sling your rubber
Go with your flow.
"I'd Rather See You Dead,
Than With Another Man"
in reply
Sure
You might get that wish
She said dramatically
Penning her goodbye
Baking up actually
a lemon meringue
And folding the wash
again
And here's another
"and" for you too.
I like them
along with this
It's flu season
I could die
And I woke up at 5
Dreaming of an exploding computer
It was signaling
a countdown to
implosion
Way too hot to move
Going to blow me to bits
You too I think
With another man
No that was me
Let's not get too weird here ok
Making bacon bit sandwiches
Escarole salads out of
bread and
Vienna sausage cans
Watching some ham
On the TV mock his life
So you'd rather not
see me
we'd
be better off dead
Be dead over see me
it's a thought
opps wait, got to tell
The gasman
I'm out of checks
Which is another lie
The money is gone anyway
Who needs gas
I could just put my head
In the Easy Bake oven
burn the skin
on my forehead
Would you count that
As dead?
Dead enough.
A deal breaker
Especially since a year ago
you dragged me out to
Death Valley in the
Trunk of your bike
And buried any miracles.
So you are a better husband now.
You say.
I'd rather you crawl out of
My corpse
Than listen to this
You know.
I lie suspended
Disbelieving
Willing myself
To Balance.
Mocking Birds
can't get you
so they fly around your head
Looking at your bald spot
and nose hair
saying
"hey bald spot, hey nose hair
you looking bad"
it gets you
the mockers eyes
are really sharp tuned
to what you sound like
in the shower
keeps em flying
thats for sure
you never hear their notes
not out loud
a mocker is a
self that's mute
Voodoo Doll
If you stick in
Any more pins
To the heart, head, or hands
My mojo is going
To spill all over
Rubber Balls
Aim them high
Rebound traction
Give your balls
A lot of Action
Fling them high
Watch em go
Sling your rubber
Go with your flow.
"I'd Rather See You Dead,
Than With Another Man"
in reply
Sure
You might get that wish
She said dramatically
Penning her goodbye
Baking up actually
a lemon meringue
And folding the wash
again
And here's another
"and" for you too.
I like them
along with this
It's flu season
I could die
And I woke up at 5
Dreaming of an exploding computer
It was signaling
a countdown to
implosion
Way too hot to move
Going to blow me to bits
You too I think
With another man
No that was me
Let's not get too weird here ok
Making bacon bit sandwiches
Escarole salads out of
bread and
Vienna sausage cans
Watching some ham
On the TV mock his life
So you'd rather not
see me
we'd
be better off dead
Be dead over see me
it's a thought
opps wait, got to tell
The gasman
I'm out of checks
Which is another lie
The money is gone anyway
Who needs gas
I could just put my head
In the Easy Bake oven
burn the skin
on my forehead
Would you count that
As dead?
Dead enough.
A deal breaker
Especially since a year ago
you dragged me out to
Death Valley in the
Trunk of your bike
And buried any miracles.
So you are a better husband now.
You say.
I'd rather you crawl out of
My corpse
Than listen to this
You know.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
A Day in the Life of the Cafeteria
Butter
Momma sculpted all out food out of butter
Required with searing fury it be eaten
Pies, cakes, roasts, fudge, vegetables
Layered with a stick of fat.
Rich and slimy, like
The witch of Hansel and Gretel
Required me be fattened up
(maybe ready for the Kill)
Woodburn
In my school where i was invisible
In 4th through 6th when not being thrown down the stairs
The teacher said the abuse must certainly be me
I got to going in the kitchen to help the cooks and make some friends.
They let me wrap the silverware and talked about
lives in the mountains, their recipes, their gardens
Miner husbands and often
we would laugh about how harsh kids could be
To me.
They taught me how to make oatmeal no bake peanut-butter cookies
(I also learned in 4 H , home ec. to cook some things)
They taught me to cook white beans, corn bread
green beans with bacon drippings, luscious bread
In time I learned what they did in our small cafeteria.
When I moved on to junior high downtown I spent time there
Doing the same at breaks. Hiding to get there unnoticed.
Learned pizza their style which was very unique,
Pepperoni rolls and the cinnamon buns that were
the specialty. Then I was thin.
That group were more Italian, and they were very
Expressive in the making of food for kids
Remarkably impolite to them.
High school it was different I never ate, sat on a bleacher and studied
Missing those warm kitchens. I've loved
To cook my entire life. I can do it pretty well
I suppose the recipes and the practicalities are all from these places I ate
The food of the schools. It was good in the hills.
It was such a surprise to find the food for kids here in my teaching life
Now it is just pulled and warmed, so unappealing and poorly made
Below what they could do if allowed to cook
And given enough people to do it better.
This seems the way it is in my teaching world.
The cafeteria is managed 'at the top 'and seen to
Compete for salaries or something. no pride.
It makes you sick to see the stuff they serve
Think of the collard greens and other stuff
We once had, golden tomatoes
Mandarin salads, cucumbers in vinegar
And even the franks and beans were good.
Then, when food wasn't my enemy, but a
Salvation from a beating day.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
A Random Act of...
Ants
These ants in my pajamas came over on the Mayflower, I think.
They are a hearty breed with the temerity to crawl in my covers tonight
To find the piece of cookie that seems to be in the sheets.
No, thanks for the naughty thoughts, the cookie is not mine.
The ants hauled over from the sink in the bathroom where they were invading my underclothes
Planning an assault on the inside of my purse with the mint from the bad Italian place.
Several were reassigned by their unit from the kitchen cabinet wars.
We've been in a battle since October.
They must be winning because the last I looked down fifty in my pants
Had bitten so many burning spots my entire leg is an itching flaming mess
Just like these Mayflower ants, to think you can move in and just take over.
It's interesting to note that typing my little soliloquy running over
The typepad a flank of ants have also been assigned keyboard crumb retrieval.
These ants in my pajamas came over on the Mayflower, I think.
They are a hearty breed with the temerity to crawl in my covers tonight
To find the piece of cookie that seems to be in the sheets.
No, thanks for the naughty thoughts, the cookie is not mine.
The ants hauled over from the sink in the bathroom where they were invading my underclothes
Planning an assault on the inside of my purse with the mint from the bad Italian place.
Several were reassigned by their unit from the kitchen cabinet wars.
We've been in a battle since October.
They must be winning because the last I looked down fifty in my pants
Had bitten so many burning spots my entire leg is an itching flaming mess
Just like these Mayflower ants, to think you can move in and just take over.
It's interesting to note that typing my little soliloquy running over
The typepad a flank of ants have also been assigned keyboard crumb retrieval.
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Day In A Life Poems
I am writing poems
a day in the life of charles dickens
well at least there will be boiled beef
and mashed potatoes for dinner
and a canopy
with good down comforting
and then the morning constitution
and the ferriwethers are over
to sample henri's best
blackberry jams and
then to the thoughts
Of the others in the gutters
Need and her sisters
That pull at the edges of consciousness
For a scrap at the table
I'll raise my pen to draw them out.
A Day In the Life of a 4th Grade Project
Sticky icky melted hot glue holds the fuchsia straw flowers
Around the sugar cube portico
Adobe mache blocks stuck onto the Styrofoam
Painted smell of model paints, stolen from unfinished projects
Here is the school child vision of the "mission".
From days of St. Carmel, San Juan of Batista, from San Diego,
the footsteps of a Father made his way up the coast.
The due date draws near as sweat drives toothpicks
Into the foam core, built from the garage.
A replica of a system and settling in California past.
4th grade project you must build a mission.
To look into the graveyards of the Native workers
Meeting the ends of their times in
Olive trees and courtyards, life vines plastered now in the effigy.
Pieces of sunflower seeds standing in for the swallows of Capistrano.
As the due date quickly approaches.
A Day In the Life of an Art Teacher
Looking into the glass of Chagall
A fire bird rose and flew
Through the minds that design now
In tissue and wax
Glimpse the vulnerable hopes
In the room of nervous glances
As meanings and misses
Are constructed here on your tables
Lifting into images, the light streaming
Filters you illuminating a few marks
Made by your project interpreters
The lessons look to catch a ride inside mind's time.
Crafting their looking glass today, this child, from waxed tissue and your joyful tears.
A Day In the Life of an Elementary Teacher
A smile lit up my day today going home
As Ashley looked happily to see her new teacher name written up
On the school wall, the new year starting
Cortez, she says blinking at me
I would have lost the bet she couldn't read it
Her summer was good, she says smiling at her second surprise.
I'm her old teacher dragging finally home
After labeling, sorting, cleaning, counting,
Decorating and finding no limits in listing the "to do's"
Ashley smiling and holding the baby that came last year
When I thought she meant she got a new doll.
The day she told everyone in sharing her dog brought a baby home.
Another smile day,
"It" does cry and eat, just like she said that day
When I said tell us what "it" does.....And her name is Crystal
She walked over today, the living doll, sharing a hard little push.
The Fall, A Day in the Life
In the perfection before the Apple
Everyone ran around naked
And spoke to the animals
About the flowers and the bees.
Things were pretty sweet
Then the Apple got bitten
By a couple seeking knowing
So now you are sitting here naked
And embarrassed really
You can't get a thing the apes are saying.
Now you know the garden was precious
Life was always gift and blessing
Reach out your hand then
And touch the face of your God.
Like any man, now at last you know.
A Day in the Life Meaning
You bring to every moment
All that you were
All that you are
A day is
You.
A Day In the Life of Golf
I know a man that can't recall his wedding day
But knows every green he ever approached.
Every rough ever navigated.
Every club has a story, and every story has an eagle.
I know a man that once played a nine holed course
Four times on a stormy afternoon
But somehow forgot his 20th Anniversary.
Making his foursome, but opting to walk over a cart.
I know a man that chases around a small white ball
Seeking a handicap that everyone can envy.
Parring is such sweet, sweet sorrow
A true hole in one, this happy golfing man.
A Day In The Life of A Kitten
Mushy milky
claws scrunchy
climb...up that bed
tumbly down
Look it's there
go get
what, get mushy milky
some that's twisty
mommy
crunchy, oops whoa sniffy
lick, mummm
mummm
mummm
a natural flying
opps
mew mew mew
mew mew
MEW MEW
ummmsoft, tumbly
snoozy, umm soft listening purring
thinking of ....pawsies out pawsies in
mushy milky................little kitty.
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A KITTEN
There was a young kitten from France
Who learned very young how to dance
"Sweet Mister ", she said
As she glanced at his head,
"That hat makes this kitty entranced".
A kitten that came from south France
Learned quickly some interpretive dance
The Provence minstral blowing
Kept cat from plateauing
And so it was dubbed hypnotic trance.
(awful)
Robespierre, Robespierre that cute little kitten over there
Is sure to be your daughter fair
She's also your aunt and cousin we think
And could be niece or some other link
Remember your sister is her mere.
(You old scoundrel kitty with the grey furry hair)
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Multiple Intelligences Definition, Kid Friendly Elegy
If you can pitch a ball, it moving through the eye of a needle, all the skills that you use to throw the slider or the curve can be translated into the classroom as how you angle the eraser at the bubble you mis marked and are now carefully erasing COMPLETELY so that the scan-tron can get an accurate measure of your ability.
If you can fold an origami koala bear out of a dollar bill then you probably have the dexterity and the kind of talent that can collate the class test booklets arranging them here in the test center, thank you in advance for helping us with the core mission, arranging for our success. Artful.
If you can play an instrument or have the potentials to see the mathematical relationships in the beauty of the compositions of Beethoven soaring into your mind and heart as immortal then possibly you can write the six sentences required for the perfect paragraph on what you did this Christmas using the preposition phrase, adverbial clauses, subordinate clause, introductory adverbial subordinating clause, the santa clause and the dangling participle dissected so that we can sing, dance, hum and enjoy the beauty of your writing score on our District test as we examine it in the data pile.
If you can feel a skateboard under you like riding the waves on Doheny, Rincon, Trestles, San Onfre, can grind, ollie, manual, kick-flip then you may have the capacities to carry these booklets to each class and assist your teacher in lugging down the textbooks. Certainly the 45 pound backpack full of your texts that we now require will be something we can count on you to handle. Especially on the days it rains or smoke is out in your air as you eat out with 4000 of your peers stuffed into the three picnic table space we provide you outside.
If you can draw your favorite linebacker, TV personalities, like to do line drawings of what the teacher said or need to draw to represent the meanings of the words or to grasp and visualize that would be so very good because down this blind alley we'll surely need you to draw the map back out again as we ask you to draw a cartoon for our newest edition of "Tests Saves" in the school bulletin.
If you can hum or sing out in the darkness and grasp the notes and know the tune you can help us think up the song we will be singing this year at the inspirational prep rally, not for the child we almost lost to the car accident, no we mean the song about how this year we are all going to "try our best" and do well on this allimportant state test, NO MATTER WHAT.
If inside of technology you are as if inside the dendrites and synapses of the mind of a man speaking across a universe of meanings like the light in the darkest hole, you can help us install this canned workbook drill and kill for your peers and firewall all our potentials so that we can lead them to our water hole and force them to drink of the importance of this technology "practice". You can help us establish the "norms." We can certainly use your vision to blind their's.
If you can dance in the dream of bringing to our eyes the sensual pleasure of every feeling man, how through the body he has felt through the winds of time every meaning, you can just sit still and hold your arms, legs, body in this plastic Formica chair with very nice posture for 6 hour stretches listening to me guide you in the importance of this position during the demonstration of what you really know on this test given to prove it.
If you can hear, see, feel, taste, intuit, dance, draw, march, mime, whirl, envision, touch.... then please, please , please explain to someone how to design a few tests so that children might be able to be seen for these things you know in ways that knowing can be....as well as the very, very, very few limiting ways of test makers who seemingly lack any of them now. They need you sooooo as they design devoid of multiple intelligence the tests that define schools as places that can see only you, child, with blind eyes.
If you can fold an origami koala bear out of a dollar bill then you probably have the dexterity and the kind of talent that can collate the class test booklets arranging them here in the test center, thank you in advance for helping us with the core mission, arranging for our success. Artful.
If you can play an instrument or have the potentials to see the mathematical relationships in the beauty of the compositions of Beethoven soaring into your mind and heart as immortal then possibly you can write the six sentences required for the perfect paragraph on what you did this Christmas using the preposition phrase, adverbial clauses, subordinate clause, introductory adverbial subordinating clause, the santa clause and the dangling participle dissected so that we can sing, dance, hum and enjoy the beauty of your writing score on our District test as we examine it in the data pile.
If you can feel a skateboard under you like riding the waves on Doheny, Rincon, Trestles, San Onfre, can grind, ollie, manual, kick-flip then you may have the capacities to carry these booklets to each class and assist your teacher in lugging down the textbooks. Certainly the 45 pound backpack full of your texts that we now require will be something we can count on you to handle. Especially on the days it rains or smoke is out in your air as you eat out with 4000 of your peers stuffed into the three picnic table space we provide you outside.
If you can draw your favorite linebacker, TV personalities, like to do line drawings of what the teacher said or need to draw to represent the meanings of the words or to grasp and visualize that would be so very good because down this blind alley we'll surely need you to draw the map back out again as we ask you to draw a cartoon for our newest edition of "Tests Saves" in the school bulletin.
If you can hum or sing out in the darkness and grasp the notes and know the tune you can help us think up the song we will be singing this year at the inspirational prep rally, not for the child we almost lost to the car accident, no we mean the song about how this year we are all going to "try our best" and do well on this allimportant state test, NO MATTER WHAT.
If inside of technology you are as if inside the dendrites and synapses of the mind of a man speaking across a universe of meanings like the light in the darkest hole, you can help us install this canned workbook drill and kill for your peers and firewall all our potentials so that we can lead them to our water hole and force them to drink of the importance of this technology "practice". You can help us establish the "norms." We can certainly use your vision to blind their's.
If you can dance in the dream of bringing to our eyes the sensual pleasure of every feeling man, how through the body he has felt through the winds of time every meaning, you can just sit still and hold your arms, legs, body in this plastic Formica chair with very nice posture for 6 hour stretches listening to me guide you in the importance of this position during the demonstration of what you really know on this test given to prove it.
If you can hear, see, feel, taste, intuit, dance, draw, march, mime, whirl, envision, touch.... then please, please , please explain to someone how to design a few tests so that children might be able to be seen for these things you know in ways that knowing can be....as well as the very, very, very few limiting ways of test makers who seemingly lack any of them now. They need you sooooo as they design devoid of multiple intelligence the tests that define schools as places that can see only you, child, with blind eyes.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
On You
There is something Little Rabbit Foo Foo about you, no?
"Running through the forest scooping up the field mice, bopping them on the head...."
Noticed that rubbing the newest lump on my knoggin
Yeah, the one right here stickin out thousands of miles
Something that makes me want to notice the little things
With my chestnuts roasting on the open fire.
So here we are.........
You make we an invisibility impossibly awaiting the call
that won't come.
You speak in the voicing of a boy wearing grandfathers hat.
You veil more than the Arabian nights.
You have too much to lose but keep looking.
You seem to enjoy obfuscation.
But even better winning the point in a game.
You have beautiful eyes and mind.
There is nothing to change now.
And along comes the Goof Fairy
And she says, Little Rabbit Foo Foo hopping through the forest scooping up
The field mice...."
"Running through the forest scooping up the field mice, bopping them on the head...."
Noticed that rubbing the newest lump on my knoggin
Yeah, the one right here stickin out thousands of miles
Something that makes me want to notice the little things
With my chestnuts roasting on the open fire.
So here we are.........
You make we an invisibility impossibly awaiting the call
that won't come.
You speak in the voicing of a boy wearing grandfathers hat.
You veil more than the Arabian nights.
You have too much to lose but keep looking.
You seem to enjoy obfuscation.
But even better winning the point in a game.
You have beautiful eyes and mind.
There is nothing to change now.
And along comes the Goof Fairy
And she says, Little Rabbit Foo Foo hopping through the forest scooping up
The field mice...."
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A Day in the Life of An Island
A Day in the Life
of My Pretty Pony Island
Lying in low Chincoteague grasses a pony is running
With a million little girls drawing on the mane
Wanting to ride this morning
On the Island of plastic Assateague
With the purple and yellow fringed saddle and spurs.
All packaged by Mattel to replace
A sunrise when on this island actual rain fell
Breezes blue Misty and pinto pony ran to the shores edge.
A Day In the Life Lost Isle
Everyone wants to go to a place in this deep blue sea,
To drown in the isle of her milked honeyed lies
Everything works there, but the people
All free to be and explore their meanings
It's a good thing it's underwater
Cause you'll definitely drown.
A Day in the Life of the Island of my Soul
We'd eat white beans and cornbread on Wednesdays
With those oatmeal peanut butter cookies
On my island of soul full of woe
And fry okra and butter sear trout in almonds
Blackeyed peas and lima beans, my lovey.
We'd stock up on grits and riz biscuits
Raspberry jam cooked in a pot in the morning.
Raise the roof singing while stirring wet rice
Pole beans, blue berry cobbling, zucchini relish
Ah, a plate of sweet corn with watermelons.
The foods of good life nourishing the soul.
A Day In the Life of Baby Island
Would your dreams be of finding a love to call your own like mine are now sweet baby?
Would Coltrane play his lonely suite of Supreme Love, is your baby dozing too?
As you wake and cry for nourishing milk, do you feel the hunger as I do now to stitch the rips in the sugar life you were given?
Rest here against soft breast and body, do you yearn with me now, for the skin of another to caress away all the pain in your living.
As you stretch and gaze and are rocked with love, are you wrapping feather pillows that replace the arms that never will hold you close?
As you fuss and are nurtured are you aware that the home is rented or mortgaged of walls that deny us the real safety, of mind, we need, we shelter ourselves from the cold?
Sweet little one on the island of infancy, wake us all from the darkness of age.
A Day In the Life of Crossword Island
I cannot write Rhone or Caspian or for that matter
Black, Red or Dead 'Seas' without visualizing the cross
Words making the clues fit into
Their places with the satisfaction of knowing
The world is better for this.
White Elephants for Hemingway's Hills
Appearing on the print horizon.
A Day in the Life of a Blonde Island
It didn't last too long but for fifteen years my blond head
The thin figure meant a door got opened
Or a box lifted and definitely a glass filled
In exchange for the presumption I would giggle and demurely
Decline to say anything of any sense.
Except perhaps, "I'd love to"
Or, "Isn't it a wee bit hot in here?"
Let me remove my wrapper and liquefy.
In my cellophane I was once candy apple read.
A Day in the Life of the Island that Ran To The Sea
He wrote all rivers run to the sea
That was enough to take my imagination for
Years, to hold crashing through me, as images of my escape
Into the deep, deep water were seen
Then I loved you in my blind whitewater rushing
As I flowed over the sharp eroding rocks
Onto the salty waves
To lose a self and become a current
That absorbs and receives us timelessly.
A Day in the Life of The Island of Cats
They are weary on this isle of false movement
Of taming, preferring to do their own tricks
Like avoidance, tail chasing and leaving.
They are cats and you can't expect too much.
On the island they like to be fed without waiting
Often then decide that it's not up to their standard
To walk away haughtily and find someone else.
Easily bored, attentionally disordered
(Not unlike every male I love)
These island variety cats are back-alleys
Dangerous, soft velvet , lions of kittens born
Whiskered, offensively then defensively napping in isle nooks
You may be thought a friend, if you just walk away.
A Day in the Life of the Inner Island
Here inside are the perceptions, delusions, the true entitlements
Moving over are the dreams, the hopes, angers and the fears
Your projections, the desire here is so hot it sears your lust or
With the ice cold loneliness another plunges you into frigid depths.
Mind gaming this place can unrelentingly be talking
Turning that love flame to embarrassment and shame.
It holds ecstasy, understanding and joys, often as opiates
Inner peace can open on this inner island like the lotus
Become a mirage of beauty, quickly eroded by doubt, memory and distortions
Or as an onion remain layered and tight held closed by inadequacies,
Friendless it is a space only known by a self.
Sorting self doubt and voices of conscious, this inner
Island is the gift of our unique and beautiful human mind
The evolution of our biology as animal
Insight from the inner islet in the ocean of vacuous nothingness.
The glimpse, without sight, at our hopes for self knowledge.
A Day in the Life of Lost Friends Isle
Oh where or where can my little friend be?
Oh where o where can he be
With his ears cut short and his little bald dome
Oh where oh where can he be?
Oh where oh where has that silly friend gone?
Oh where not there can he flee
I said to him that I loved him with song
And now he hides in his tree.
Oh where oh where has my Long lost friend gone
Did he really think this was the key
To run so far and be gone so long
To prove he meant nothing to me
Oh where oh where has that little sweet got
His life is so precious to me
For he has no idea of his capacity to heal
Nor apparently how sad one can feel.
A Day in the Life on an Island in America
If I were naming an island in America I might call it Marmalade
Or possibly Indigo Reef. Maybe it would need a name to describe the sky
Azure the Isle, or Cloud None, it works.
Maybe it's a place of meadows that needs a name like Queen Anne's Place
Or the Strawberry Fields, which might not work out
If it grows Lupines and blackberries and needs a name such as Finches Island.
Oh whatever the name it knows the sea that sits on each side of our shores.
On a first name basis it speaks to ocean, as we also might know how to speak with something that bathes us.
That provides our isolation, strength, nourishment and sustains the
Conditions to call it America's Isle.
A Day in the Life, on a Dream Island
Ah the recurring dream you ask about as you search out pathologies
It's easy tonight as my head falls into pillow
The only dream that holds my husband is the recurrent one where I try and try to reach him
On phones that do not dial, or I repeatedly enter it wrong
He is living away or gone to places I do not know and
I use energy in this dream trying to find anyone who can
Give me a small clue to try to find a man who does not wish to be
Found or even wanted.
I wake myself from this saying he is there, this is so ridiculous
But it isn't a feeling remotely like relieved.
Here I am in a life where
I am again fond of a man who gives no number
No connection to know if alive or dead, no sometimes call to check and see if I am alive
There is no dialing wrong or letter to share.
I'm shamed for wanting that at all, again.
It is just nothing at all really, I think he called it perfectly innocent.
A dream awake that drives panic attack and confounded feelings up
To the consciousness with heavy determination
I'm dreaming of being unable to connect, lost
Of a need for a someone that is just there
Holding your hand.
of My Pretty Pony Island
Lying in low Chincoteague grasses a pony is running
With a million little girls drawing on the mane
Wanting to ride this morning
On the Island of plastic Assateague
With the purple and yellow fringed saddle and spurs.
All packaged by Mattel to replace
A sunrise when on this island actual rain fell
Breezes blue Misty and pinto pony ran to the shores edge.
A Day In the Life Lost Isle
Everyone wants to go to a place in this deep blue sea,
To drown in the isle of her milked honeyed lies
Everything works there, but the people
All free to be and explore their meanings
It's a good thing it's underwater
Cause you'll definitely drown.
A Day in the Life of the Island of my Soul
We'd eat white beans and cornbread on Wednesdays
With those oatmeal peanut butter cookies
On my island of soul full of woe
And fry okra and butter sear trout in almonds
Blackeyed peas and lima beans, my lovey.
We'd stock up on grits and riz biscuits
Raspberry jam cooked in a pot in the morning.
Raise the roof singing while stirring wet rice
Pole beans, blue berry cobbling, zucchini relish
Ah, a plate of sweet corn with watermelons.
The foods of good life nourishing the soul.
A Day In the Life of Baby Island
Would your dreams be of finding a love to call your own like mine are now sweet baby?
Would Coltrane play his lonely suite of Supreme Love, is your baby dozing too?
As you wake and cry for nourishing milk, do you feel the hunger as I do now to stitch the rips in the sugar life you were given?
Rest here against soft breast and body, do you yearn with me now, for the skin of another to caress away all the pain in your living.
As you stretch and gaze and are rocked with love, are you wrapping feather pillows that replace the arms that never will hold you close?
As you fuss and are nurtured are you aware that the home is rented or mortgaged of walls that deny us the real safety, of mind, we need, we shelter ourselves from the cold?
Sweet little one on the island of infancy, wake us all from the darkness of age.
A Day In the Life of Crossword Island
I cannot write Rhone or Caspian or for that matter
Black, Red or Dead 'Seas' without visualizing the cross
Words making the clues fit into
Their places with the satisfaction of knowing
The world is better for this.
White Elephants for Hemingway's Hills
Appearing on the print horizon.
A Day in the Life of a Blonde Island
It didn't last too long but for fifteen years my blond head
The thin figure meant a door got opened
Or a box lifted and definitely a glass filled
In exchange for the presumption I would giggle and demurely
Decline to say anything of any sense.
Except perhaps, "I'd love to"
Or, "Isn't it a wee bit hot in here?"
Let me remove my wrapper and liquefy.
In my cellophane I was once candy apple read.
A Day in the Life of the Island that Ran To The Sea
He wrote all rivers run to the sea
That was enough to take my imagination for
Years, to hold crashing through me, as images of my escape
Into the deep, deep water were seen
Then I loved you in my blind whitewater rushing
As I flowed over the sharp eroding rocks
Onto the salty waves
To lose a self and become a current
That absorbs and receives us timelessly.
A Day in the Life of The Island of Cats
They are weary on this isle of false movement
Of taming, preferring to do their own tricks
Like avoidance, tail chasing and leaving.
They are cats and you can't expect too much.
On the island they like to be fed without waiting
Often then decide that it's not up to their standard
To walk away haughtily and find someone else.
Easily bored, attentionally disordered
(Not unlike every male I love)
These island variety cats are back-alleys
Dangerous, soft velvet , lions of kittens born
Whiskered, offensively then defensively napping in isle nooks
You may be thought a friend, if you just walk away.
A Day in the Life of the Inner Island
Here inside are the perceptions, delusions, the true entitlements
Moving over are the dreams, the hopes, angers and the fears
Your projections, the desire here is so hot it sears your lust or
With the ice cold loneliness another plunges you into frigid depths.
Mind gaming this place can unrelentingly be talking
Turning that love flame to embarrassment and shame.
It holds ecstasy, understanding and joys, often as opiates
Inner peace can open on this inner island like the lotus
Become a mirage of beauty, quickly eroded by doubt, memory and distortions
Or as an onion remain layered and tight held closed by inadequacies,
Friendless it is a space only known by a self.
Sorting self doubt and voices of conscious, this inner
Island is the gift of our unique and beautiful human mind
The evolution of our biology as animal
Insight from the inner islet in the ocean of vacuous nothingness.
The glimpse, without sight, at our hopes for self knowledge.
A Day in the Life of Lost Friends Isle
Oh where or where can my little friend be?
Oh where o where can he be
With his ears cut short and his little bald dome
Oh where oh where can he be?
Oh where oh where has that silly friend gone?
Oh where not there can he flee
I said to him that I loved him with song
And now he hides in his tree.
Oh where oh where has my Long lost friend gone
Did he really think this was the key
To run so far and be gone so long
To prove he meant nothing to me
Oh where oh where has that little sweet got
His life is so precious to me
For he has no idea of his capacity to heal
Nor apparently how sad one can feel.
A Day in the Life on an Island in America
If I were naming an island in America I might call it Marmalade
Or possibly Indigo Reef. Maybe it would need a name to describe the sky
Azure the Isle, or Cloud None, it works.
Maybe it's a place of meadows that needs a name like Queen Anne's Place
Or the Strawberry Fields, which might not work out
If it grows Lupines and blackberries and needs a name such as Finches Island.
Oh whatever the name it knows the sea that sits on each side of our shores.
On a first name basis it speaks to ocean, as we also might know how to speak with something that bathes us.
That provides our isolation, strength, nourishment and sustains the
Conditions to call it America's Isle.
A Day in the Life, on a Dream Island
Ah the recurring dream you ask about as you search out pathologies
It's easy tonight as my head falls into pillow
The only dream that holds my husband is the recurrent one where I try and try to reach him
On phones that do not dial, or I repeatedly enter it wrong
He is living away or gone to places I do not know and
I use energy in this dream trying to find anyone who can
Give me a small clue to try to find a man who does not wish to be
Found or even wanted.
I wake myself from this saying he is there, this is so ridiculous
But it isn't a feeling remotely like relieved.
Here I am in a life where
I am again fond of a man who gives no number
No connection to know if alive or dead, no sometimes call to check and see if I am alive
There is no dialing wrong or letter to share.
I'm shamed for wanting that at all, again.
It is just nothing at all really, I think he called it perfectly innocent.
A dream awake that drives panic attack and confounded feelings up
To the consciousness with heavy determination
I'm dreaming of being unable to connect, lost
Of a need for a someone that is just there
Holding your hand.
Friday, October 26, 2007
A Random Act of Poems
A Random Act of Poverty
There is a little one named Ismael
Lost in poverty in America USA
Randomly assigned to the desert with dirty shoes and no laces
He smells pretty raw on the best day
And he isn't very visible on the busy national agenda
Because he's not a warhead
Or a way to secure our "national interests."
He's just a little hungry boy that likes a popsickle
And has dirty grimy sweat pants he wears everyday
In an underperforming public school where
He reads fairly poorly too.
Cause he doesn't understand Zig Bug or A Pig in A Wig.
One Ismael gave seed to the nation we presently can only find a way to fight.
This little Ismael if given voice could well germinate into solutions.
Or, perhaps, be re-armed with our hatred.
A Random Act of Dreaming
Since my last vivid and memorable dream was of a sports arena and fire in a California city, of a glass elevator and tons of children's entertainment, as hell blazed in, and now San Diego has burned and everyone is in Qualcom stadium and the TV is full of the clowns and jugglers for the kids there and I recognized the terrarium, my husband has tentatively restored my title of scary prophet dreamer woman publicly declaring it.
He rather liked to believe it was a "gone" talent, but of course the nightmares I had, which he awoke to and experienced in his mind (as we both told each other of the vicious black dog attack or the retreat in the woods) this convinced him early on I had another kind foresight. His words.
It's not like a made for tv drama, it's more just a running observance of time when
I seem to snatch a piece of it out of thin air or possibly visualize a piece of it
with another set of "eyes". But all the same it's unnerving I suppose, I haven't questioned it, I'll let someone with training do that.
(Or get on Penn and Teller and they can say f*** a lot and debunk me.)
This time I saw you.
A Random Act of Coughing
If you spend five months coughing
The jars seem rather like something to endure
You don't think about your love notes
Or your decorating lines
Your long plans for tomorrows
Because your choking in the here minute
Gasping to find some hopes to put together.
A Random Act of Sheparding
Gather me in
Herd me
Show me
Just take my wool.
A Random Act of Stargazing
Oh yeah we sat on that hill
Overlooking my starry town lights
In the warm humid air and watched the lights twinkle
Up above and down below and hugged
Just a little and talked about
Your dreams and your places
Your childhood fun and your tricks
All the memories of your growing, the kids
While I hid my truths and hoped
I wouldn't find myself in a lie about it to save the moment
And not go into my stories, hopelessness
Because I always had the stars and that night
Up on my own Tank Hill
We held my stars in your hands
And I shared the promise of the night sky.
A Random Act of Astrology
In my chart the father sits like an eternal damnation
While the mother moon symbol is in the T Square, like the finger on the draw
When the planets pull the trigger, by way of their transits
The point it explodes to hit is naturally called "My Point of Fortune"
Think of it this way, all my planets, those of love, action, desire, work, family
Sit in a spot that is at the boot of Dad's heel
Triggered to kick up into my heart by a maternal tinder
And endlessly designed to rekindle. Stars burn me.
I know people don't believe in it. A magic.
I can't afford to "believe" in my chart, I'm aligned
Like a bullet in that chamber.
Pieces rising.
A Random Act of Love
I watched someone awhile
They were repeatedly giving themselves a little chit mark
To say "good work" for a piece of writing
A Random Act of Insignificance
That they shared to a universe of vibrating particles.
So I watched them
And started giving them a little chit mark
To say "good work" for a piece of
Randomly Significant Saying
(because, of course, my watching changed it all)
And so shared a bit of this universe with the vibrating particles.
And then they watched me, watching them
And started giving a different kind of little chit mark
To say " good work" for a piece
Of Significantly Random Insignificant saying
(because of course their watching the watcher changed it all)
And the particles in the vibrating universe were shared a bit.
A Random Act of Hosiery
You can turn the old ones into the faces of dolls
(But get the batting at the craft store to stuff inside)
Then stitch in a circle and draw the thread up tight
And you get a knotted witchy nose.
Beads can be eyes and the mouth a drawn thread line in red.
With hair sewn on in twisty curly yarn.
A much better time than the itchy
Nylon creeping away from your crotch.
A Random Act of Fun Film
We got this dippy fun film at the crafty boutique as kids
Twisting wires into flower power petals with loopy loops
And dipping them in the stuff that smelled
Through the floor boards from the garage, overwhelming you briefly.
And it emerged a plastic filled magenta or fuchsia, chartreuse flora.
I dipped enough of them to arrange into centerpieces
For our table and stuck the wire stems into that green floral moss.
It was groovy and you knew it.
Flower Power.
A Random Act of Coin Collecting
If we check our pennies
And never, ever forget to look
It will never compare to the day a student
Handed me a handful of coins
To pay for school pictures
In a fieldtown in the Salinas Valley
And they were all silver.
Sitting in a picture order envelope marked Set A
I noticed it because they tore through.
So I looked at them and paid for the pictures
With my last ten dollars.
And held onto the beauties until conferences
Which were around the corner
And returned them to a teary grandpa
Who had collected them in the 30's when
His first trips to America
Had put them in his hands
For weeks of work harvesting the sugar beets.
These are yours, I think
I said holding out a fortune in metal
(Like I've seen in a box in my Dad's house)
And, at first, this guardian of two kids
Having lost a daughter to breast cancer just looked.
And then held out a worn hand and took them up.
Getting up he kissed my cheek
And called me his little chica.
There is a little one named Ismael
Lost in poverty in America USA
Randomly assigned to the desert with dirty shoes and no laces
He smells pretty raw on the best day
And he isn't very visible on the busy national agenda
Because he's not a warhead
Or a way to secure our "national interests."
He's just a little hungry boy that likes a popsickle
And has dirty grimy sweat pants he wears everyday
In an underperforming public school where
He reads fairly poorly too.
Cause he doesn't understand Zig Bug or A Pig in A Wig.
One Ismael gave seed to the nation we presently can only find a way to fight.
This little Ismael if given voice could well germinate into solutions.
Or, perhaps, be re-armed with our hatred.
A Random Act of Dreaming
Since my last vivid and memorable dream was of a sports arena and fire in a California city, of a glass elevator and tons of children's entertainment, as hell blazed in, and now San Diego has burned and everyone is in Qualcom stadium and the TV is full of the clowns and jugglers for the kids there and I recognized the terrarium, my husband has tentatively restored my title of scary prophet dreamer woman publicly declaring it.
He rather liked to believe it was a "gone" talent, but of course the nightmares I had, which he awoke to and experienced in his mind (as we both told each other of the vicious black dog attack or the retreat in the woods) this convinced him early on I had another kind foresight. His words.
It's not like a made for tv drama, it's more just a running observance of time when
I seem to snatch a piece of it out of thin air or possibly visualize a piece of it
with another set of "eyes". But all the same it's unnerving I suppose, I haven't questioned it, I'll let someone with training do that.
(Or get on Penn and Teller and they can say f*** a lot and debunk me.)
This time I saw you.
A Random Act of Coughing
If you spend five months coughing
The jars seem rather like something to endure
You don't think about your love notes
Or your decorating lines
Your long plans for tomorrows
Because your choking in the here minute
Gasping to find some hopes to put together.
A Random Act of Sheparding
Gather me in
Herd me
Show me
Just take my wool.
A Random Act of Stargazing
Oh yeah we sat on that hill
Overlooking my starry town lights
In the warm humid air and watched the lights twinkle
Up above and down below and hugged
Just a little and talked about
Your dreams and your places
Your childhood fun and your tricks
All the memories of your growing, the kids
While I hid my truths and hoped
I wouldn't find myself in a lie about it to save the moment
And not go into my stories, hopelessness
Because I always had the stars and that night
Up on my own Tank Hill
We held my stars in your hands
And I shared the promise of the night sky.
A Random Act of Astrology
In my chart the father sits like an eternal damnation
While the mother moon symbol is in the T Square, like the finger on the draw
When the planets pull the trigger, by way of their transits
The point it explodes to hit is naturally called "My Point of Fortune"
Think of it this way, all my planets, those of love, action, desire, work, family
Sit in a spot that is at the boot of Dad's heel
Triggered to kick up into my heart by a maternal tinder
And endlessly designed to rekindle. Stars burn me.
I know people don't believe in it. A magic.
I can't afford to "believe" in my chart, I'm aligned
Like a bullet in that chamber.
Pieces rising.
A Random Act of Love
I watched someone awhile
They were repeatedly giving themselves a little chit mark
To say "good work" for a piece of writing
A Random Act of Insignificance
That they shared to a universe of vibrating particles.
So I watched them
And started giving them a little chit mark
To say "good work" for a piece of
Randomly Significant Saying
(because, of course, my watching changed it all)
And so shared a bit of this universe with the vibrating particles.
And then they watched me, watching them
And started giving a different kind of little chit mark
To say " good work" for a piece
Of Significantly Random Insignificant saying
(because of course their watching the watcher changed it all)
And the particles in the vibrating universe were shared a bit.
A Random Act of Hosiery
You can turn the old ones into the faces of dolls
(But get the batting at the craft store to stuff inside)
Then stitch in a circle and draw the thread up tight
And you get a knotted witchy nose.
Beads can be eyes and the mouth a drawn thread line in red.
With hair sewn on in twisty curly yarn.
A much better time than the itchy
Nylon creeping away from your crotch.
A Random Act of Fun Film
We got this dippy fun film at the crafty boutique as kids
Twisting wires into flower power petals with loopy loops
And dipping them in the stuff that smelled
Through the floor boards from the garage, overwhelming you briefly.
And it emerged a plastic filled magenta or fuchsia, chartreuse flora.
I dipped enough of them to arrange into centerpieces
For our table and stuck the wire stems into that green floral moss.
It was groovy and you knew it.
Flower Power.
A Random Act of Coin Collecting
If we check our pennies
And never, ever forget to look
It will never compare to the day a student
Handed me a handful of coins
To pay for school pictures
In a fieldtown in the Salinas Valley
And they were all silver.
Sitting in a picture order envelope marked Set A
I noticed it because they tore through.
So I looked at them and paid for the pictures
With my last ten dollars.
And held onto the beauties until conferences
Which were around the corner
And returned them to a teary grandpa
Who had collected them in the 30's when
His first trips to America
Had put them in his hands
For weeks of work harvesting the sugar beets.
These are yours, I think
I said holding out a fortune in metal
(Like I've seen in a box in my Dad's house)
And, at first, this guardian of two kids
Having lost a daughter to breast cancer just looked.
And then held out a worn hand and took them up.
Getting up he kissed my cheek
And called me his little chica.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
picture poems in sylvias birthday exhibit
Roses
In a glass I placed the roses
That you brought last night
The ones that looked so much like
Those grown by the neighbor
They are full of the scent of the evening
Richly filling my mind with images
The layers wildly velvet
Now the pastels holding
My gaze against this dark night
Tonight, when I sit alone
And wait for petals to fall.
A Wall of Eyes
A wall of eyes is watching
Me, as I'm looking for
You, seeing everything.
They know that just
As I force my gaze straight
Ahead and pause to
Secretly scan for your
Shadow, my subtlety is
Lost. The eyes see,
They know everything.
I cannot hide my heart.
I'm naked looking for
No one in a room full of
Seeing eyes.
The Ocher House
The front entry had ocher tiles in a
Spanish design, linoleum with black lines
In my first house. The one rented
From a guy named Keith who seemed
A degenerate. After scrubbing the tile
Applying several coats of Johnson's Wax
The brown multi-colored shag came into view.
It was greasy to the touch, always
Even after the rented rug machine took it's 12th
Run at the dirt which filled the canister.
This house had all ocher appliances
A stove that burnt the babies hand
A stairway set of mirrored tiles too.
I broke one, one day when I lost my aesthetic
Senses and threw a potted plant at the red
Felt fuzzy wallpaper and missed.
In the ocher house over the vermilion tiled fireplace
Sat a painting of "maybe" nudes in a fire bird stance
One had a cigarette in it's bellybutton.
In the house we once rented on Palma Street.
Hans Hoffman Color My World
Happy Birthday to really bright puce
Sticky splattered tangerines
Wild flying strawberry cerise flaming
Through the blueberry cobalt
That Hans is screaming about in a wall
Of color in a museum on my birthday.
Hey Hans, I'm 18 finally today
Your color theory looks like
A crayola box meltdown in a bad 70's flick.
Chartreuse, fuschia, wicked aquamarine.
Color me baby with a liquid lime green.
Get the ZLed Out
Son
I just dreamed
We were in an open building
On the coast on a sunny day sort of
Doing the things you do in your dreams
Which means we were doing some strange
Though ordinary kinds of activities, something to do
With something I forget now and a podium, when the coastline
Blew up and smoke went up for miles and I grabbed the baby, that you
Now were and headed with grandmom to the car in front. Parachutes were all around
It's still not clear to me why people in camo were all around us running
But there was a Zeppelin tune playing kind of through this.
In the way of dreams it's possible I'm imposing
The music into the memory but still
It's a pretty clear piece of lyric
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.
The guys guarding the staircase
In the art museum
Told you today
That at 12 and looking younger
With your beautiful face
You were too young for the Zep.
You laughed.
Sure.
It might be contained in a myth
But the woman bearing
A red horses head on her
Shoulder looking at a flying fish
Under the full moon
Has got some problems.
Lewis and Clark
(Every time I wonder if I can make it through "sports day" teaching
Or some other inane thing I've gotten into like the time I hiked
At Big Bear , and hemorrhaged, I think of Lewis and Clark and scenes like this.)
Lost in time and melting into days on a trail with no auberge grape oil baths
No hot water, pillowtalk and nothing easy looking out over something magnificent
That a nation hasn't yet gotten the urge to possess, yet.
What lies ahead is a question in a wilderness and a team to huddle through the pass
Together bound and led by a desire to discover
Here a first morning has begun to warm the river bend
As artist brings it new to those far from the glide and buzz of gnat
The swish of moving eyes down this brush made passageway into the unknown
This is a kind of adventure I've known only conjured by these
Discoverers of time journeys, reflected through the canvas projector.
(My daughter suggests the title "Lewis and Clark, 'Secret Lovers' ")
The Lamp Post
Somewhere by a pole stands a soldier Van Gogh
On a march voyaging into the world of Aslan
Where he journeyed once looking for acceptance
And some warmth into his child bones.
A trip that took him to edges of thee and beyond.
But he was a lone man, out of place, unheard, unknown visiting that land
Frozen by his desire of possessing a witching being that held onto his mind
Until he was burned through, mind crushed
And returned home to sacrifice his ear to her altar.
What Did I Really do Wrong?
Instruct me in that.
Tell me.
I welcome the information for future reference.
A future day when I unpack this bag full of shame and hurt.
And decide to listen.
What did I do right?
Could there be a short lesson
On the things that weren't
On the test of yours I failed?
Maybe a review
Before the final
Which Shape Are You?
Looking slowly into my face, holding a worn card
Of a painting, my analyst repeated the question,
"Which shape is you?"
And I thought not this game again.
I'm the white blank eye of the fish.
The place of total rest, where you must look finally.
But I said, "I need some time to think."
He often tells me this is "not a thinking thing".
But deletes the consequences of this or that choice,
In my program of endless correction, opps, support.
Well I'm not the grey shape that looks like a gun.
"You see a gun?"
I'm also not the fenced in horse pen.
"You see this area as a fenced area?"
I'm not the incomplete rectangle or that needle that has something impossible passing through it.
"Here?"
I'm not the Pleiads and I'm certainly not the grey pumpkin (him).
"So you read these as images?"
Nor am I that Dolce purse, the two brown fingers or the piece of lime pie.
Leaving me with that piece of nothing there in the eye of this fish.
"That's interesting that you would see yourself in a non shape."
Not really surprised, he guessed my self on that card.
Looking back out at me wondering what utter nonsense
To look for an out by looking in.
Floating Down River
Floating down river on an old coal barge
I sat up front in the sweat and steam rising off the Monongahela
Smelling the ages old green thick emerald slime
Mixing with the carbon and oil of the wooden planks,
Lay there happy on my belly and hung my hand in the water
Thinking of catching catfish. Here in this river a friend catches 'em
So he and his kin can have some 'real good eatin'
That's what he'd say about the cornbread fried batches
His momma cooked out of this river, full of the ravages
And waste from mining and scarring.
My state forever taken and rubbed raw by this mining, damn,
Now being blown to bits, my violet bed, my west virginia
On that barge on which I got to rest myself on that morning
Saw some whitetail and they stood watching back
In a stand of fading leaves golden and red ablaze in mid-fall.
As we were drifting down the river toward the lock.
"My Interest Is Fading"
Yes, so I hear you say
This day.
Bored by this
Fatigued by that
No longer taking this seriously
No longer able to take that.
It happens.
To us all. Our desires fade, our interest wanes
We as ennui.
Grow old
Lose an ability to bring to our moment
Even a fading one
The inner light and glimpse
Of a place
Where light silently
Dances off
The morning fog
Eating up the sharp edges
Bathing the scene
In such pastel subtle shades, seconds passing
A scene of a morning
On a bridge in whiteness
Blue and a lingering golden in a world
Of dissolution.
Painted and hanging
In a place that
Bores so many to tears
And brings them
To my tired eyes.
As I fade into my interests
In the soft light
Of that dawn.
Filled with that
disappearing moment.
All Day
I stare all day at a woman in a red bra
Across the wooden parquet of this museum floor
Watching as the men drool and imagine
A bed with satin sheets and her unclothed
When they turn around caught in that moment
These men look here with the shame of exposed need.
In my frame looking out they see their grandmother
And their sexual vitality flies out of the art spaces
As if a skunk was spotted in the garage
Or a gorgon had risen from the sea.
My well worn gray face that knew the touch
And feel of hands to hold and lips parting in meeting
In love's embrace have become dry leaves.
This is how it is for all women
I look daily at one exception caught eternally in her frame
Brash and bold exposing her
Power and flesh, seducing the viewers
But I am not seduced nor seductress now.
My time fled upon the dawns that I met
In a life worn by illness, jealousies, deaths, affairs of men,
Babies born and Times of giving
Days of taking, until I'm just a paper pencil
Shadow of an old woman. Grayed and watching
A younger seducer in her timeless art.
Red Bra
A man in the museum was stopped
Staring at this red bra
Thinking about how straight forward
And clear art can be sometimes.
"She's got it, he wants it"
Too bad the space can only
Be opened by the mind
Because he was ready to jump
Maybe he had jumped, it was voyeuristic all around.
He heard me close by
Or sensed my gaze and looked
Utterly disappointed by the reality
Of a chubby staring set of cheeks
With glasses
That was considering his libidinous
Glances
My bra was tan and hiding under
Some pretty ugly cotton
With a stance that looked
Feeble next to a painting
Of a woman ready to pull
Her patron right into the frame
And have a tango for two
And a wild Arabian night.
Turning away
The man went sadly to the next scene
A painting of a melted clock by Dali
Almost but not quite dripping time on the floor
He looked so ordinary then
Like a Dad or a professor of botony
The look of wild confidence fled
I asked, "Did you see that?"
But no one was around to comment.
Except the red bra
And it was busy luring the next man over.
A Baobab
A baobab told me to
"Length or Girth the Debate"
you don your Magnum
Stand, salute harm reduction
special gentleman
No one is crazy
please let's all be a little
blind to thought bubble
again not the length
be hoodwinked by the magnum
handy to impress women
don't any person
that's worth the intimacy
anatomy "is"
"reflections on nudes"
Sylvia Puglisi
* * *
it was hot today
i wore long sleeves
with stripes
because the weather does not rule my clothes.
the museum was cold though, and full of cold marble statues
naked men without penises
blown off in this war or that war
or fallen off
eventually
through the slow decay of time.
the female forms are unblemished, timeless
no gawky appendages to erode
by salty air or
overzealous critics.
they are modest and unashamed.
in marble
the women are held to no unreasonable
standards of beauty
they are fat and fabulous
or thin
or just female with big
breasts and small breasts
thought they are hairless.
the men are hairless too.
not very hairy, the romans
or so they'd have us believe.
the men are all tall and
curly-haired with clean-shaven faces and
well-chiseled abs
and noble poses fighting mythical beasts
imagine that being compared to a standard that no man could ever emulate
who can fight a minotaur?
perfection like that is just tempting fate.
most of the man-sculptures don't have heads.
i like the statue-room because it reminds me of the
uniformity that the female nude room
doesn't have.
25,000 years of women real women
not gods
not minotaurs
women with arms akimbo and tapping feet
and breasts and big bare arms
and beautiful imperfections.
my sisters, my mothers
my ancestors who
posed naked even if they had small breasts and big thighs
because they wanted to stand her before me
in paint and stone
and look me in the eye to say
"remember me, future-child
not for what i look like
but for what i was,
what i am,
what you are."
i remember them.
i am.
Friday, September 7, 2007
A Day In the Life of a Shetland Pony
(title from a very amused daughter in response to "give me a title for a poem")
"Lord Whetland" was considering the deeply important
Was the King of France still bald and how would one know for certainty?
(the reflection commonly considered glowing from his piebald dome a favored sign),
And where to find the absolute proof, ah his depth of "mind",
When Penelope demanded his immediate attention,
"The Shetland pony is not in the stable
Nor has anyone responded to my summons to find him."
"Good God, " he responded aghast and followed this with,
"I promise you that this will be dealt with."
This from a man with no dangling participles,
Ringing for Dabney, Cook appeared with the most egregious of expression.
"Sir, it would be most opportune if you could lift yourself up and
Outside as the Shetland and Dabney are embroiled once again
In the rhododendron hedges debating as we speak.
"This distresses me at a time the truth of the hair sprouting reached critical mass."
Gazing, he girded himself for distraction and resolved, his way now clear.
"You say," he gasped moving as ever quickly to the call,
King contemplation left neither here nor there.
Penelope was following wondering aloud if they needed Laddie D after all,
His noxious odor so off putting, and the tendency to droop.
...........................................and at that point several dozen children slipped off firmly to sleep.
(One really must recall when reading such stuff in the evening to
Prop open the adult eyelids with a couple of toothpicks if consciousness is desired.
The story today reading aloud was " Life as a Shetland Pony"
We were entertaining Chapter Seven
"A Day in The Life of a Very Brazen Shetland Pony and a Logical Scientist"
Was the King of France still bald and how would one know for certainty?
(the reflection commonly considered glowing from his piebald dome a favored sign),
And where to find the absolute proof, ah his depth of "mind",
When Penelope demanded his immediate attention,
"The Shetland pony is not in the stable
Nor has anyone responded to my summons to find him."
"Good God, " he responded aghast and followed this with,
"I promise you that this will be dealt with."
This from a man with no dangling participles,
Ringing for Dabney, Cook appeared with the most egregious of expression.
"Sir, it would be most opportune if you could lift yourself up and
Outside as the Shetland and Dabney are embroiled once again
In the rhododendron hedges debating as we speak.
"This distresses me at a time the truth of the hair sprouting reached critical mass."
Gazing, he girded himself for distraction and resolved, his way now clear.
"You say," he gasped moving as ever quickly to the call,
King contemplation left neither here nor there.
Penelope was following wondering aloud if they needed Laddie D after all,
His noxious odor so off putting, and the tendency to droop.
...........................................and at that point several dozen children slipped off firmly to sleep.
(One really must recall when reading such stuff in the evening to
Prop open the adult eyelids with a couple of toothpicks if consciousness is desired.
The story today reading aloud was " Life as a Shetland Pony"
We were entertaining Chapter Seven
"A Day in The Life of a Very Brazen Shetland Pony and a Logical Scientist"
Commonly called
"I wonder if maybe Bertrand Russell really
Could find the answer to the missing King's hairpiece
Before or after he has to marry the newest governess
(Or the secretary) and get his hearty Shetland pony penned
Himself tied in yet another tangled matrimonial knot?"
But of course it was only an allusion.To mental traps
Not metaphor this piece.Just gunk in the mind.
The conclusion to the proof what really mattered,
And hearing France moved into social democracy
He was said to have stated, "God is now officially dead,
And the hairpiece a device to obscure the truth of it."
Monday, September 3, 2007
Bronchial Pnoetry
Bronchial Pnoetry
Waiting in a doctors for hours, for days, trying to trick my way home. I started writing. Maybe later I'll write less self-referentially.
On Observation
Word becomes thing.
Picture sits there.
Staring from page.
Captured bird in gilded cage.
Far from branch.
Waywad opheApostr
‘ it’s the’r in places
drivi’ng teahr’ Martha
to write me a letter
edit sh’esh.
Or get another prfessoi’oien,
Boundary
I’m encased in perception
Formed in error, arms, tissues, kisses,
Times riots, palms, bars and books
Rushing sounds of happening
I’m watching
Putting pencil on paper
Finger to key, saying, purging,
Pontificating, touching meaning
On the edge of the ordinary,
As far from there as here.
Reflections
I’m trying to see myself,
In everyone else.
It’s misdirection.
It’s like a lover
Leaving, “It’s not you, it’s me”
It was me.
A mocking silhouette
That has blind eyes
Looking in the mirror.
Pnewmonia
Oxygen kittens are mewing in my chest
Until the barking seals demand attention.
Release one and applaud the other.
Suspended in a struggle for breath.
Hold My Hand
Practice surviving in front of my eyes
Living in a moment in a car
Someone shot someone named Jim
In the conference about your boy.
Ditto off a parenting guide
Offer a DVD on anger management
Look for hope on a shooting star
It’s the conference for your boy.
Let me hold your hand
Offer you a hug and chair
Lift your spirits with eyes that see
This is the conference for our boy.
The Future
She’s so glad for the silly Oreo
I stopped to get “us” by the Coke machine
Feeding my demon, the past.
Pinata
“Who do you love, me or the thought of me” J. Meyer
I can’t entertain just now anything but the thought of me.
You can’t think of me entertaining the thought of you holding a thought of me.
Just the thought of a “me” there needs illusion to sustain and stomach it.
I’m building an inner playhouse to go with the fortress I had built to deal with
The thought of you or me seeing outside of this tissue held mind piñata.
With the bat you are raising to spill the candy over the wall.
Who do I love? In the funhouse the thought of thinking of an us.
Smash.
Cancer
It was after all my sign.
It might have been….
Telling someone else, preferably a stranger
The look in my daughters’ faces
The sound in my son’s throat
Or when you started to ask questions I never thought to ask.
Or Mom thrusting into our space to ask her round of barraging what when where why
Maybe somewhere after I took the breath in the mask, the surgeon standing in the cold freezer sleeveless
I got it.
When you dropped the flowers in my room later with crashing glass and roses busted and fumbling fingers shooting that glass everywhere in the bed.
I got it.
I saw the fear flash over your face and you retreated away.
That’s how it is now.
Safety zones. Because you get it now.
I saw that fly all through our relating, the way of the shards of the broken universe.
If I could turn that fear into a wish
Then we’d fight and rage until it’s all over us.
Running red and engaging in here and now
Not hiding in corners, eyes averted and heart closed.
“No one wants to read poetry by a woman in mid life”
Least of all me.
I read about men and their longings
For girls in their prime meridians
Like chili fries in beer.
I’m looking a globby load of melted cheese
Choking its way around
A pretty stale meatball sub.
Penning poetry about
Godiva with Dom Perignon
Some grease staining the prose.
NebulizeHer
Bubbling gurgles
Breathe in, breath out
Doors open
Close
Gurgling humming machines
Breathe in, breathe out
Smoky voice asks
Where you been girl?
Breathe in, breath out
Gurgling whirling
Dizzy now
Catches me
Breath in, breath out
I ‘ve been around
Hiss and hum
Breathe in, breath out.
Click.
Agendize/ Flow
- Live in the moment.
- Appear planned.
- React
- Structure creatively
- Rest assured
- Assure you rest
- Stay alert
- Be passionate
- Delegate with trust
- Be in the now
- It’s as real as we make it.
- It’s the Real thing
- It’s been real
- Reality, shows
Crunch me (what I did for art)
“You're a carrot, Roz said (my old days art teacher)
Crunchy, bunchy orangy
Healthy, sweet and munchy
Long and smooth” (then)
Held in a hand like a brush
Her carrot, me.
(she said waving her hand in the air and biting)
This guy you like is meat.
Raw.
Tartar
And the Ponderosa rib eye went over her lips.
He was a vegetarian and I ate a lot of filet.
Snack and pack me (I thought)
Dip and candy cook
Butter and honey
Sticky compliment to
His juicy steak.
(I considered dropping the class)
Watching in Urgent Care, Sitting Alone
I think he’s high
I don’t know why
He wants her to stay
Then pushes away
I know he’s high
Mind in the sky
Talking circles and just spun
Wanting, losing, thought, fun
Just tripped on my leg
He’s high
Bringing me down.
He’s bouncing despair.
I’m getting a shot
From someone in thin air.
Orbital.
On Shapes (Made on Cute NotePad)
About a Teaching Training "Personality" Activity
A circle with a dot in the middle is beauty
Cause now it's a sweet belly.
Round and smooth, rubbed for luck.
A square with a dot
Is not. It's uncomfortable
Abnormal. Ill met.
A triangle with it's dot inside
Is nowhere to run
Nowhere to hide.
A rectangle with dot
Is what I've got
Wide load. To hold.
Z
But the z is me.
It's free.
Genesis Of An Idea
You --------------------> Thought of You
Me ----------------------> Thought of Me
This ---------------------> Thought of This
That ---------------------> Thought of That
Real---------------------->Thought of Real
Want---------------------> Thought of Now
Shoes on The Feet In My Life
Wear my shoes
Know me
Put the shoe on the other foot
Show me
Tie my laces, momma
Hold me
Shine my shoes
Serve me
Get my shoes please
Help me
In the shoes of a fisherman
Teach me to walk
Slow Dance
Babe we never danced the slow dance
Babe we never danced in the rain
Babe we never changed
Not even when we fell to pieces.
When They Gave Me the IV
I Thought I’d Throw Up
Ali fought with style
Rhyming
Spinning
Biting, a bee
Floating
My fights
Losing rounds
Head pounding
Heavy
Gasping
My style is Riff less
Inelegant
Lumbering baboon
Drag
Breath
Arm wrapped by tape
Tubes
Cold needles
Alcohol pad
Ready
Swoon and rebound
Punch
Supporting my neck
Hard won
Test.
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