new poem

Defining the Matriarch

Webster defines matriarch as the female head of a family or tribe; a woman

who is the founder or dominant member of a group; a venerable woman,

someone who commands great respect

because of age and impressive dignity. Even further,

someone who nears saintliness with not just what they’ve endured,

but how they’ve conducted themselves.

My father tells a story of his mother

wearing a homemade dress, almost rare—

an experienced practitioner of self-sacrifice—and

her changing a dirty diaper.

This particular diaper exploded.

Wearing excrement over a new dress, minutes before

church, no swear words, no throwing things, kicking, screaming,

and if she did, no one could blame her. Fault

lines not a part of her exterior.

She did what she always did: what had to be done, regardless.

Tribe. Six children, nineteen grandchildren, six great grandchildren, thirty-one people.

The grade I teach is six.

I was nineteen years old when she lost her husband in 1998.

I am almost thirty-one.

The numbers are strings tied to each other, connecting now and later,

appearing not as a reflection, but repetition. No one knows why.

We are all tied through the lineage of blood, of love,

back to where we circle our wagons of memories and remember specifics.

A small child placed on a boat to America.

Her two oldest children crying after

fried chicken transformed itself into stew.

Learning to drive at forty.

A small child riding on her head all the way to Hawaii.

Eating a truffle with both hands

on her deck. Her children laugh, offer a chipmunk

comparison, the summer night thick with the umbrella

of laughter that fills underneath, the outside, spilling inside the house and over

everyone who is here for her.

Six children with exceptional volume is enough

for anyone to lose their hair, sanity, gaining

sainthood not even a consideration.

Hair thick, tolerance more so, but not as great as obstinacy.

The seventh child,

minus the genes, taught her to drive.

Lesson number one: never wave at her while she’s driving—

she will careen her car into yours.

Lesson number two: use the seatbelt.

Countless, the lessons we’ve learned from her. Infinite

as the blades of grass in her back yard, something almost real enough to pin

to a sweater before crossing the ocean of determination, journeying to a new land,

this unknown place we know so well, where we know

the ones we love will be waiting.

Making Metaphors

If your students are anything like mine, they can create simile after simile, but writing a metaphor, a good metaphor is a real struggle. A poet friend of mine had a great idea and he did it with my class as a guest speaker, and I tweaked it to make the activity fit my students.

I took three stacks so index cards and colored a small part of the edges: one stack was green, one blue, and the other red. This was purely for organizational reasons, something I’ll get into shortly. Each student received one of color, and then I asked them what concrete nouns were. One student shouted out, “That pen you’re writing with.” Someone else hollers out, “Dog,” and then the following, “Rat. Car. Shoe. Gum.”

Then I asked them, “What are adjectives?” One of my better students said, “Anything that modifies a noun,” and I can’t be sure I would’ve given that answer in college, let alone sixth grade. Then I’m writing down all the adjectives they can come up with: Red, hairy, old, stupid, strong, ugly.

Then, the most difficult part: abstract nouns. I tell them that abstract nouns are like all other nouns, except they can’t be touched—you can touch a pencil, a concrete noun, but you can’t touch happiness, sadness, anxiety, or boredom. I call on a few people, and when they give an incorrect answer, several students say, “If you can touch it, it’s not abstract—I love it when that happens.

Once I am sure they have a handle on this, I ask them to write their adjectives on their red cards. The concrete nouns on the greens, and the abstract nouns on the blues. I put three different students in charge of each color. I ask each student to randomly draw a card, and the results were fuzzy, big screen TV and love. On my overhead I wrote, “It was the fuzzy big screen TV of love. There are a few snickers, as there should be, and I ask, “What?” One of my students, who is never quite able to restrain herself from blurting out says, “It doesn’t make sense!” I ask why, and I get some good answers: big screen TVs aren’t fuzzy; TV don’t give love.

I rewrite it as, “It was the fuzzy blanket of love.” Cheesy, yes, but I need them to make a connection here, understand how and why it works, even if it borders on the cliché. If they don’t get it, it doesn’t matter how artful the metaphor. We discuss it, they get it, and then I change it once more: it was the fuzzy blanket of discontent.

Only two students knew what discontent meant. I talked about content, then discontent. I ask them what they think. Paraphrasing here a bit, they thought it was different that I used a fuzzy blanket in comparison to discontent, their first reaction being content, but this made them think.

Underneath the “The fuzzy blanket of discontent.” I wrote, “It was the blue couch of anger. They talk about the color blue and how it is usually associated being sad, then the difference between sad and anger. I ask them what this metaphor means. One student says, “I see someone sitting on the couch squeezing a pillow to death, showing their teeth.” One boy says, “I see a couch with eyes and teeth.” And finally, one of my students says, “This is the couch you go to when you’re really mad.” Yes!

I have my card holders randomly draw five more cards each. Here is what we had.

Concrete Noun	Adjective	Abstract Noun
computer	giant	wild
shotgun	green	hope
pencil	fat	hilarious
horse	stupid	love
cricket	dirty	happy

I make a simile going straight across: It was the giant computer of wild. They laugh, I ask what’s wrong, and they tell me it doesn’t make sense. I tell them to make it make sense, but with their own—don’t go straight across. They need to make three similes, and they can repeat a word only once—no making three similes with horse just because you love horses. I need them to stretch themselves and grow as writers, and it’s not just because it’s good for them to write about different things, try new things, but also for me. Every year I get kids who write about the same things over and over—everything is a football story, or everything is a heartbreaking love story, or a story about monkeys who fling poo and bananas—and I get sick of reading the same story with a few different plot twists and changed character names. Yes, they can write them, but after a while, it’s time to move on and do something else.

I write with them, because they need a model, and after I finish each metaphor, I share it aloud. When I am done with my three, I ask for a few volunteers. They share, I give them feedback as to what I immediately like, especially when I notice their metaphors are very unconventional, and how it doesn’t just stop with the metaphor: they add on to the end of the metaphor to help put it in context, and more description.

Now I ask them to revise, change something from their metaphors: they have to write two new metaphors through revising. It could be changing love to disgust, changing the end description of their metaphor, something that changes the metaphor, not just changing a word or two. One student says, “But I really like my metaphor. I don’t want to change it.” This is a fairly common reaction when it comes to revision, but I say, “You’re not erasing your work. You’re trying something new and different, not throwing away what you had.”

I revise, they revise, and when I’ve finished revising all three, I read them. I read the first draft, then the second of each so they get a before and after feel of my work. I ask them questions as to what the notice and what they like about my writing—I need them to think like writers.

Here are my examples:

1a) It was the stupid cricket of love, sitting outside my window playing its song, and all I wanted to do was poor bleach on it.

1b) It was the stupid cricket of love, chirping its song outside my window, now knowing that at any moment, he would be eaten alive.

2a) It was the dirty horse of hope, covered in mud, limping, but never ceasing in its task.

2b) They were the dirty shoes of hope—what Ali had trudged through the mud in Louisiana to get away from one life and into another.

3a) It was the green shotgun of wild, the thing by the door, a sign that I knew my father was going to do something he shouldn’t.

3b) It was the green shotgun of mischief. It was leaning up against the wall next to the ammo belt, a sign that my father was about to something he shouldn’t.

We talked about what we were doing with our writing, what we liked, what we would change. One of my students asked me if she could use hers to start a new story—she really liked the beginning and wanted to keep running with what she created.

Then, probably the most important part, I had them pull out their short stories, read through what they’ve written and see where they can add a metaphor to their work—at least one, if not more, to their work, making sure that the metaphors aren’t thrown in: they have to share their additions with a peer and their peer has to give a response as to what they like, why they like it, and share any questions they might have. This way, there is immediate feedback, and if any revisions need to occur, they can happen right away.

Making Metaphors

If your students are anything like mine, they can create simile after simile, but writing a metaphor, a good metaphor is a real struggle. A poet friend of mine had a great idea and he did it with my class as a guest speaker, and I tweaked it to make the activity fit my students.

I took three stacks so index cards and colored a small part of the edges: one stack was green, one blue, and the other red. This was purely for organizational reasons, something I’ll get into shortly. Each student received one of color, and then I asked them what concrete nouns were. One student shouted out, “That pen you’re writing with.” Someone else hollers out, “Dog,” and then the following, “Rat. Car. Shoe. Gum.”

Then I asked them, “What are adjectives?” One of my better students said, “Anything that modifies a noun,” and I can’t be sure I would’ve given that answer in college, let alone sixth grade. Then I’m writing down all the adjectives they can come up with: Red, hairy, old, stupid, strong, ugly.

Then, the most difficult part: abstract nouns. I tell them that abstract nouns are like all other nouns, except they can’t be touched—you can touch a pencil, a concrete noun, but you can’t touch happiness, sadness, anxiety, or boredom. I call on a few people, and when they give an incorrect answer, several students say, “If you can touch it, it’s not abstract—I love it when that happens.

Once I am sure they have a handle on this, I ask them to write their adjectives on their red cards. The concrete nouns on the greens, and the abstract nouns on the blues. I put three different students in charge of each color. I ask each student to randomly draw a card, and the results were fuzzy, big screen TV and love. On my overhead I wrote, “It was the fuzzy big screen TV of love. There are a few snickers, as there should be, and I ask, “What?” One of my students, who is never quite able to restrain herself from blurting out says, “It doesn’t make sense!” I ask why, and I get some good answers: big screen TVs aren’t fuzzy; TV don’t give love.

I rewrite it as, “It was the fuzzy blanket of love.” Cheesy, yes, but I need them to make a connection here, understand how and why it works, even if it borders on the cliché. If they don’t get it, it doesn’t matter how artful the metaphor. We discuss it, they get it, and then I change it once more: it was the fuzzy blanket of discontent.

Only two students knew what discontent meant. I talked about content, then discontent. I ask them what they think. Paraphrasing here a bit, they thought it was different that I used a fuzzy blanket in comparison to discontent, their first reaction being content, but this made them think.

Underneath the “The fuzzy blanket of discontent.” I wrote, “It was the blue couch of anger. They talk about the color blue and how it is usually associated being sad, then the difference between sad and anger. I ask them what this metaphor means. One student says, “I see someone sitting on the couch squeezing a pillow to death, showing their teeth.” One boy says, “I see a couch with eyes and teeth.” And finally, one of my students says, “This is the couch you go to when you’re really mad.” Yes!

I have my card holders randomly draw five more cards each. Here is what we had.

Concrete Noun	Adjective	Abstract Noun
computer	giant	wild
shotgun	green	hope
pencil	fat	hilarious
horse	stupid	love
cricket	dirty	happy

I make a simile going straight across: It was the giant computer of wild. They laugh, I ask what’s wrong, and they tell me it doesn’t make sense. I tell them to make it make sense, but with their own—don’t go straight across. They need to make three similes, and they can repeat a word only once—no making three similes with horse just because you love horses. I need them to stretch themselves and grow as writers, and it’s not just because it’s good for them to write about different things, try new things, but also for me. Every year I get kids who write about the same things over and over—everything is a football story, or everything is a heartbreaking love story, or a story about monkeys who fling poo and bananas—and I get sick of reading the same story with a few different plot twists and changed character names. Yes, they can write them, but after a while, it’s time to move on and do something else.

I write with them, because they need a model, and after I finish each metaphor, I share it aloud. When I am done with my three, I ask for a few volunteers. They share, I give them feedback as to what I immediately like, especially when I notice their metaphors are very unconventional, and how it doesn’t just stop with the metaphor: they add on to the end of the metaphor to help put it in context, and more description.

Now I ask them to revise, change something from their metaphors: they have to write two new metaphors through revising. It could be changing love to disgust, changing the end description of their metaphor, something that changes the metaphor, not just changing a word or two. One student says, “But I really like my metaphor. I don’t want to change it.” This is a fairly common reaction when it comes to revision, but I say, “You’re not erasing your work. You’re trying something new and different, not throwing away what you had.”

I revise, they revise, and when I’ve finished revising all three, I read them. I read the first draft, then the second of each so they get a before and after feel of my work. I ask them questions as to what the notice and what they like about my writing—I need them to think like writers.

Here are my examples:

1a) It was the stupid cricket of love, sitting outside my window playing its song, and all I wanted to do was poor bleach on it.

1b) It was the stupid cricket of love, chirping its song outside my window, now knowing that at any moment, he would be eaten alive.

2a) It was the dirty horse of hope, covered in mud, limping, but never ceasing in its task.

2b) They were the dirty hoes of hope—what Ali had trudged through the mud in Louisiana to get away from one life and into another.

3a) It was the green shotgun of wild, the thing by the door, a sign that I knew my father was going to do something he shouldn’t.

3b) It was the green shotgun of mischief. It was leaning up against the wall next to the ammo belt, a sign that my father was about to something he shouldn’t.

We talked about what we were doing with our writing, what we liked, what we would change. One of my students asked me if she could use hers to start a new story—she really liked the beginning and wanted to keep running with what she created.

Then, probably the most important part, I had them pull out their short stories, read through what they’ve written and see where they can add a metaphor to their work—at least one, if not more, to their work, making sure that the metaphors aren’t thrown in: they have to share their additions with a peer and their peer has to give a response as to what they like, why they like it, and share any questions they might have. This way, there is immediate feedback, and if any revisions need to occur, they can happen right away.

A Vision of Revision

I was about to explain revision when I decided to see what my students knew about revision. I asked them to take out a piece of paper and pencil and write their, not my, definition of editing. This was easy, and most of them had it right: checking spelling, periods, capitals, grammar, changing it so it all made sense. After they shared this aloud, we moved onto the next question: What does revision mean to you? There were more blank looks on faces in that room than in a room full of supermodels. After a few minutes, kids started asking, “What if we don’t know what that word means?” I told them to write what they thought it meant. Still more confused looks, and more kids asking that same question.

Once they were done, we shared. Less twenty percent of my class has a definition that was even close to what I would consider acceptable. Telling them wouldn’t make this knowledge, and writing them write down what I say wouldn’t be much better. They needed to understand what it means, and I felt experience that will make this knowledge last.

I asked them to sit comfortably in their chairs, with their feet on the floor, their arms hanging loosely at their sides. I made my voice calm, soothing, and even. I asked them to close their eyes and take in a deep breath. I ask them to relax, starting at their toes, working their way up until their whole body feels relaxed, something I totally stole from my yoga instructor.

I told them that they were standing in a field. They could feel the sun. They could feel the wind. I told them that when they moved their feet, they could hear the rustling of the crops below. I told them that there was a house nearby, as well as a grain silo. There was a road and a semi on that road that they could hear. They could smell the crops, the earth, and there was something that they knew about this place. Then I asked them to open their eyes.

I asked, “How many of you absolutely knew the crop you were standing in?

Maybe ten hands go up.

“How many think you know, or don’t know?”

More hands.

“How many of you could see what you were wearing?”

Fifteen hands.

“How may of you knew what time of year it was?”

“How many of you could see the semi?”

“How many of you had the sun on your face? Over head? At your back?”

“How many of you could see the house? The silo? How many of you saw other things I didn’t ask about?”

They were looking around at each other the whole time, seeing how saw it, who didn’t, and the look of wonder on their faces was one of happiness and curiosity.

“That,” I tell them, “is revision. You write it all out for the first draft, and then you reread your writing and see where the vision in writing doesn’t match the vision in your head. That is the goal of revision—to take all of the amazing sights, sounds, smells, thoughts, tastes and sensations you feel and put it into the writing so the reader can almost experience in your mind without using a scalpel.”

With that, I had them read through their writing and put in stars where they knew they needed more of something in writing to match what was in their mind. This direction was enough for them to find where they needed more of something else, and later, when I had them get into their writing groups, their peers asked them questions about how they, that specific writer, saw this in their mind, and students took notes as to what they felt they needed to do. These questions and requests served as a spring board from them in their revision, and it was where I began to see all of my class understand what revising means.

What You Can Count On

I was hanging out this weekend, stuck in traffic, annoyed as can be with how hard to follow some detour signs are, when I my mind was flashing back on certain scenes from movies. One line from a movie, I don't know which, kept popping up in my mind: Always count on one thing--that other people will always let you down. I started thinking about education as a profession.
I used to be a part of the staff development team at my school. I asked to be taken off--the administrator in-charge pissed me off (I'm fairly certain I returned the favor), I didn't like the direction the team was heading, and with a few members who were so ego driven, people who just wanted control of what we did as a staff, I felt my energy could be used somewhere else. I know it was the right decision--my job with writing project was becoming more involved, I was directly a part of in-service taking place at three other schools, as well as on a team working with a school district on their staff development needs, and had 29 students in my class: I was maxed out. The sad part was after taking leave of the staff development team, things changed.
I used to feel very much in the loop. Whenever my principal wanted my advice, which was fairly often, he came to me about things. Principals changed, situations changed, and things have never been the same. Our school, along with other schools in the district, are pushing programs, big binders and big money trainings where teachers leave with lots of stuff. Being a writing project teacher, I'm not a huge fan of these trainings. I know some good can come from these, but it's teaching someone how to manage a curriculum, not how to evaluate a classroom. Some people, no doubt, can do this. I've been a part of many trainings in the last six plus years of teaching, and have always found lots of great ideas I've adapted to my room. Adaptation to my room.
As a sixth grade teacher, I'm very interested in what the grades below me do, because I eventually have those students as my own. I see kids who know how to follow a formula, kids who have learned a pattern, a paint-by-numbers of writing, and I spend a great deal of time teaching them how to think and evaluate. And why--why are teachers doing this--is because they are afraid. Teachers are afraid of poor test scores. Principals know that test scores are the deciding factor as to whether or not they get hired or fired. It's easier to go the safe route, than to take a risk. I take risks in my classroom every day with my kids, because I think...strike that, I KNOW they are worth it. If I want them to take risks as writers and learners, and get better, I had better model it.
I think I worry less about state tests than most teachers. I worry about my students instead. I put my energy into them as people first, students seconds, because I know once they realize how much I love them as people, they will try harder, not just for me, but for themselves. If I bet on the test, there are entirely too many variables out of my control. If I bet on them as people, I know I will win more than I lose, and what I will have gained from that are life-long friendships from amazing people--people, whom I might add, still come back and visit me, tell me what they are up to, ask me to teach junior high or high school, because they know they can count on me, like I count on them.
I could count on principals being over-worked, under too much pressure, curriculum departments going for the safe bet with staff development, and teachers unions to protect bad teachers, frustrate good teachers, and fail students, but what good is that doing? I can count on me. I can count on kids who want to be loved for who they are, and that I will love them for the pain-in-the-rears they can be, and know I was (and still can be), and that I was exactly like them. I can count on change, it being rough, crappy detour directions, and people losing track of what is really important when the day is over. With all of that, I have to count on me being willing to fight the tough fight, know that I may sometimes lose, that I will hate losing, and that, when it's all said and done, I have made a difference in the lives of children, and that is THE greatest good. What can you count on?

The Size of Your Mind

Forgive me for the lack of teacher material lately, but I've been drawn to the creative side fo writing lately, and I haven't had any desire to stop it.

Like most professional learning communities, I have staff meetings every week. 2:45 to 4:15 every Wednesday, and I find a great deal of it pointless--we differentiate for our students to make sure they are challenged and learning, but we don't do it with teachers. Anyway, the last staff meeting, which started well with a rare entertainment, a skit by a few staff members, but quickly turned into a sharing out problems. No, I think a more appropriate term would be whining. Several people shared their trouble with something we were doing as a staff, and it lead to more people talking, and even though out of all the people in my department I am the most behind in this endeavor, I didn't want to hear people talk, I didn't take any comfort that there people much worse off than myself, I just wanted to go work. Instead, some fifty teachers sat, tired after their day, wanting to be almost anywhere than where they were, and listened. Well, maybe listening isn't the right word. Half listened, half spaced off. We all knew it was hard. We all knew it was not going to be easy. So why is it none of us had the strength to say, "Yes, this is hard, and for some of us it's not going to get any easier, but sitting here and complaining about it is not going to help." Had any one of us said that, people would've been silently agreeing with him/her, but would've said it's important to talk about it--one big group therapy session, minus the minimalistic office and big bill later.
When working with kids, we try to focus on the positive and move forward, learning being our main goal, once we've ascertained they are okay as people. I hate to write it, but some of us teachers will never be okay as people: we spend out lives devoted to others (I can't count how many conversations with girlfriends I've had where they wonder if they will ever come first and my students second), getting to school early, staying late, skipping the gym or yoga because we need to finish one more thing which never really ends. The pay sucks, the hours are terrible--up before the sun, at school, hurrying to finish the last few things before the students come in, teaching, a meeting with the school psych or councilor during your planning, a few phone calls to parents, more teaching, lunch with students who need extra help, more teaching, end of the day meetings, more phone calls and emails, more papers to grade than yesterday, time to eat, grade a few things, start some laundry, thirty minutes of a book before falling asleep only to do it all again the next day--and it never ends.
I guess I am guilty of complaining, just like some of my colleagues, but you can leave me mid-rant, and if I walk out to go do what my colleagues are complaining about, I would be seen as in insensitive prick. I honestly believe I am not an insensitive prick, but I know I am impatient. Being held hostage in these meetings drains the energy I have, and I leave tired. Not the good tired after grading a stack of papers and the accomplishment I feel at having done so much, not the tired I feel after running and lifting, but the tired I feel after eating too much candy--something I know I should've avoided, even if I'm not sure how, and I'm not any better for it.
Little minds bitch. Mid-sized minds work. Big minds find a vision and follow it. I'm int he process of trading up. Wish me luck.

untitled

This is a little rougher than the others, but the same problem: I don't know what to do with it next. Any thoughts, please leave them.

Pencil

There’s some comfort with old
pencils, the flaked off
pieces of experience.
When I’m thinking and need to satisfy
an oral fetish, I’ll stick it in my mouth
like a bridle, feel how soft it is as I bite
down and hope I’ll be led to a brilliant pasture.

I don’t like the wonder than comes with white
plastic pens, hiding how much they have
to give. I can’t smooth away what’s unnecessary
with my pocket knife, or keep peeling away
layers of paper until I reach
the cardboard bottom: the end of my yellow
legal. I need a sketch of lead,
the primal scratching, rubbing
something out of existence,
and the exclusivity that only I know the truth.

untitled

This one came about from a writing assignment I did with my students, and I'm not sure what it needs next. I've changed it from second to first person, and have tried to tighten it up, but I don't know what needs to come next, or what needs to be done. If you have a prescription in mind, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

“… the sails of the schooner were filled
and it moved out into the open
lake, carrying with it everything…”

-Ernest Hemingway

Harbor Factory

The river is a thousand pieces
of broken glass, edges bent from breath
as it rolls through itself and back again.
The building above slouches back,
and I’m reminded of something,
a piece of a memory, a dream
I had long ago that I’m now too old to see.

Brick has been washed
by sun and weather until the white
marrow shows: a color I was never
meant to see, a reality no one should witness.
The windows hold nothing: shadows consume light
the same way streams of light punch holes in the dark.

Clouds have been unraveled
to haze weighing on everything: suppressing sight, shame
in giving perfect clarity to patient neglect.

As I stepped over
rock and brick, everything that crumbled
into this marsh where rings of pristine
white are stained to the sides of anything
that will wear them or their memories.

Curls of water brush sandpaper strokes
on loamy shores, making a wish-
wish sound. When the water stills,
the quiet moves to a ringing—my mind
would rather feel aching
over nothing.

The fragments left behind are stirred
by wind. Trash pirouettes before falling,
leaves blanketed with dirt
flap back and forth, waving
their goodbyes to no one.

The unending shadows
of lower floors’ carpet of water
seals secrets with a river
of silence: a depth added to the dark.

People are pushed away by a curtain
of black, allowing the dark to disappear
inside itself—like two evils
eating each other from the tail and growing
more wicked from their souls’ smoke.

I tell myself it’s supposed to be
this way, a truth too far away
to be real. I tell myself again,
hoping belief will come.

untitled 5

I think this one is my favorite. Please let me know what you think.

The film’s main character, an under-
achieving man, content living a life less
than what he should, all in the name
of not standing-out from his friends.
Ten years ago. Now I respond to everything
so differently—I wait. I wonder how,
what has changed so much?

Ten years ago, before I learned how to lie
with a woman, understand the beauty
of the naked body, how its more beautiful
with its flaws: stretch marks from child birth,
mysterious curved lines linking
mother to child;
car wrecks, flesh skipped across
asphalt, grading it like cheese, the scars licked
later in the dark.
****************My teenage relationships
were horror movies, minus gratuitous sex scenes.

At nineteen I was a different person,
not legal to drink, barely
legal to vote. I allowed myself too many
opportunities to dream of being in movies,
women lusting after me, my body, my careful watching
of everything I ate, and lifting
iron in the name of causing more women to sin
after my body. It rarely happened.
My she was unnamed, beautiful, an ending I never found.

In 1929, the stock market crashed,
investors hurled themselves out windows to the street,
their only passion lied in a head first
chasing of the sidewalk.
**********************Black Thursday,
when she lead me to the floor,
pressed her body against mine,
told me it wasn’t working for her.
I wanted to give her my innocence,
bring its swift death and adult experience.
She returned my toothbrush.

The difference between nineteen and twenty-nine
is less time, and more distance, one greater than the math
of ten years, measured with an enormous ruler I can’t see.

Three years ago, I watched carefully
the body beside me,
skin warming the sheets we shared,
how she trusted me enough to sleep
beside me, eyes closed, vulnerable, knowing
what I wouldn’t do.
We were the movie, the bed
a screen of what we hoped for.

Now my bed is has an occupancy of one.
A choice, a leap two years ago
I wasn’t able to make,
uncomfortable with my own company.
I still wish for a body
next to me, sharing something
different from nineteen, more simple
than sex, yet complex, some need I don’t understand.
Maybe in another ten years, maybe
never.

untitled 4

Four of five. Thanks for any comments, thoughts, opinions, reactions.

I met a Cyclops. I guess
the politically correct name would be monocles
or an alternate name that won’t conjure
images of offspring of Neptune and Amphitrite,
or some Titan of Zeus’ who forged thunder with his brothers.
He attempted to walk
casually to me. Jokes were offered,
returned. Every punch line,
mine and his, followed with a backhand
to my shoulder, a gesture bystanders
could’ve assumed was friendship,
men who care enough to hit each other.
He stood so close the hair
follicles on his skin-patch (it swept
over where his other eye would’ve been,
a reminder by the flesh of what he no longer had)
grabbed the light, and I saw the small hairs
that grew where his eye could not,
I told myself not to notice. I tried not to
stare at his eye and have him think
I was afraid to look anywhere else:
the concentrated brown of his iris,
how it was the same color throughout,
no change, just an irritating consistency
that gave me nothing to focus on or wonder about.
My ears caught his nasal tones,
saw what resembled plugs
in his nose, almost green, almost flesh,
not quite circular, something not unlike a new born would
have, some guard against the amniotic fluid. I wondered
do these help him in some way, slow his breathing
when they eyes of others will look at him…
the same way I do now. I wonder how long
I’ve been staring. I focused on his eye,
nodded and smiled when appropriate,
took in the sale signs that sprouted from trees
of clothes, and then realized that no one came
near us. It was our own private walkway,
a section of the store reserved for the strange
few will admit to watching.
Those who came near kept the same deliberate
pace as they routed around us, no eye contact from these
floor and rack watchers. I wasn’t sure why
it was me he wanted
to speak with, the flaws of balding,
soft colors from a faded shirt that suggested my ears would
hold his words longer than others,
or if he needed the control of my time
a piece he could place in his pocket and remember
normalcy for the rest of his day.

untitled 3

Yet another poem. Please address any concerns, reactions or thoughts you may have. Thanks.

In fields and backyards as a child, filled
with the angst that arrives
from an unseen beast with large claws, fangs
that drip drool and leap
from the unknown. It could attack me,
rip pieces of clothes, chunks
of flesh, baring the bone, perhaps
even tendons and ligaments, and me waving
arms like screaming streamers in a whipping
wind.
******My sister’s fear
of the unknown, some thing without
name or location for which to point,
but its malevolence as certain as the death she felt
approaching.
*************She, who believed
lake fish were carnivorous.

I still lie awake in the dark, but now
my thoughts are scarier: bankrupt
of significant others, my murderous
mouth leaving me alone;
my automobile inoperable beside a field
of stillness, the night sky thicker
than my frustration as I kneel and plead
before a man, name stitched where a heart isn’t.

Though my demons have changed,
appearing in my sleep, groping
the fears that make my soul sweat,
waking me in the dark, and I assure myself,
it was just a dream.

untitled 2

Another poem. Please address any concerns, thoughts, reactions to it. Thanks.

I remember it as the dragon
wine, vine taking root amidst
volcanic rock. I held it,
tried to convince my fellow tourists
I knew what I was doing:
swirl before a sniff, sip.
Closing my eyes
was the only thing I did well
among a community of amateur photographers
draped in dead
flowers.
I saw a dragon
behind my lids, crumbled rock
underfoot. His sky was purple
with green sun, mouth
spewing fire the same color I drank.
I opened my eyes, hoped to see
others sharing my image of magnificent
terror, but found an abundance of ambivalence.
I drank again and let my prehistoric myth
closer, glimpsed the gray
scales that protruded through an iridescent red flesh,
he, the Sultan of burned grapes.

I couldn’t buy a second,
broke after paying for a lei,
no ATMs on the volcano.
I later enjoyed embellishing between
each rewind, watching mercury fill the sky
like a fountain of fear
I must stare at, an apocalyptic curtain that will feed
on my marrow, and I’ll keep
rubbing away at my illusions
behind veiled lids until I am allowed passage,
to where I don’t belong, but need to be.

untitled

So, I've been feeling the creative juices lately, and have been revising and writing poems. I'm not sure what to do with them, so if you have any thoughts, concerns, things that need to be addressed, please post a comment here. I'm thick skinned, so no worries about hurting my feelings. Formatting seems to be an issue, so if you see this (*) it really is just spacing.
Here is the first one.

Sheets soft from time,
rolling over and over again, escaping whatever
dream I can’t run away from,
making them easier to lie on.
The way sun fades them, nibbling
at its color and I don’t notice
until it’s almost gone.
It’s less of a smell, more a flavor:
skin rubbed smooth, time, dust, a familiar thin
cold, absence.
*************Perfume,
cleaning products showered over every inch
interior, keeping the car from growing up
or changing: my mother’s.

My father’s car is filled with stale
coffee, airy aftershave, sweet
tobacco lifted into the ceiling, pale leather
lighting the dark of its insides.
It smells like someone too busy
to take care of himself.
In the back, a box of memories,
stale from time.

His baseball mitt, Mickey Mantle
imprinted on the palm, ball in Mick’s own mitt.
How many times
had my father held this, allowed his mind to burn fantasies
of making the catch, the one on this glove
where he is victorious? For a moment,
he forgets how much his father drinks,
how much his parents fight,
how short and poor he is, and how with this mitt,
complete with it’s smell, wrinkles of wear, nothing matters
other than his illusions
and what he can hold in his hands.