Finding the Poet Within at the Santa Cruz Art League, 526 Broadway, Santa Cruz. Six Thursday evenings, January 5, 12, 19, 26, and February 2 and 9, 2012 from 6:30 to 8:30 pm.
Appropriate for all levels. In this class the emphasis will be on writing new poems in a supportive workshop format. Reading a variety of published poets, we’ll explore the writing craft and generate new writing strategies. Participants will build skills to create a writing practice, uncover their unique voice, and own their story. We'll also work on revision and performance; and we'll make space for any ongoing writing projects. By focusing on what’s true in our poems, we will push past our perceived limits and achieve new dimensions within our work.
Cost: $145/125 for members of the Art League.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Wings, Emily Bording
Wings
Silence shivered
through the forest
and between my toes
staccato beat
of rubber soles
clopping over snow
a single droplet
slips under robes
and through the crack
Father said,
“Be like me”
Mother said,
“you were born free”
Roshi’s koan,
“Who were you
before
you were born?”
When parents spoke
I listened for
what was unsaid
Their gene pool
divided
into swimmers or sinkers
His strong teeth
given to me
like a zippered purse
Her strong will
pulled me
like an ox drawn cart
“Keep sitting, more zazen!”
snowman in the sun
“don’t waste time!”
Roshi’s wiry brows
quoting the silence
between his words
Roshi, mother, father
blowing out
as I breath in
Like the winds
that lift both wings
off the ground
Silence shivered
through the forest
and between my toes
staccato beat
of rubber soles
clopping over snow
a single droplet
slips under robes
and through the crack
Father said,
“Be like me”
Mother said,
“you were born free”
Roshi’s koan,
“Who were you
before
you were born?”
When parents spoke
I listened for
what was unsaid
Their gene pool
divided
into swimmers or sinkers
His strong teeth
given to me
like a zippered purse
Her strong will
pulled me
like an ox drawn cart
“Keep sitting, more zazen!”
snowman in the sun
“don’t waste time!”
Roshi’s wiry brows
quoting the silence
between his words
Roshi, mother, father
blowing out
as I breath in
Like the winds
that lift both wings
off the ground
Monday, November 7, 2011
25 Insights on Becoming a Better Writer
Check out this post from Daily Good at http://www.dailygood.org/more.php?n=4760
Place, by Sheila Siegel
Place, by Sheila Siegel
Youth and young womanhood
Spent in sunny Southern California
Lazy days, warm caressing air
Strolling, jogging on soft sand beaches
Jumping into the warm sea with
Joy and abandon to cool off
Hot skin turned a dark shade of brown every summer
Lithe, healthy body in a small bikini
This is the idealized pictures I remember
Forgetting the terrible traffic nightmares
The orange/brown smog so thick I cried for the need to inhale
Love prompted a move to the
Redwood forests of the Santa Cruz Mountains
Surrounded by a tall wall of green
Mornings sending thin tendrils of fog
Reaching in through the trees
Dappled sunlight, horses, goats
Wonderful bird song – is it a nightingale?
Wind sending a shower of yellow leaves
Flying across the yard in the fall
So beautiful and peaceful but disorienting
This was someone else’s life, or, perhaps, summer camp
All my friends and family still back in L.A.
I was lonely
Even with my new love to keep me warm on those cold nights
Then rain and more rain in the winters
Feeling cold and damp, mold growing in my shoes
Car drowned in a bottomless puddle
Prompting yet another move
Out of the mountains, down to the ocean
Back to the seashore
The waves crashing
The sun sparkling diamonds on the water
Pelicans, otters, seals, surfers
A new community
Water not as warm for splashing in
Body not as lithe and healthy
As in my Southern California days
But familiar and comfortable surroundings
That feel like home to me
Youth and young womanhood
Spent in sunny Southern California
Lazy days, warm caressing air
Strolling, jogging on soft sand beaches
Jumping into the warm sea with
Joy and abandon to cool off
Hot skin turned a dark shade of brown every summer
Lithe, healthy body in a small bikini
This is the idealized pictures I remember
Forgetting the terrible traffic nightmares
The orange/brown smog so thick I cried for the need to inhale
Love prompted a move to the
Redwood forests of the Santa Cruz Mountains
Surrounded by a tall wall of green
Mornings sending thin tendrils of fog
Reaching in through the trees
Dappled sunlight, horses, goats
Wonderful bird song – is it a nightingale?
Wind sending a shower of yellow leaves
Flying across the yard in the fall
So beautiful and peaceful but disorienting
This was someone else’s life, or, perhaps, summer camp
All my friends and family still back in L.A.
I was lonely
Even with my new love to keep me warm on those cold nights
Then rain and more rain in the winters
Feeling cold and damp, mold growing in my shoes
Car drowned in a bottomless puddle
Prompting yet another move
Out of the mountains, down to the ocean
Back to the seashore
The waves crashing
The sun sparkling diamonds on the water
Pelicans, otters, seals, surfers
A new community
Water not as warm for splashing in
Body not as lithe and healthy
As in my Southern California days
But familiar and comfortable surroundings
That feel like home to me
Easy Answer by Jerilyn Kass
Easy Answer, by Jerilyn Kass
On those mornings when knowing what to wear to school seemed a problem too hard to conquer
I’d call down to my mother,
“What should I wear?”
“Pants and a shirt” was her inevitable reply.
I am a child of the easy answer.
On Sunday mornings, my sister and I piled on my parents’ bed,
Dad testing us on definitions of words in the newspaper.
I am a child of literacy.
My sister and I spent what seemed like hours
Nominating and voting and analyzing names for our stuffed animals and dolls
I am a child of process.
I spent hours putting together jigsaw puzzles
Like San Francisco at night
All bridges and lights
I am a child of synthesis.
I said my first curse at eight years old
And still haven’t stopped and
Irreverent religious jokes still make me laugh.
I am a child of frustration.
I came home after getting fired from my job
To find Dad carrying Mom down the stairs
After she overdosed- she didn’t die like her father did.
I am a child of suicide.
I frustrate at the easy answer
Synthesize broken pieces
Adore just the right words
Make room for the process
And kill the dove of peace in my heart
On those mornings when knowing what to wear to school seemed a problem too hard to conquer
I’d call down to my mother,
“What should I wear?”
“Pants and a shirt” was her inevitable reply.
I am a child of the easy answer.
On Sunday mornings, my sister and I piled on my parents’ bed,
Dad testing us on definitions of words in the newspaper.
I am a child of literacy.
My sister and I spent what seemed like hours
Nominating and voting and analyzing names for our stuffed animals and dolls
I am a child of process.
I spent hours putting together jigsaw puzzles
Like San Francisco at night
All bridges and lights
I am a child of synthesis.
I said my first curse at eight years old
And still haven’t stopped and
Irreverent religious jokes still make me laugh.
I am a child of frustration.
I came home after getting fired from my job
To find Dad carrying Mom down the stairs
After she overdosed- she didn’t die like her father did.
I am a child of suicide.
I frustrate at the easy answer
Synthesize broken pieces
Adore just the right words
Make room for the process
And kill the dove of peace in my heart
Monday, October 17, 2011
Unwelcome Attention by Pamela Papas
Unwelcome Attention
The fan in the living room
Oscillates loudly
As I sit
Left knee swollen up on a pillow
On the sofa
Trying to read, get comfortable
Hard to bounce up
And walk, or drive or run to the telephone
The first of three knee surgeries
Each one with many stitches
Many weeks on crutches
Those hated ugly walking sticks
Useful only as partial help
Useful only in attracting stupid questions
How did you do that? What happened?
Tired of repeating the same silly story
Of my own clumsiness
In a sociable tone of voice
I’d rather pour a pot
Of hot chocolate on
Someone’s head
Let it trickle slowly
Onto their hair
Then onto their shirt (or blouse)
Hands, pants, shoes
I silently limp away
Crutches making their
Squish noise
On the tile floor.
Pamela Papas
Oct. 2011
The fan in the living room
Oscillates loudly
As I sit
Left knee swollen up on a pillow
On the sofa
Trying to read, get comfortable
Hard to bounce up
And walk, or drive or run to the telephone
The first of three knee surgeries
Each one with many stitches
Many weeks on crutches
Those hated ugly walking sticks
Useful only as partial help
Useful only in attracting stupid questions
How did you do that? What happened?
Tired of repeating the same silly story
Of my own clumsiness
In a sociable tone of voice
I’d rather pour a pot
Of hot chocolate on
Someone’s head
Let it trickle slowly
Onto their hair
Then onto their shirt (or blouse)
Hands, pants, shoes
I silently limp away
Crutches making their
Squish noise
On the tile floor.
Pamela Papas
Oct. 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Bottom Dwelling by Pamela Papas
Bottom Dwelling events of my life
Parents arguing
Me in back seat of the car
Alone
Stop bickering please
Even at this age it’s bad
Am dropped off at the airport terminal
Their voices acrimonious still in my head.
I am 49 years old now, old enough to…..what?
Not let it bother me?
Be able to maintain serenity in the midst of constant family quarrels and chaos?
I walk to Southwest airlines
Oh, I should mention I had flown to see my parents shortly after 9-11
Shortly after a massive layoff
Shortly after a bizarre school reunion
No matter
I walk to Southwest airlines gate to fly back to San Francisco
I get in line, wait
A male flight attendant tells me “you’re in the wrong line, you’ll have to get in that one”
He points to my right, a line that snakes forever.
Something snaps
I dive under the rope, and tell him to his face “Fuck you”
And tromp down to board the plane
Almost get inside
When men, five, six of them,
Yell at me to step back
They’ll call the police
Where’s my ID
Tall big men surrounding me
Yelling
I am not allowed on the plane
My luggage leaves without me
I’m to catch the next plane as punishment.
I go to another gate. Sit down. Begin to cry
“Are you alright?” a lovely Indian woman next to me asks.
Words are insufficient. All my life I’ve swallowed my rage, anger
And now when I do assert myself
It’s at an airport
In front of strangers
Shortly after 9-11
Brilliant
What was I thinking?
Other bottom dwelling events in my life…
Took a statewide licensing exam – numerous times – to fail by a hair
I didn’t want to work in that profession anyway
But beat that dead horse was all I was capable of
At the time
Family pressure does that
Just moved to a new place – the San Francisco Bay Area
To start a new life with a new job
Four months into the job there is an accident at work
Someone’s dog clips me
My kneecap breaks, I fall down.
You know, writing about hitting bottom, I think I don’t want to do this
Why?
“Smile” says our American culture
“The past is ashes” say the self-help gurus on the Huffington Post
“Who gives a rat’s ass?” say the late night comedians.
So why do I listen to them? Fear, I think.
Deep down, inside out fear. Black, it’s just black down there
Maybe drop down and pretend I’m Alice in Wonderland a big black hole, the Mad Hatter, the Unbirthday party, the Cheshire cat.
Couped in a hotel room with my mother in Chicago
for a cousin’s wedding
After three days I fly back to San Francisco, climb down from the plane and cry nonstop for one day? Two? I can’t remember.
The worst kind of jail, that, sharing a hotel room with my mother.
Pamela Papas, September 2011
Parents arguing
Me in back seat of the car
Alone
Stop bickering please
Even at this age it’s bad
Am dropped off at the airport terminal
Their voices acrimonious still in my head.
I am 49 years old now, old enough to…..what?
Not let it bother me?
Be able to maintain serenity in the midst of constant family quarrels and chaos?
I walk to Southwest airlines
Oh, I should mention I had flown to see my parents shortly after 9-11
Shortly after a massive layoff
Shortly after a bizarre school reunion
No matter
I walk to Southwest airlines gate to fly back to San Francisco
I get in line, wait
A male flight attendant tells me “you’re in the wrong line, you’ll have to get in that one”
He points to my right, a line that snakes forever.
Something snaps
I dive under the rope, and tell him to his face “Fuck you”
And tromp down to board the plane
Almost get inside
When men, five, six of them,
Yell at me to step back
They’ll call the police
Where’s my ID
Tall big men surrounding me
Yelling
I am not allowed on the plane
My luggage leaves without me
I’m to catch the next plane as punishment.
I go to another gate. Sit down. Begin to cry
“Are you alright?” a lovely Indian woman next to me asks.
Words are insufficient. All my life I’ve swallowed my rage, anger
And now when I do assert myself
It’s at an airport
In front of strangers
Shortly after 9-11
Brilliant
What was I thinking?
Other bottom dwelling events in my life…
Took a statewide licensing exam – numerous times – to fail by a hair
I didn’t want to work in that profession anyway
But beat that dead horse was all I was capable of
At the time
Family pressure does that
Just moved to a new place – the San Francisco Bay Area
To start a new life with a new job
Four months into the job there is an accident at work
Someone’s dog clips me
My kneecap breaks, I fall down.
You know, writing about hitting bottom, I think I don’t want to do this
Why?
“Smile” says our American culture
“The past is ashes” say the self-help gurus on the Huffington Post
“Who gives a rat’s ass?” say the late night comedians.
So why do I listen to them? Fear, I think.
Deep down, inside out fear. Black, it’s just black down there
Maybe drop down and pretend I’m Alice in Wonderland a big black hole, the Mad Hatter, the Unbirthday party, the Cheshire cat.
Couped in a hotel room with my mother in Chicago
for a cousin’s wedding
After three days I fly back to San Francisco, climb down from the plane and cry nonstop for one day? Two? I can’t remember.
The worst kind of jail, that, sharing a hotel room with my mother.
Pamela Papas, September 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Poetry and the Power of Forgiveness
Writing Our Way to Forgiveness at the Capitola Book Café: Friday mornings in October
We all struggle with how to forgive, and we all have many transgressions to get over! During these workshops, we will use writing practice to inquire as to the nature of forgiveness, and the possibility of achieving forgiveness in our lives. Reflecting on the words of poets such as Thich Nhat Hanh, Rumi, Sharon Olds, and other prestigious authors, we will write our way to the freedom of reconciliation. Drop in on any or all of these writing groups to go deeper in your writing and in your life.
Workshops will be held on Friday mornings: October 7, 14, 21, and 28, from 9:30–11:00 a.m. Cost is $15.00 per workshop ($10 to Magdalena and $5 to Book Café). Please register at front desk prior to the workshop.
We all struggle with how to forgive, and we all have many transgressions to get over! During these workshops, we will use writing practice to inquire as to the nature of forgiveness, and the possibility of achieving forgiveness in our lives. Reflecting on the words of poets such as Thich Nhat Hanh, Rumi, Sharon Olds, and other prestigious authors, we will write our way to the freedom of reconciliation. Drop in on any or all of these writing groups to go deeper in your writing and in your life.
Workshops will be held on Friday mornings: October 7, 14, 21, and 28, from 9:30–11:00 a.m. Cost is $15.00 per workshop ($10 to Magdalena and $5 to Book Café). Please register at front desk prior to the workshop.
Finding the Poet Within
At the Watsonville Community Hospital’s Senior Circle room from 2-4:00 p.m.
It’s free and fun…and you will leave with a new poem! For those who are fifty years of age or better...
Location: 75 Nielson Street, Watsonville. From Santa Cruz, take Highway 1 south to Airport Blvd.
It’s free and fun…and you will leave with a new poem! For those who are fifty years of age or better...
Location: 75 Nielson Street, Watsonville. From Santa Cruz, take Highway 1 south to Airport Blvd.
Community Poetry Circle
Saturday, October 1, Santa Cruz Public Library, downtown, central branch, from 10:00-12:00 noon in the small conference room downstairs…FREE!
Libraries!
A letter to the editor I wrote...don't know if it will be published...wanted to share it here:
I’m writing in response to a letter to the editor in the Sunday, September 18 edition of the Santa Cruz Sentinel. I would like to answer the question for the individual who asks, “Is it necessary to have so many library branches?” The author of that letter cites fiscal concerns for closing libraries — giving the example of potential duplication of services as a reason.
First of all, I would point out that a library is not just a physical structure for housing books and other printed materials. Today, more than ever, a library is a boon (and a blessing) for any community, regardless of the size of its population.
One of the crucial reasons for the existence of a library is to serve as a way to bring communities together. Libraries offer services such as classes for seniors, storytime for tots, poetry writing for all ages, tax forms and preparation — to name a few — usually at no cost to patrons. And in this increasingly technological age, a local library helps to bridge the digital divide by providing those without personal computers access to the Internet.
Further, libraries are a safe place for children. After school they can head to the local library to do homework or just read. I remember well, as a child, the excitement of discovery that going to the local library held; the freedom to explore ideas, uncensored. I still remember getting my first library card.
I’ll repeat: libraries bring communities together. And a strong community is perhaps one of the most important foundations for a safe and sane society. Certainly it is obvious that libraries support the education of minds of all ages. And an educated populace is surely an investment we must make.
I’m writing in response to a letter to the editor in the Sunday, September 18 edition of the Santa Cruz Sentinel. I would like to answer the question for the individual who asks, “Is it necessary to have so many library branches?” The author of that letter cites fiscal concerns for closing libraries — giving the example of potential duplication of services as a reason.
First of all, I would point out that a library is not just a physical structure for housing books and other printed materials. Today, more than ever, a library is a boon (and a blessing) for any community, regardless of the size of its population.
One of the crucial reasons for the existence of a library is to serve as a way to bring communities together. Libraries offer services such as classes for seniors, storytime for tots, poetry writing for all ages, tax forms and preparation — to name a few — usually at no cost to patrons. And in this increasingly technological age, a local library helps to bridge the digital divide by providing those without personal computers access to the Internet.
Further, libraries are a safe place for children. After school they can head to the local library to do homework or just read. I remember well, as a child, the excitement of discovery that going to the local library held; the freedom to explore ideas, uncensored. I still remember getting my first library card.
I’ll repeat: libraries bring communities together. And a strong community is perhaps one of the most important foundations for a safe and sane society. Certainly it is obvious that libraries support the education of minds of all ages. And an educated populace is surely an investment we must make.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Poetry, Courting the Muse, and the Power of the Circle
What is the mysterious process by which one writes a poem? As we write, how do we uncover what is true, chipping away at all the other voices that may seem authentic, but might not be? It takes a certain amount of courage to believe that what we have to say is important. Perhaps we might need some support with this.
One of the strategies that I have discovered in my writing career is the power of writing with others. It seems illogical, but the best poems have usually come as I sit beside another individual (sometimes this is someone I consider a friend, oftentimes a stranger) in a circle, with others across from me… and the only sounds are the breathing in and out, and the stroking of pens on paper.
In thinking about the circle, Jung’s mandala comes to mind. Representing the wholeness of the Self, the mandala is a cosmic diagram reminding us of our relationship to the infinite, a plane that includes both our bodies and minds and what is beyond our physicality. The mandala describes both material and nonmaterial realities— the celestial circles of the earth, sun, and moon, as well as abstract circles of friends, family, and community.
So it is in this community, that full expression of our selves can be given. But in entrusting our words to others, care must be taken. That is why it’s necessary for a skilled facilitator to create a sacred space. As an experienced poetry teacher, I believe in the innate truth that each individual holds. And I believe that every time anyone sits down to write a poem we are all absolute beginners (what Zen practitioners call “beginner’s mind”) while at the same time we are an amalgamation of all that we have lived.
There is a palpable feeling of safety and comfort in the circle; we are all equal to the task of writing, and everyone is free to tell their story. This makes it easy and fun, as well as poignant and profound. Still a mystery — but the muse has come, once again, the poems are written.
It is said by Tibetan Buddhists that a mandala consists of five "excellencies" —the teacher, the message the audience, the site, and the time. The writing circle contains each of these elements and is always an inspiring and affirming event.
One of the strategies that I have discovered in my writing career is the power of writing with others. It seems illogical, but the best poems have usually come as I sit beside another individual (sometimes this is someone I consider a friend, oftentimes a stranger) in a circle, with others across from me… and the only sounds are the breathing in and out, and the stroking of pens on paper.
In thinking about the circle, Jung’s mandala comes to mind. Representing the wholeness of the Self, the mandala is a cosmic diagram reminding us of our relationship to the infinite, a plane that includes both our bodies and minds and what is beyond our physicality. The mandala describes both material and nonmaterial realities— the celestial circles of the earth, sun, and moon, as well as abstract circles of friends, family, and community.
So it is in this community, that full expression of our selves can be given. But in entrusting our words to others, care must be taken. That is why it’s necessary for a skilled facilitator to create a sacred space. As an experienced poetry teacher, I believe in the innate truth that each individual holds. And I believe that every time anyone sits down to write a poem we are all absolute beginners (what Zen practitioners call “beginner’s mind”) while at the same time we are an amalgamation of all that we have lived.
There is a palpable feeling of safety and comfort in the circle; we are all equal to the task of writing, and everyone is free to tell their story. This makes it easy and fun, as well as poignant and profound. Still a mystery — but the muse has come, once again, the poems are written.
It is said by Tibetan Buddhists that a mandala consists of five "excellencies" —the teacher, the message the audience, the site, and the time. The writing circle contains each of these elements and is always an inspiring and affirming event.
Capitola Writing Group
Join the Magdalena's Muse Writing Group at the Capitola Book Café on Friday, September 23 from 7-9 p.m. We'll write new works in a supportive and creative environment. This on-going group welcomes newcomers and drop-ins. All levels and ages are encouraged. Call Magdalena at 831-252- 5776 for more information or e-mail her at magdarose@hughes.net.
Cost: $5 to Capitola Book Café and $5 to Magdalena to participate, please.
Cost: $5 to Capitola Book Café and $5 to Magdalena to participate, please.
Poetry at Santa Cruz Art League
The Art League is starting a new poetry series on the 3rd Wednesday of every month, starting Wednesday, September 21 in the Art League Theater. It's called Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts, hosted by Editor Daniel Yaryan. There will be 6 featured (published) poets each night, followed by an Open Mic (sign up at 6:30pm) There is a $5 donation to pay for the poetry anthology in which these poets will be published. The Gallery will be open, there will be wine (more donations), and a great time will be had by all.
526 Broadway,Santa Cruz.
Website:
http://www.scal.org/
526 Broadway,Santa Cruz.
Website:
http://www.scal.org/
Slope by Jerilyn Kass
Slope
Your sloped shoulders
Are the long ride down
I took starting at fourteen
Longing to take a ride of my own making
But not knowing it until I saw those slopy cliffs
Off which my descent would last and last
Your love was a ride down a road
Bumpy from the potholes which shook my brain
It took me to another land
Where the language was strange
The rules so incomprehensible
They engulfed me
And when I came back home for visits
My first language had become unfamiliar
I could not even look at my own family
For the shutters over my eyes
Blocked their sunlight from my broken windows
The doors I’d opened to my own humiliation
Closed those to real love
The way I’d given myself away
Was too much a secret
To share with my old familiars
I was the paper you ripped
But I gave you my fibers
How do you tell your mother where you’ve been
When you have no idea yourself
When there are no words because you don’t yet speak this new language
And there are no tears because you’re still dizzy from the spinning
And there are no hugs because the fine spray of paper fibers,
Which were once a smooth sheet of parchment
On which to scribe life’s joys and mysteries and pain,
Might seem to bridge the distance between my familiars and me
But really crash like trucks into my chest
I see you but I can’t reach you
I hate you but I need you
I miss you now like I’ve missed you my whole life
This is a child’s pain
But I am still a child
Even though I’m forty-six
And your memory is waning
You are my mother
And I’ve needed you
In a way I could never have you
And you’ve needed me
In a way I couldn’t give
And here we stand
A country apart
Each in our longing
What have we not said?
Will those words pass our lips
Before you pass?
I hold the burden
Of ruining our family
There were secrets before mine
Pains cradled like a child born but not revealed
Mine wasn’t the first
But its effects still linger
Linger finger finger me for blame lame leg shoot me dead
Dead head the flowers so new blue true ones will grow grown groan grow
Up would you grow up already steady now don’t ruin it
Ruin ruin rue in true in truant where are you where did you go
What is true in being truant what to rue
Should I rue what is true
Truth in ruin
Truth in ruin
What is ruin anyway
But the cracking open of a foundation
Weak with hidden portraits of grief and glory
Unfulfilled dreams and unanswered prayers
What is ruin
But our bedeviled skin
Turned to mounds of ash
That, in turn, hide the jewelled heart
Your sloped shoulders
Are the long ride down
I took starting at fourteen
Longing to take a ride of my own making
But not knowing it until I saw those slopy cliffs
Off which my descent would last and last
Your love was a ride down a road
Bumpy from the potholes which shook my brain
It took me to another land
Where the language was strange
The rules so incomprehensible
They engulfed me
And when I came back home for visits
My first language had become unfamiliar
I could not even look at my own family
For the shutters over my eyes
Blocked their sunlight from my broken windows
The doors I’d opened to my own humiliation
Closed those to real love
The way I’d given myself away
Was too much a secret
To share with my old familiars
I was the paper you ripped
But I gave you my fibers
How do you tell your mother where you’ve been
When you have no idea yourself
When there are no words because you don’t yet speak this new language
And there are no tears because you’re still dizzy from the spinning
And there are no hugs because the fine spray of paper fibers,
Which were once a smooth sheet of parchment
On which to scribe life’s joys and mysteries and pain,
Might seem to bridge the distance between my familiars and me
But really crash like trucks into my chest
I see you but I can’t reach you
I hate you but I need you
I miss you now like I’ve missed you my whole life
This is a child’s pain
But I am still a child
Even though I’m forty-six
And your memory is waning
You are my mother
And I’ve needed you
In a way I could never have you
And you’ve needed me
In a way I couldn’t give
And here we stand
A country apart
Each in our longing
What have we not said?
Will those words pass our lips
Before you pass?
I hold the burden
Of ruining our family
There were secrets before mine
Pains cradled like a child born but not revealed
Mine wasn’t the first
But its effects still linger
Linger finger finger me for blame lame leg shoot me dead
Dead head the flowers so new blue true ones will grow grown groan grow
Up would you grow up already steady now don’t ruin it
Ruin ruin rue in true in truant where are you where did you go
What is true in being truant what to rue
Should I rue what is true
Truth in ruin
Truth in ruin
What is ruin anyway
But the cracking open of a foundation
Weak with hidden portraits of grief and glory
Unfulfilled dreams and unanswered prayers
What is ruin
But our bedeviled skin
Turned to mounds of ash
That, in turn, hide the jewelled heart
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Community Poetry Circle
Community Poetry Circle. Free! In the circle we’ll write new works in a supportive and fun environment. All levels and ages are encouraged. Saturday, September 17, 10 am to 12 noon at the central branch of the Santa Cruz Public Library, 224 Church St., downtown Santa Cruz, in the small meeting room, downstairs (behind the reference desk)...See you there!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sharon Olds
Here's a lovely interview with Sharon Olds on poets.org:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21435
I particularly like how she mentions Curious George...must be my daughter's influence...and stickers too!
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21435
I particularly like how she mentions Curious George...must be my daughter's influence...and stickers too!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Poetry at Watsonville Community Hospital
Finding the Poet Within at the Watsonville Community Hospital, 75 Nielson Street, Watsonville (part of the Senior Circle classes). Tuesday, September 6, from 2 to 4 pm. Free!
If you are fifty years of age or better, or know someone who fits this description and would like to write poetry in a safe and supportive environment, please forward this information along!
And I know, “hospital” might sound like a cold and sterile place to write poetry…not so! If you haven’t attended one of these classes yet, you will be pleasantly surprised… the room is really quite beautiful…with a lovely painted mural that covers an entire wall, plush carpet, and cozy couch!
If you are fifty years of age or better, or know someone who fits this description and would like to write poetry in a safe and supportive environment, please forward this information along!
And I know, “hospital” might sound like a cold and sterile place to write poetry…not so! If you haven’t attended one of these classes yet, you will be pleasantly surprised… the room is really quite beautiful…with a lovely painted mural that covers an entire wall, plush carpet, and cozy couch!
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Brian Bielefeld's String Figures Poem
String Figures
what do you do when you want to learn something
and there is no one to teach you?
I remember from the grainy shadows of my youth
two girls passing a string back and forth
a string formed in changing patterns, cat’s cradle.
the cavernous anthropology section of the university library
row upon row, stack upon stack
I run my finger along the book bindings
not looking down I stumble
reach out for support
grab a book as I fall
“Aboriginal String Figures and How to Make Them”
That book became my teacher
I tie a length of string together
and go through page by page
“Jacob’s Ladder”
“Apache Door”
“Many Stars”
Follow the words
do opening “A”
step one
step two
drop the string off the little finger
insert the thumb
now do a Navajo Leap
So easy, but then I get to step five and I have to turn the page
I look at the book
then at my hands
the tangle of string trying to make a getaway
open my mouth
stick out my tongue
and go onto step six.
what do you do when you want to learn something
and there is no one to teach you?
I remember from the grainy shadows of my youth
two girls passing a string back and forth
a string formed in changing patterns, cat’s cradle.
the cavernous anthropology section of the university library
row upon row, stack upon stack
I run my finger along the book bindings
not looking down I stumble
reach out for support
grab a book as I fall
“Aboriginal String Figures and How to Make Them”
That book became my teacher
I tie a length of string together
and go through page by page
“Jacob’s Ladder”
“Apache Door”
“Many Stars”
Follow the words
do opening “A”
step one
step two
drop the string off the little finger
insert the thumb
now do a Navajo Leap
So easy, but then I get to step five and I have to turn the page
I look at the book
then at my hands
the tangle of string trying to make a getaway
open my mouth
stick out my tongue
and go onto step six.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Agnus Dei, Magdalena Montagne, June 10, 2011
Agnus Dei
My mother taught me fear
which began on Sundays, the first day, in the Church.
Agnus Dei, Lamb of God.
A forbidding Father we could never lose.
No place unseen. Unheard.
Still as tears after falling.
Agnus Dei, she would implore.
Take away all sin.
But worse than sin,
there were bridges
and cars and trains.
Escalators and elevators
that could take her children
all the way to the top
of the Empire State Building.
Trolley cars in San Francisco
Buses out of Newark, New Jersey
Subways under Manhattan.
But worse than bridges,
there were boys.
Boys who would become men.
Boys like our father,
who would grow to despoil us.
Agnus Dei, she would mutter
as she saw our own father
enter my sister’s room nightly.
And I,
left to consider fragments of Italian stardust
found relief
from swelter of heat
and passion
the godliness of chaos
a disordered universe
I stretched to see
the cold night sky
from my window
wild, inexplicable.
Both darkened by night
and illuminated.
My mother taught me fear
which began on Sundays, the first day, in the Church.
Agnus Dei, Lamb of God.
A forbidding Father we could never lose.
No place unseen. Unheard.
Still as tears after falling.
Agnus Dei, she would implore.
Take away all sin.
But worse than sin,
there were bridges
and cars and trains.
Escalators and elevators
that could take her children
all the way to the top
of the Empire State Building.
Trolley cars in San Francisco
Buses out of Newark, New Jersey
Subways under Manhattan.
But worse than bridges,
there were boys.
Boys who would become men.
Boys like our father,
who would grow to despoil us.
Agnus Dei, she would mutter
as she saw our own father
enter my sister’s room nightly.
And I,
left to consider fragments of Italian stardust
found relief
from swelter of heat
and passion
the godliness of chaos
a disordered universe
I stretched to see
the cold night sky
from my window
wild, inexplicable.
Both darkened by night
and illuminated.
Three Bowl Club, Emily Bording
Karin’s hair curled every which way. Winsome loops escaped every attempt her barrettes made to hold them captive. They strayed casually like a spring stream flowing beyond it’s banks. She stood before the stove and whisked the fragrant onions in a shallow pool of buttery oil. Intermittently, she instructed Anne & I with her musical voice, “We do not fry, we braise the onions.” This was our first time at Karin’s Three-Bowl Club. Anne & I watched and listened and even helped Karin to prepare a meal designed for the Orioki bowl set. The gems on the clip above her ear sparkled from the steam that rose from the pot.
Karin’s delectable accent made my ears twist then turn to sort the familiar from the foreign. I felt like such a klutz whenever my brain failed to grasp her message. Maybe it was her dialect or maybe it was the speed and enthusiasm that swept through each sentence. Either way, Karin seemed to have an endless reservoir of patience for my requests to repeat herself.
Stirring three pots simultaneously then disclosing, “Normally, I would add a broth to the pea soup, but since Anne is gluten sensitive I will just add water and more salt”. Karin read the tiny Japanese characters on the ingredients label of the package of Yuki shio (snow-salt) pastries. Since it contained some rye flour, Anne chose to nosh on sliced pears and roasted nuts instead.
Anne arranged three bowls in order of size for each place setting. The largest one on the far left is called the Buddha Bowl and the smallest on the far right is called the third bowl. Karin cooked a hearty risotto for the Buddha bowl. She stewed it in garlic, lemon and broth then garnished it with basil. Later she informed us that shitakes have a small amount of protein. The dried mushrooms were soaked in water then stir-fried with Chinese broccoli and her prized home grown kale. She covered the pan and set it aside to be used later for the third bowl.
Karin wiped her hands on her worn jeans, offered us her reassuring smile then announced, “I’ll be right back!”. She dashed out the kitchen door without an apron or a sweater and headed for Jikoji’s hilltop garden. She pushed open the squeaky wooden gate, shooed the clucking chickens away from the kale, then snipped a bunch of bright green chives.
In the mean time, Anne and I commented on the colorful ranunculus flowers in the vase on the table. She chopped carrots and I nibbled on nuts. Karin soon returned acknowledging how much she enjoys cooking with fresh foods from the garden. The pockets of her blue jeans were stuffed with chives. Long thin stems bent over her pockets just like the the hair that overflowed from the barrette on the back of her head. She thanked Anne for doing such a nice job cutting the veggies on a diagonal. After scooping up the bright carrot chunks, she boiled them with the buttery onions and salty water.
Karin peeked into the pot and sniffed the soup while it boiled. She was pleased with the scent and continued to add sprinkles of salt. “It’s time to blend!” she announced. The powerful pulse of the churning motor whipped and tossed the carrots into a smooth puree. The last ingredient added was a package of thawed peas. The three of us watched the colors in the glass pitcher change from bright orange to vivid green.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It had never occurred to me to simply thaw a package of frozen peas so that in only minutes I would be enjoying a scrumptious soup. In my mind, pea soup was served only after soaking rock hard peas all day, coaxing them to relax with comforting lullabies, boiling them for hours, then letting them soak long into the night . Even then, there were those few stubborn peas that refused to give up their armor making it necessary for me to strain, mash and murmur tasteless words.
It took less then ten or fifteen minutes of prep before Anne and I were asked to sample the soup. To our surprise it was rich with flavor. The onions merged into the creamy texture as the salty surface offset the buttery bottom. This was the most satisfying pea soup either of us ever tasted. Karin cradled the steaming pot on one hip. She didn’t bother with pot holders claiming, “My hands are used to heat!” While ladling pea soup, first one guest arrived then another an another. Passers by must have been compelled by the tantalizing aromas broadcasting Karin’s culinary craft. Karin searched the cupboards for more bowls.
The table was soon covered with over 21 bowls. Karin served all six guests generously. Delicate green pea soup was poured into the second bowl. She added a dollop of creamy white coconut milk into it’s bright green center, sprinkled chives on top, then topped it off with a single round pea for texture. She also prepared miso soup as an alternate for second bowl. After everyone was served we offered a short Japanese prayer, then bowed before our three bowls filled with just enough.
The following week I felt all abuzz with Karin’s contagious creativity. I decided to offer my husband and daughter her seemingly effortless pea soup. Carrots spilled into the pot from the cutting board like marbles off a tilted tray. With shear pleasure, I emptied a package of peas into the blender. I gave it a spin then I dipped my spoon in search of that distinct favor. The one flavor that would turn my attention inward, the way a grape is drawn in toward its own sweetness. I kept searching all the way until dinnertime. Despite my failed attempts to find “it”, I felt confident that my family would appreciate my soup.
The day was just as cold, the frozen peas were just as thawed, the carrots just as orange and the chives just as fresh, yet something about the color just didn’t seem right. I assured myself that looks were deceiving and picked up the pot with my bare hands, ”Ouch!”. Instantly, I grabbed the stained potholders off the hook and served the pea soup.
After one swallow my husband and daughter cocked their heads, looked sideways at each other, and twisted up their faces . Something was missing I thought. “Maybe it needs a little more salt”, I suggested. They both decided a bowl of rice was more then enough.
Now I realize that even the simplest recipe can stump a cook. Despite the fact that I followed explicit instructions, my pea soup was no match for Karin’s. A ancient ingredient must have dropped from the aged redwood rafters and into her soup. Perhaps a chill wind carrying a secret season from fields far away, slipped through the kitchen door, a hiccup spewed a spice overboard from a neighboring pot and into her deep green peas. More likely a subtle element gets birthed the moment the cook heats the kitchen, the guest meets the bowl, the tongue reaps what’s been sown. An element that’s too elusive to be measured by spoon, cup, or even a smart meter. No matter how it manifests, it’s not the ingredients, the recipe, nor the ease of it’s repetition that satisfies, but the way it invites us to simmer in it’s mysteries.
Karin’s delectable accent made my ears twist then turn to sort the familiar from the foreign. I felt like such a klutz whenever my brain failed to grasp her message. Maybe it was her dialect or maybe it was the speed and enthusiasm that swept through each sentence. Either way, Karin seemed to have an endless reservoir of patience for my requests to repeat herself.
Stirring three pots simultaneously then disclosing, “Normally, I would add a broth to the pea soup, but since Anne is gluten sensitive I will just add water and more salt”. Karin read the tiny Japanese characters on the ingredients label of the package of Yuki shio (snow-salt) pastries. Since it contained some rye flour, Anne chose to nosh on sliced pears and roasted nuts instead.
Anne arranged three bowls in order of size for each place setting. The largest one on the far left is called the Buddha Bowl and the smallest on the far right is called the third bowl. Karin cooked a hearty risotto for the Buddha bowl. She stewed it in garlic, lemon and broth then garnished it with basil. Later she informed us that shitakes have a small amount of protein. The dried mushrooms were soaked in water then stir-fried with Chinese broccoli and her prized home grown kale. She covered the pan and set it aside to be used later for the third bowl.
Karin wiped her hands on her worn jeans, offered us her reassuring smile then announced, “I’ll be right back!”. She dashed out the kitchen door without an apron or a sweater and headed for Jikoji’s hilltop garden. She pushed open the squeaky wooden gate, shooed the clucking chickens away from the kale, then snipped a bunch of bright green chives.
In the mean time, Anne and I commented on the colorful ranunculus flowers in the vase on the table. She chopped carrots and I nibbled on nuts. Karin soon returned acknowledging how much she enjoys cooking with fresh foods from the garden. The pockets of her blue jeans were stuffed with chives. Long thin stems bent over her pockets just like the the hair that overflowed from the barrette on the back of her head. She thanked Anne for doing such a nice job cutting the veggies on a diagonal. After scooping up the bright carrot chunks, she boiled them with the buttery onions and salty water.
Karin peeked into the pot and sniffed the soup while it boiled. She was pleased with the scent and continued to add sprinkles of salt. “It’s time to blend!” she announced. The powerful pulse of the churning motor whipped and tossed the carrots into a smooth puree. The last ingredient added was a package of thawed peas. The three of us watched the colors in the glass pitcher change from bright orange to vivid green.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It had never occurred to me to simply thaw a package of frozen peas so that in only minutes I would be enjoying a scrumptious soup. In my mind, pea soup was served only after soaking rock hard peas all day, coaxing them to relax with comforting lullabies, boiling them for hours, then letting them soak long into the night . Even then, there were those few stubborn peas that refused to give up their armor making it necessary for me to strain, mash and murmur tasteless words.
It took less then ten or fifteen minutes of prep before Anne and I were asked to sample the soup. To our surprise it was rich with flavor. The onions merged into the creamy texture as the salty surface offset the buttery bottom. This was the most satisfying pea soup either of us ever tasted. Karin cradled the steaming pot on one hip. She didn’t bother with pot holders claiming, “My hands are used to heat!” While ladling pea soup, first one guest arrived then another an another. Passers by must have been compelled by the tantalizing aromas broadcasting Karin’s culinary craft. Karin searched the cupboards for more bowls.
The table was soon covered with over 21 bowls. Karin served all six guests generously. Delicate green pea soup was poured into the second bowl. She added a dollop of creamy white coconut milk into it’s bright green center, sprinkled chives on top, then topped it off with a single round pea for texture. She also prepared miso soup as an alternate for second bowl. After everyone was served we offered a short Japanese prayer, then bowed before our three bowls filled with just enough.
The following week I felt all abuzz with Karin’s contagious creativity. I decided to offer my husband and daughter her seemingly effortless pea soup. Carrots spilled into the pot from the cutting board like marbles off a tilted tray. With shear pleasure, I emptied a package of peas into the blender. I gave it a spin then I dipped my spoon in search of that distinct favor. The one flavor that would turn my attention inward, the way a grape is drawn in toward its own sweetness. I kept searching all the way until dinnertime. Despite my failed attempts to find “it”, I felt confident that my family would appreciate my soup.
The day was just as cold, the frozen peas were just as thawed, the carrots just as orange and the chives just as fresh, yet something about the color just didn’t seem right. I assured myself that looks were deceiving and picked up the pot with my bare hands, ”Ouch!”. Instantly, I grabbed the stained potholders off the hook and served the pea soup.
After one swallow my husband and daughter cocked their heads, looked sideways at each other, and twisted up their faces . Something was missing I thought. “Maybe it needs a little more salt”, I suggested. They both decided a bowl of rice was more then enough.
Now I realize that even the simplest recipe can stump a cook. Despite the fact that I followed explicit instructions, my pea soup was no match for Karin’s. A ancient ingredient must have dropped from the aged redwood rafters and into her soup. Perhaps a chill wind carrying a secret season from fields far away, slipped through the kitchen door, a hiccup spewed a spice overboard from a neighboring pot and into her deep green peas. More likely a subtle element gets birthed the moment the cook heats the kitchen, the guest meets the bowl, the tongue reaps what’s been sown. An element that’s too elusive to be measured by spoon, cup, or even a smart meter. No matter how it manifests, it’s not the ingredients, the recipe, nor the ease of it’s repetition that satisfies, but the way it invites us to simmer in it’s mysteries.
Something Someone Taught Us, Rodney Warren, June 10, 2011
The music of how we feel as the sun falls.
Aka celestial spectacles
Words flow freely from my pen
Without discipline or purpose
After getting prompted from the muse I find
Structure and logic falling into the words on the page
Much like the music I feel as I witness the sun fall at the end of day
The reds, yellows, and mauve shades
Listen to the global sigh
In anticipation of the approaching blanket of night
With my mind trained on the memory of this spectacle of light and color
I abandon myself to the darkness of the night
Knowing, as I have learned to know
That tomorrow the light will return
Faith is like that...
Knowing that the light will return
And my artistic spirit will wait further
For the return of the falling sun
With new celestial spectacles
Ever changing
Yet always faithful to return
Return new
Always new
Can we be prescribed
Such spectacles from our optometrist?
Thankfully no
This is a gift for the living
Given freely by the Great Creator
Faithfully orchestrated on a daily basis
For all that care to witness it's splendor
Aka celestial spectacles
Words flow freely from my pen
Without discipline or purpose
After getting prompted from the muse I find
Structure and logic falling into the words on the page
Much like the music I feel as I witness the sun fall at the end of day
The reds, yellows, and mauve shades
Listen to the global sigh
In anticipation of the approaching blanket of night
With my mind trained on the memory of this spectacle of light and color
I abandon myself to the darkness of the night
Knowing, as I have learned to know
That tomorrow the light will return
Faith is like that...
Knowing that the light will return
And my artistic spirit will wait further
For the return of the falling sun
With new celestial spectacles
Ever changing
Yet always faithful to return
Return new
Always new
Can we be prescribed
Such spectacles from our optometrist?
Thankfully no
This is a gift for the living
Given freely by the Great Creator
Faithfully orchestrated on a daily basis
For all that care to witness it's splendor
Fathers and Sons, Rodney Warren
Fathers and Sons
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
Secrets as Images, Rodney Warren
Secrets as images....
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Go Home, by Tru Dillon, 4/13/11
You can never go home
I tried and Failed and was Flayed and Faltered
Forgot myself, My name, Who I had become
Daddy you mean old Bastard Can you never change
Who used to untie your shoes (those giant black work boots)
When you came home from work, dirt caked and crusty
Who did you beat with your belt
and try to beat some more with your words
though she is now a grandmother twice over
See, verbal abuse still counts in California
still hurts in California
You can never go home
I tried and died and was buried
in my postage stamp backyard
No one came to visit My grave sat empty of flowers
My sisters forgot to grieve
or they had to go shopping for the boys
or pick up cheap beer for some other dead people.
One was busy One was drunk
We are not close now Not even in death
can we cross the bridge of understanding to The Land of Love
You can never go Home
And if you do
You will meet your ghost (weeping and wailing)
On every street corner
and every overpass
at every high school parking lot
and forgotten rose garden
and the one you used to love
and the ones you will never love
You will see the Failure of Family
as you will not be able to escape to Arizona or Colorado or New Mexico
You have sealed you fate
So when The Tsunami Strikes
you will all float together yet separately
to some island off the coast of Alaska
Frozen in fate Separate not equal
Lost to each other Forever
I tried and Failed and was Flayed and Faltered
Forgot myself, My name, Who I had become
Daddy you mean old Bastard Can you never change
Who used to untie your shoes (those giant black work boots)
When you came home from work, dirt caked and crusty
Who did you beat with your belt
and try to beat some more with your words
though she is now a grandmother twice over
See, verbal abuse still counts in California
still hurts in California
You can never go home
I tried and died and was buried
in my postage stamp backyard
No one came to visit My grave sat empty of flowers
My sisters forgot to grieve
or they had to go shopping for the boys
or pick up cheap beer for some other dead people.
One was busy One was drunk
We are not close now Not even in death
can we cross the bridge of understanding to The Land of Love
You can never go Home
And if you do
You will meet your ghost (weeping and wailing)
On every street corner
and every overpass
at every high school parking lot
and forgotten rose garden
and the one you used to love
and the ones you will never love
You will see the Failure of Family
as you will not be able to escape to Arizona or Colorado or New Mexico
You have sealed you fate
So when The Tsunami Strikes
you will all float together yet separately
to some island off the coast of Alaska
Frozen in fate Separate not equal
Lost to each other Forever
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Emily Bording's Chance Rendezvous poem
Chance Rendezvous
With fresh eyes I begin to see
ink slides like warm sap down a maple’s trunk
I use my pen to draw you closer to me
Feathered quill in hand
soft breezes tremble it’s delicate tuft
weaving in and out like thoughts between brows
Watching the first to rise
second stomps right on top
both wrestle to page
Pushing and shoving not one sits idle
flexing and posing
each competing for style
facts refashioned with subtle catches
threadbare memories
mended with pretty patches
lacking in vogue and devoid of all swagger
they waddle along the catwalk
wearing a secondhand wardrobe
Let them hang on the line to dry
so the wind can blow them
a sweet kiss goodbye
No longer amused
white bellied page rolls over
waiting to be scratched
No longer swayed
by double entendres whipping out of control
then falling intoxicated off their fancy runway
Come closer into the lights
my fingers rub the tine warm
wishing a maverick spark ignites
Suddenly a rogue wave crashes
swirls of ink pour out like magma
truth anchored - between dots and dashes
Poised like a mighty leviathan
whose round button eyes
eclipse the genius within
One eye flashes as mermaids go swooshing by
across the universe - the other’s marvels
as stars brush the sky
A salty spray sticks to my pen’s metal nib
I stuff it back into it’s porcupine crib
then pull the shades of my lash covered lid
Awareness settles down into a quiet dream
where silence silhouettes each sound
by chance you pull me into this moment supreme
no bias, no seams, no memories spin
Awake or asleep
you meet me, like silk on moist skin
The hollow basin of my mind
welcomes all of you, as infinitely new
like a dewdrop cradled by a petal - as it holds the sky.
With fresh eyes I begin to see
ink slides like warm sap down a maple’s trunk
I use my pen to draw you closer to me
Feathered quill in hand
soft breezes tremble it’s delicate tuft
weaving in and out like thoughts between brows
Watching the first to rise
second stomps right on top
both wrestle to page
Pushing and shoving not one sits idle
flexing and posing
each competing for style
facts refashioned with subtle catches
threadbare memories
mended with pretty patches
lacking in vogue and devoid of all swagger
they waddle along the catwalk
wearing a secondhand wardrobe
Let them hang on the line to dry
so the wind can blow them
a sweet kiss goodbye
No longer amused
white bellied page rolls over
waiting to be scratched
No longer swayed
by double entendres whipping out of control
then falling intoxicated off their fancy runway
Come closer into the lights
my fingers rub the tine warm
wishing a maverick spark ignites
Suddenly a rogue wave crashes
swirls of ink pour out like magma
truth anchored - between dots and dashes
Poised like a mighty leviathan
whose round button eyes
eclipse the genius within
One eye flashes as mermaids go swooshing by
across the universe - the other’s marvels
as stars brush the sky
A salty spray sticks to my pen’s metal nib
I stuff it back into it’s porcupine crib
then pull the shades of my lash covered lid
Awareness settles down into a quiet dream
where silence silhouettes each sound
by chance you pull me into this moment supreme
no bias, no seams, no memories spin
Awake or asleep
you meet me, like silk on moist skin
The hollow basin of my mind
welcomes all of you, as infinitely new
like a dewdrop cradled by a petal - as it holds the sky.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Love Poem with help from W.S. Merwin
Comet of stillness princess of what is over
Come into my orbit, thrill me with your substance
Titillate my senses
Without motion, without announcing
A free fall of thoughts, words
Because I can't live without your touch.
--Group poem from Community Poetry Circle at the Santa Cruz Public Library, March 19, Jerilyn, Suzie, Juanita, Whitney and Magdalena
Come into my orbit, thrill me with your substance
Titillate my senses
Without motion, without announcing
A free fall of thoughts, words
Because I can't live without your touch.
--Group poem from Community Poetry Circle at the Santa Cruz Public Library, March 19, Jerilyn, Suzie, Juanita, Whitney and Magdalena
Kay Clark: "A poem about home" on 3-12-11
I couldn’t wait to leave my home
In Kansas, where tornadoes and other
Strong winds sweep the vast
Empty plains even emptier.
The whole country of Germany is the same
Square-mile wise as Kansas is
Except instead of space they have moss
Covered bridges around every country curve.
Some Kansans I know would object
That miles full of nothing but flat
Rolling dirt provides residents with little
Save the strong urge to escape and search the
World for safer and pleasanter abodes.
This Midwest refugee roamed around for
Twenty years seeking water, grass, trees,
Hills if not Mountains, and a happier place where
People grant wider worlds for living.
In Kansas, where tornadoes and other
Strong winds sweep the vast
Empty plains even emptier.
The whole country of Germany is the same
Square-mile wise as Kansas is
Except instead of space they have moss
Covered bridges around every country curve.
Some Kansans I know would object
That miles full of nothing but flat
Rolling dirt provides residents with little
Save the strong urge to escape and search the
World for safer and pleasanter abodes.
This Midwest refugee roamed around for
Twenty years seeking water, grass, trees,
Hills if not Mountains, and a happier place where
People grant wider worlds for living.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Brian Bielefeld'sTraffic Poem
traffic is heavy
intersection lights controlling
the lanes in all directions
one row of cars gets its turn
then another
the afternoon sun is warm
windows rolled down
I sit waiting to make my left turn
watching the screen of cars passing
in front of me
their left turn brings them
within a few feet of my eyes
faces pass
stories pass
a story in each face
jaws tight or relaxed
some smiling, some sad, some singing
one head hangs out the window
emulating his dog
the dog is smiling and so is he
one woman turning left
looking right, saying something
to the man sitting next to her
this is not a happy car
another story, then another
last in line, a Harley-Davidson
a woman, long auburn hair streaming
no helmet
a face at peace in this furious traffic
an ever so slight smile
in an instant
no, it was longer
a gasp for breath
and I fall deeply in love
they say that just before
you die, your life passes
before your eyes
I see my imagined life pass
along with that motorcycle
then the light changes
and I drive on
intersection lights controlling
the lanes in all directions
one row of cars gets its turn
then another
the afternoon sun is warm
windows rolled down
I sit waiting to make my left turn
watching the screen of cars passing
in front of me
their left turn brings them
within a few feet of my eyes
faces pass
stories pass
a story in each face
jaws tight or relaxed
some smiling, some sad, some singing
one head hangs out the window
emulating his dog
the dog is smiling and so is he
one woman turning left
looking right, saying something
to the man sitting next to her
this is not a happy car
another story, then another
last in line, a Harley-Davidson
a woman, long auburn hair streaming
no helmet
a face at peace in this furious traffic
an ever so slight smile
in an instant
no, it was longer
a gasp for breath
and I fall deeply in love
they say that just before
you die, your life passes
before your eyes
I see my imagined life pass
along with that motorcycle
then the light changes
and I drive on
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Dick Green's "Unexpected Change" Poem
Unexpected Change
Too late to go back
To undo the words spoken
No wish does he lack
To bind the heart broken.
Take off the old mask
Head out past parts known
Don’t shrink from the task
Rethink wild oats sown.
Next chapters come slowly
New chaff from old wheat
Old memories voice quickly
Fresh paths for fleet feet.
T’is gone not for naught
Feet now on the ground
Will a new heart be caught
What’s lost can be found,
To run from a sad wind
Would only let fail
Find breezes, a new kind
Then try a new sail.
2010 D. Green
Too late to go back
To undo the words spoken
No wish does he lack
To bind the heart broken.
Take off the old mask
Head out past parts known
Don’t shrink from the task
Rethink wild oats sown.
Next chapters come slowly
New chaff from old wheat
Old memories voice quickly
Fresh paths for fleet feet.
T’is gone not for naught
Feet now on the ground
Will a new heart be caught
What’s lost can be found,
To run from a sad wind
Would only let fail
Find breezes, a new kind
Then try a new sail.
2010 D. Green
Dick Green's "Enough" Poem
If Enough
How many wandering thoughts
have run through the mill wheel
of your mind, and when slowly
swallowed by the heart have
found their place as words on a
page filled in by a too hopeful
hand. Then as the path of your
pen stops still, you wonder if
enough has been found, if
enough has been learned, if
enough has been poured into
life's waiting cup, only to hear it
emptied as an echo fading into
canyons of unbearable silence.
© 2010 DGreen
How many wandering thoughts
have run through the mill wheel
of your mind, and when slowly
swallowed by the heart have
found their place as words on a
page filled in by a too hopeful
hand. Then as the path of your
pen stops still, you wonder if
enough has been found, if
enough has been learned, if
enough has been poured into
life's waiting cup, only to hear it
emptied as an echo fading into
canyons of unbearable silence.
© 2010 DGreen
Saturday, February 5, 2011
RIP Aptos Bookworks
I went by this week to see about doing a poetry group at Aptos Bookworks and sadly, they are gone.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Community Writing Circle
Poetry writing at the Santa Cruz Library! I'll be leading the first group on Saturday, March 5 from 3:00-5:00 at the main branch in Santa Cruz.
These are free groups and open to all!
These are free groups and open to all!
Monday, January 24, 2011
Welcome to fellow poets
Hello,
Many of the participants of the Magdalena's Muse Poetry Writing Group at the Capitola Book Cafe have been asking for an online way to share the works we create in the circle there.
So, because I am procrastinating tonight...I finally got around to creating this blog...I'll be posting my poem from last time we met soon.
Many of the participants of the Magdalena's Muse Poetry Writing Group at the Capitola Book Cafe have been asking for an online way to share the works we create in the circle there.
So, because I am procrastinating tonight...I finally got around to creating this blog...I'll be posting my poem from last time we met soon.
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