Momentum by Amanda Bell
A clan of cyclists
Rolling down Soquel today.
Fifteen, maybe, all together.
Circles turning somersaults.
Men in tight clothes
And numbers, blues
And reds. Heads protected,
Eyes behind goggles, shoes
That go click when they stop
(Real quick) climb off, and tap tap
Along the sidewalk to a public restroom.
Where are they going
All together in a bunch
Down a street that’s built
For drivers that zoom
On a busy Saturday afternoon?
Quiet…whoosh….quiet….whirr
Bike lane narrows, cars a blur.
Gloved hands grip the handlebars
Feel the wind as you coast
Down looking around. The group
Spreads as they see the ocean
Rising into view. And the traffic thins
Around them. Just the air and the sun
And the helmets come off.
Although it took half an hour to dress
Like a serious cyclist
One of them turns off suddenly,
Looks back to wave, and sheds
His gear, dropping it off
The side, clip clop, leaving a trail
To find his way back, perhaps?
Wind rushes past his ears.
Tears blur his eyes.
The concrete ends and he bumps
Bumps along the sand with force
For a moment. He sails
And separates from his bike,
Arms circling, legs still pushing
Invisible pedals. And like the greatest
Sports photo, one that wins prizes,
He is frozen like that,
Above the world, out
Of his seat, halfway
To the edge of the continent
From the parking lot. Until his
Consciousness kicks back in and he propels
Himself the rest of the way
To the cold thick sea
Where he swims with what is left
Of his might.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Six-Year-Old Synapses, Amanda Bell
Six-Year-Old Synapses
By Amanda Bell
The pictures that live inside you:
your imagination, the creation of stories
that keep you endlessly occupied,
must be training the connections
between the nerves in your young brain.
The cells are probably still multiplying
in there, preparing you for bigger, better
things that you have to come in your future.
As your mother, my responsibility lies
in nurturing that.
So, I will fill you with organic milk, keep you
clothed in warm sweaters during winter
and answer your questions about
Santa Claus. I will watch patiently
as you struggle across pavement
riddled with cracks that you are trying
so hard not to step on.
I know it takes effort to play.
I know it’s distracting when dragons
and puppies and rainbows, monsters
and numbers and birthdays, even ordinary people
fill your mind and make you guess
what they will do next.
These worlds must be much more interesting
than what I see, as I sip groggily
my morning coffee, trying to explain
to your sister that pancakes are not
an every morning breakfast.
Rice Krispies will do, on a Tuesday.
In the time it has taken me to sit
down at the table, open up my email
browse the news and Facebook, to see
what oh-so-important things have happened
since the Eastern U.S. woke three hours ago
you have created a book store in your room,
yellow post-its with wildly diverse prices stuck
to everything from Dr. Seuss to a collection of
Disney’s best “scary” bedtime stories to an Easy
Reader about all the things you can do with a
cardboard box. (And I think to myself,
that book’s going to cause me trouble…)
So, when I say “why? Oh why? When I asked
You TWENTY MINUTES AGO to brush your teeth
Is your toothbrush STILL DRY?”
And my eyes begin to get crazy and turn
into red laser beams that will surely cut
right through your Toy Story Tee shirt,
look back, my boy, and remind me
that you were busy helping the firefighters
defeat the knights of the dragon castle
And RUN QUICKLY to the sink.
By Amanda Bell
The pictures that live inside you:
your imagination, the creation of stories
that keep you endlessly occupied,
must be training the connections
between the nerves in your young brain.
The cells are probably still multiplying
in there, preparing you for bigger, better
things that you have to come in your future.
As your mother, my responsibility lies
in nurturing that.
So, I will fill you with organic milk, keep you
clothed in warm sweaters during winter
and answer your questions about
Santa Claus. I will watch patiently
as you struggle across pavement
riddled with cracks that you are trying
so hard not to step on.
I know it takes effort to play.
I know it’s distracting when dragons
and puppies and rainbows, monsters
and numbers and birthdays, even ordinary people
fill your mind and make you guess
what they will do next.
These worlds must be much more interesting
than what I see, as I sip groggily
my morning coffee, trying to explain
to your sister that pancakes are not
an every morning breakfast.
Rice Krispies will do, on a Tuesday.
In the time it has taken me to sit
down at the table, open up my email
browse the news and Facebook, to see
what oh-so-important things have happened
since the Eastern U.S. woke three hours ago
you have created a book store in your room,
yellow post-its with wildly diverse prices stuck
to everything from Dr. Seuss to a collection of
Disney’s best “scary” bedtime stories to an Easy
Reader about all the things you can do with a
cardboard box. (And I think to myself,
that book’s going to cause me trouble…)
So, when I say “why? Oh why? When I asked
You TWENTY MINUTES AGO to brush your teeth
Is your toothbrush STILL DRY?”
And my eyes begin to get crazy and turn
into red laser beams that will surely cut
right through your Toy Story Tee shirt,
look back, my boy, and remind me
that you were busy helping the firefighters
defeat the knights of the dragon castle
And RUN QUICKLY to the sink.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Movement Manifesto, Jessica Markham
Movement Manifesto
Down a long corridor
or a sidewalk stretching into infinity -
Which way will I go?
How far will I travel?
I don't know for certain.
Rhythm is my leader
who takes me beyond limits
and tells me to go, to move,
and so, I press along,
skipping over pavement,
leaping over the cracks.
The sweat beads on my brow
glisten in the sunlight,
shining before they fall.
Falling, stumbling, tripping -
These are possibilities,
but I do not falter.
Instead, I move, I jump,
I skip, I leap, I run
with my shadow nearby me
casting itself thin and long.
--Jessica Markham
Down a long corridor
or a sidewalk stretching into infinity -
Which way will I go?
How far will I travel?
I don't know for certain.
Rhythm is my leader
who takes me beyond limits
and tells me to go, to move,
and so, I press along,
skipping over pavement,
leaping over the cracks.
The sweat beads on my brow
glisten in the sunlight,
shining before they fall.
Falling, stumbling, tripping -
These are possibilities,
but I do not falter.
Instead, I move, I jump,
I skip, I leap, I run
with my shadow nearby me
casting itself thin and long.
--Jessica Markham
Thursday, January 5, 2012
MY HUBRIS COLLECTION, Rich Persoff
MY HUBRIS COLLECTION
From the mud of Stalingrad
I want an artillery officer’s
Long-barrelled Luger
With matching part numbers,
An autographed copy
Of Mao’s Little Red Book,
An unretouched original
Photograph of the President
Under ‘Mission Accomplished’,
A wall map of the world
Circa 1924, smeared pink
With the British Empire,
And a pristine Plate Number
Block of ‘Forever’ stamps.
--Rich Persoff
From the mud of Stalingrad
I want an artillery officer’s
Long-barrelled Luger
With matching part numbers,
An autographed copy
Of Mao’s Little Red Book,
An unretouched original
Photograph of the President
Under ‘Mission Accomplished’,
A wall map of the world
Circa 1924, smeared pink
With the British Empire,
And a pristine Plate Number
Block of ‘Forever’ stamps.
--Rich Persoff
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
New Poetry Writing Class forming
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.
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.
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
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