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The folks at Big Tent Poetry requested we write of a Holiday, so I wrote, today - of a moment on Monday: President's Day here in the U.S.
Must I write of that unlikely sight? The empty of entrails saber tooth tiger being escorted on his throne, adorned by four well -muscled and oh-so-careful men
Humans honor the Beast King He who hangs from his sceptres into the Art Deco museum doorway - must I write of this?
I would rather sit in morning's almost darkness and fret of what is to come on this meeting ridden Friday, this pre-show fussing, this chosen lack of engagement with images that chose me to be their scribe
Damn you, taut images
I want to stew in the gravy of excess worry
My tarnished mood doesn't have the energy to catalog the wonder of the curved tooth, bigger than any I had seen or wonder what it feels like to stand in that gazebo as old as my grandmother amidst elderly rose bushes - born before this ghetto sprang up around it
Damn you, taut images
I want to stew in the gravy of excess them vs me
It was President's Day when we were exploring all-things-natural in Exposition Park when the most unlikely visitor almost covertly passed me by
Almost before I recognized this one-of-a-kind moment the parade of people and ancient Savannah skin was sucked into the white marbled guts of this institution of wildlife tamed and stuffed and displayed
Without thought I chased it clicking and smiling and getting just a smidge closer The tiger never allowed me to stew or fuss or fidget or frown
Forgetting for just a moment about the perceived need to stew in the gravy of excess anxiety
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Poetic Postscript: Samuel, my nine-year-old son who lives along the autistic spectrum, has been having an exceptionally difficult time at school lately. After making it for the first half of the year in a mainstream fourth grade classroom, he has been crashing behaviorally. In the past I had a difficult time writing poetry about Samuel vis-a-vis his "being uniquely atypical" and now, since he has been struggling, my words have been flowing. Yesterday, a school holiday, we took a spontaneous road trip to Los Angeles to the Museum of Natural History where we enjoyed the displays and Samuel got to live out a long-held dream of his, riding on a "bending" bus, the likes of which are never seen in smaller-town Bakersfield.
The simple sweetness of his hand slipping into my mind took my breath away and said much of what he is having trouble putting into words.
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I haven't written to a Writer's Island prompt for a while, but when I was checking on the Big Tent poems came across a tanka written with the theme "Foretell". I was intrigued and this poem was born.
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It actually wrote itself. I was looking over the Pacific Ocean at Santa Monica. I had just been through a four hour ordeal/doctor's appointment. It was a Workman's Comp appointment with a Psychiatrist to determine whether or not my job made me loopy or if I was loopy anyway.
As I looked over the ocean I realized I didn't care what the Psychiatrist said, I knew what was true. And I knew I had found what was true.
This passionately scribed poem is still so earnest ~ I love the naive person I was when I wrote it.
(and it is still so true. And I love the slightly less naive person I am now.)
Take away the degrees, titles, accomplishments - What is discovered at your core? What is it that unique, special spark? Buried deep, neglected, chosen to ignore
Seeking to please whomever Drowning out pure longings of your heart Struggling, freezing, suffocating Until finally, you choose to start
Whispers from the spirit Soul's songs from deep within After dancing, stranger among strangers, Claim it! Your life! Now begin!
And the PS is the Psychiatrist found it WAS my workplace that contributed to my loopiness. He gave me what I called "His Robert Frost speech"... because it was reminded me of The Road Not Taken. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood".... I have never regretted leaving my former career, I consider the experience a gift to who I am now... the woman you see stepping into the cold river, fully clothed... something no one else had considered in my group but that I absolutely had to do.
"Claim it, your life, now begin...."
River photo credit: Michelle Guerrero, an awesome photographer friend of mine, based in Tehachapi, California and willing to travel for the right shoot. :-)
I was tired last night and fell asleep almost as soon as American Idol faded from my television screen. I had meant to write a brilliant response to the Big Tent Poetry prompt and.... the zzzz's hit me before my fingers hit the keyboard AND this morning, after participating for a bit in Passion Activator Friday - I had an interesting idea which I am played out throughout the day Friday.
Here is the prompt, directly from the website:
This week, contemplate your canon (not your navel). Come up with 10 potential titles for your newest/5th/yet-to-be-written manuscript. Then, from those 10 titles, choose one and write the poem for that title. Yup. A little reverse psychology. Write the title, then write the title poem.
I decided since I missed my opportunity to be one of the first people to post this week, I would instead be unusual. Perhaps better stated, exceptionally unusual.
So here is the plan:
I will write this poem throughout the day. A stanza here, a stanza there. Whenever you arrive to comment is precisely the right moment. If you want to come back later to see the end result, YAY! and if not, YAY! I love the fact you are here to be a part of my Zany-Wow-It's-Friday-Poetry-Writing-Sprint.
* Added at 11:36 am Pacific time.
** Added at 2:26 pm
*** Added at 5:05 PM Friday
****Added at 12:45 am Friday/Saturday
So - without any more unnecessary verbage:
Lint in Your Pocket
Torn, old school ticket stub Sting from a surprise slap Your best friend laid on your cheek The tiniest hole, space not even for your pinky's tip Or even for your Three-Year-old nieces pinky tip Smile flirts with your mouth Singing a memory awake
**my own foreign hands fluter nearly disembodied telling the tale my frozen mouth can't speak as the goateed man doesn't dismember the message with his turquoise eyes, deftly defying shouted translation "You've been driving without your glases again, haven't you?" driblets of rain freckle the windshield
** Hysterically funny, she deadpanned “Dance, white boy, dance!” no disease she sees – just generations of seeking and not exactly finding the precise right what. So. Instead. She. Sharpens. Her pencil, green with the words, “Mid Town Motor Court ~ swim in our sparkling pool” circa 1961 long before her mother or father graced the world with angry bickering
***Abandoned cat looks for home Claws outstretched, she tries to tattoo the comforter covering the long-just-over childhood legs outstretched like the emptiness on her internal calendar or external address book: no inside jokes or shared stories of the-time-when-I She doesn't find a reason to slip out to check her email instead she sits and watches and welcomes the grey striped cat under your quilt. On top of your green and blue flannels. Wet nose, Nose, sniffing out the Lint in Your pocket
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Blink; verb: to open and close the eye, especially involuntarily; wink rapidly and repeatedly.
Kind; adjective: of a good or benevolent nature or disposition.
Occasion; noun: a particular time, especially as marked by certain circumstances or occurrences.
Upon My Words
Silence falls upon my words Eyes blink with bass drum reverberations The unthinkable has arrived An occasion without a kind thought Without a compassionate gesture Minus a fairy godmother or benevolent strange looking short man with warts No words elect to make themselves heard via my fingers on the keyboard my hand, allowing the pencil its reign over my now faltering will I lower my head to my desk like I did as a second grader, lost as Silence falls upon my words
