Week 4 Poem

This morning the fog was so thick that it was hard to see. The kids thought it was great, I wasn't looking forward to the slow commute to school. When I returned to my desk after a day spent talking with my bestie and and afternoon with my kids, I intended to check Facebook, tidy up some plans for tomorrow, spend a few minutes writing and go to bed. A friend of mine posted a gorgeous picture of the fog and my poetry prompt was also on the topic of fog (an interesting coincidence since the prompts do not come from this region.) So with that, I reflected on the dense fog I saw this morning and the more figurative fogs that can come and go in life.



We left the house
while the fog still hung
thickly overhead.
There wasn't any need
for sight.
We already knew the way.

Dear Someday - Weekly Poetry Challenge (mid-week extra)

This poem was written based on a poetry writing prompt that I read. The prompt was "write a poem about someday in the future." It was sort of a futuristic theme but that didn't work for me because somehow I usually feel 1 of 2 things when I think about the future- really hopeful and longing or really melancholy. I went with melancholy and this is what came out. It was written in one quick burst and I haven't edited it but I think I'm happy with it.


Someday

Someday, 
I'll be done pining.
I'll be done apologizing.
I'll be done crying.

I'll forget that you were everything
and I
was everything else.

I'll remember that we are all 
made from the same stuff.
The same dirt, the same truth,
the same lies
the same bluffs 
called by the same love.

To Who it May Concern (we regret to inform you) Week 3/ Poem 3

This Is Not What It Looks Like

This is not what it looks like
you don't understand
I'm not passing you over, not one who would stand
on your pulse, on your hope
I'm only a man.

This is not what it looks like,
it's just not for you--
some others fit better.
Surely you see, surely it's true.

Come on, be a sport, it's not about you--
don't make it a race thing,
don't start with those words.
This is not about you, you've already heard.

Someone else, I'm sure, will give you a shot
This is not what it looks like,
(but we want a man)
and as you're aware,
clearly, you're not.

Straighter teeth, smaller ass,
tighter arms, tits are fine.
(But you're too brown) it's just not the right time.
No, no, no, not keeping you back,
not pushing you down.
It's just, here, see the line?
I didn't draw it, I didn't decide.
It's not about you, don't choke on your pride

Can we just forget it? It's already done.
Just move on, no big deal.
Trust me on this one-- you've got so much to offer,

But this is not about you, and this is not what it looks like.

Haiku Time - Week 2 Poem(s)

Four Haiku for this cold, cold week

one small, snuffed out life
I held him as he faded
it wasn't enough

----

I grew this flower
planted it inside of me
the thorns cut me still

----

O come, o come now
you shouldn't make me wait
torture is no cure

----

she won't stay this way
this small, this bright, this trusting
my one tragedy

Dear Abuela - Week 1/ Poem One

Dear Abuela

The smell woke me up.
I padded downstairs
lopsided,
one foot still sore from last week's surgery.
The podiatrist said "take it easy"
I thought, "he has no idea"
My mother, my children's grandmother
stands at the stove
stirring a pot of arroz con gandules
but I encounter my own grandmother
long before I see her.
She turns, hands paper thin,
and knobby,
steadily stirring
and offers my 8 year-old lips
a taste.
Bendicion, Abuela
Dios te bendiga

New Year, New You, blah blah blah

    Every new year, we challenge ourselves and others to make big resolutions, goals, to become a "new you". Lots of people embrace this tradition, running out to take advantage of gym membership deals, joining dating services, looking for a new job. Others reject the tradition citing the hordes of people who fail or give up within months if not weeks. I understand where the fatalists and skeptics are coming from- I too call bullshit on the elliptical sale at Sears because I know that by March 14 it will be a really weird looking drying rack for my shower curtain (yes, I wash and reuse my shower curtains- don't let the industry fool you, they are machine washable! Save yourself $12.95 people!) But I also love the idea of new beginnings and each year trying to be a little bit more of who you want to be. Spending money to try to become who society says I need to be is ridiculous, but I don't want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. So the quest for a worthy New Year's Resolution began.

     This new year, I was challenged (by my, ahem, counselor) to make space for my voice. This was a refreshing challenge (which actually felt more like an invitation than a challenge) compared to the constant "health/fitness/weight-loss challenges" which are really just, well, how can I put this, a shitty interior of self-denigration wrapped in a shitty exterior of societal conformity (chewy on the inside, crunchy on the outside, just shut up and pass me a butterfinger). Seriously though, don't get me wrong, I still plan on continuing to pursue health this year, it's just so freeing to think of it as a more holistic pursuit- one that includes my mind and heart rather than one that just entails me sweating on a mat in yoga class with some 19 year old's crotch in me face NOTE 1: I did catch the typo "me face" instead of "my face" but decided to keep it because if anything makes me feel like a gnarly freaking pirate, it's yoga class with 19 year-olds. NOTE 2: if 19 year old crotches are your thing, wrong blog). So, anyway, this year, in addition to yoga class, I will be making an intentional choice to write more. Maybe one day I'll be a "real writer"( you know, when I grow up) or maybe I'll just learn more about who I am.

My first 'challenge' will be to write one poem each week for the next 6 weeks. This sounds simple enough but I'm already overwhelmed (and excited). Let's see how it goes.

A poem for the season of Hope

I wrote this poem during this advent season as we meditate on hope. Hope is often described as this fluffy, light thing; a cloud, a twinkle, a feather, a dream. And maybe the act of hoping is white and bright. But maybe not. Maybe it's dark and scary and risky. Maybe it's like running away from the slave master, maybe it's running toward freedom. I think about hope being the marrow in the bones of runaway slaves. During advent, we light the Hope candle and it shines, but it only shines in the dark.

The North Star

If Christ be not that northern star, 
our beacon not to follow
in vain we make this journey far
and shelter in trees hollowed;
plagued by termites' vicious want --
as we are poured out by the master,
demanding lifeblood for his gain,
demanding reverence for his name.
See these bodies, the shattered alabaster. 
If satan's not the fearsome captor
then why do our feet flee so?
His hounds, they've caught my scent
I feel the River Freedom's undertow;
the lapping warmth, this liquid Lent,
my spirit beat, my body spent.
I'll wait there, wade there, severed from my own.
My fugitive family caught, my son; a bloodhound's bone.
If Christ be not that distant star
that beckons, points and leads,
then he would be the hollowed hole that hides me in the trees.
And he would be that lapping wave that carries on this broken slave,
and he would be my lonely head and he would be my son, half dead.