Happy Birthday, Mom

I’ve known I wanted to be
A mommy
Since before I was three
And it’s because of you.

I wanted to be for my dolls—
And later my boys—
What you were for me.

And I thank you
For putting so much
Of yourself
Into me
And for making it look easy.

But most of all
I thank you
For letting
My late-thirties me
Fall apart
In your arms
Over the phone

And for refusing to allow
Me to measure myself
Against the mommy
I thought you were
When I was three

And insisting I see myself
The way you say
You have always, always
Seen me: as a miracle
And to love
Myself at least that much

Because that’s how mommies love.
And that’s how mommies see.

Tending the Fire

This week's readwritepoem prompt asked us to make a poem from the images of one of our dreams. I had several dreams with a recurring theme this past week: a fire under my desk in my office. I've taken the feelings I remember having in these dreams and tried to put them together in a stream-of-consciousness way. I shared one of these dreams with a friend of mine this week. Michelle, I left out the spider monkeys, but kept some of the anxiety.

If I could just put
Out the fire burning beneath
My desk I could go
With you to the big
Party and meet all of our
Old friends and show them
How well I’m doing
How thin and happy and loved
I really am and
How fulfilled I feel
In every corner of
My soul it’s just so
Persistent those tongues
Of flame crackling beneath
My office desk and
I—I just can’t seem
To put them out no matter
How many blankets
I throw to smother
It burns and burns and maybe
My important thoughts—
All my precious words
Will turn to ashes and all
Fall down so yes I
Know I am keeping
Everyone waiting and that
Today will never
Happen again I
Must stay and contend with
This troublesome fire
I can’t put it out
So I’ll fight to contain it
It’s the least and the
Best
I can
Do

The poet realizes she has NEVER had an original idea...

This week's readwritepoem prompt was to cut up the words in a text (newspaper article, memo, anything), draw the words randomly, and write them down in that order. Then, we were to see what poem we could make with them. I used a memo about ordering textbooks for next semester as a vehicle for purging my poetic insecurities. The actual purge was less than successful, but I got this poem out of it. The words from the memo are in bold.


I’ve got that fraudulent feeling,
Like my work is nothing more than gum
On the bottom of a real poet’s shoe.

Like I’ve enrolled in a course
Without meeting the prerequisites.

Like the stanzas I send out into cyberspace
Have already been written,
Are in fact illegal adoptions,
Botched abortions,
Of select, sacred texts.

Like I’ve acquired my images by requisition,
Didn’t even say please,
For ideas illegally confiscated.

And soon,
I will be found out, punished.

Sentenced to a life term
At open mic night
In a bookstore coffee shop.
Where I am forced to read
My bastard verses
In an endless loop
To the English faculty from my alma mater
While I am naked
And they are clothed
In caps and gowns
And righteous disappointment.

New Summer Whispers to Old Winter

This week's readwritepoem prompt asked us to take two poems we weren't entirely happy with and have them "talk" to each other. I decided to take my "Dirty Snow Berms" poem and "Summer's Seduction" (both available in their original forms under the tag "Seasons" on the blog) and have them talk to each other. I'm not sure about the result, so I will be revisiting this one...

Only the evergreens
Can defy the cold
But summer’s seduction
Makes it easy to forget
While berms down below
Contain all the excess
Hear the breeze whisper
You are safe you are warm
Belched from our cars
And kicked up from our tires
No need to remember
The sting of biting ice
My feet are embedded
In a late winter scab
Come, walk tender feet
On warm carpets of grass
And if I pick at it
It only spreads more
The sky is your ceiling
No need for shelter
And encrusts my bad habits
In crunchy crystals
Walk unafraid
It’s time to forget
I’m too tired to climb
Over icy blockades
The cold will never again
Split your tired skin
Who is my neighbor?
Where is my river?
See waters tumble
And flowers dance.
Above me the sky
Is clueless with clouds
Let the warmth lift you
From east to west
But down here I hunch
And shuffle and slide

Epic

Last week's readwritepoem prompt was to write about ourselves in epic or exaggerated terms. Here is my ode to English teachers...

I don’t tilt at windmills,
I make the semicolon salient.
I don’t swing from vines,
I swoop in and save dangling modifiers.
No mere Rapunzel in a tower,
I coax others to let down their hair
And weave it into a cogent argument.
I don’t ride through the village warning of danger,
I whip up a Wordsworthian warning
Of our getting and spending
And the world being too much with us.
My battle cry is not do or die
But be not afraid
Of Whitman
Or Dickinson:
Feel that cleaving in your brain and
Contain multitudes in it!
Know yourself to be nobody
And sing a song of yourself!
I am a sage for our age,
A patron saint of syntax,
A lion of lyricism,
A conqueror of commas gone wrong!
At every turn I offer wise counsel:
Avoid the cliché
Substantiate your generalizations
Cite your sources
Mix your metaphors wisely
And for God’s sake
Never
Ever
Pluralize nouns
With apostrophes.

Purring with pride in my sculptor husband...

Check out the progress Rick's making on the Mead High School panther!
http://davismetalsculpture.blogspot.com/2009/09/mead-panther-progress.html

Autumnal Relief

The flu prevented me from answering the call of last week's readwritepoem prompt, but I was able to rework this poem about summer's end. I originally wrote this in '08, but edited it down a bit this weekend.

I can't help but welcome

Sun that doesn't burn

And is not a threat

To my wary skin.

And I'm tired

Of the heightened

Expectations

For fun

I did what I did

This summer

And it's done.

Why bemoan summer's end?

At best it is

A flighty friend, who,

Keenly aware

Of her own popularity,

Arrives late and leaves early.

The life of the party's appeal

Is predicated upon

Limited supply

And great demand.

The illusion of celebrity

Is damaged

by overexposure

Just like my skin

Is damaged

By too much

Summer.

And it's such a relief

To feel order

Reinstate itself

In my loafing mind.

The kitchen

And the classroom

Are calling.

I will bake bread.

I will cook stew.

I will grade papers.

And I will sleep well

In the slowly

Lengthening

Night.