She considered purchasing shade. How much? Good shade or side-eyed shade? Cool shade or burning shade? Grey or gray shade? And look! custom made simple. Custom shade, tailored to the increasing shade demand. And 'lo, does she, we need that light-hearted, slow burn, revolving, evolving shade. Especially now that it's women's history month. When does that shade shoppe open? How can she get some?
is found in the pause
just the wait
after one child
“Hey, look, it’s snowing!”
all turn to see teaspoon-sized flakes
teacher crosses her arms
hands on hips
an attempt to look bigger
large and in charge
but like the children
she thinks of home
of hearth and health and kin
caught in the net of beauty
she pauses to watch the snow
the miracle of the pause
the moment suspended, the magic of sideways snow
of snow falling up
out the window
"You can become bitter or you can see the broken seed as a way for growth."
The quote appeared in my journal.
A reminder: refrain from bitterness.
Sure, taste the lemon, but do not suck on it.
Dine on it or
Seek nurture from it.
It is good to season with a zest of lemon
but not make a meal of it.
As I like to say,
"It takes a lot of work to be this happy-go-lucky."
How surprising that taste of lemon as a kid -- the first time I try it,
Wow. Pucker up.
This is nothing like the lemon sour candy
coated in the finest powdered sugar.
Bitter, better, batter.
Ice slides into cracks on bridges. Do not cross. Reports indicate more is on the way. Freezing cold and flakes fall, only following the tug of gravity. Looking to land in a home on sidewalks slick. Just water, frozen, bright, looking to land.
A bird does flit or fly or tweet
but the bird doesn’t hang on to every mean feat.
A laugh may travel across the sky
but the laughter doesn’t come at the expense of you or I.
I know why we need to value our own worth
and stop feeling that others have judged us harshly from our birth.
The shame cycle of ‘never enough’
causes us to defend the castle or to bluff.
For we are made for heroic jousts,
for the equal swordfight, not for the lion’s roar to the mouse.
Equal in battle, in fair play, in rhyme.
We are meant for love and understanding not for lying.
So set aside the buff, the cower, or the care.
We are opening a can of ‘lookee here!’
Follow the heart, open the breath.
For if we are judging — or fear judgment from others — we cause our own premature death.
The nipping of CREATIVITY at her heels. All she ever wanted was to turn and soothe the beast. At times she did. Painting, writing, dancing in the dawn. And other times, the bark grew fainter to a whimper, waking her in the night. Was that a call? A dream, a spiderweb filament, on her face in the morning? Nothing more. She cupped her ear to hear the bark. DOUBT grew from a soft kitten to a lioness, proud, loud, nippier than CREATIVITY. DOUBT silenced the dog. Alas, SURVIVAL, a deluge of biblical proportions, drove both cat and dog away. "I matter," said SURVIVAL, "for planet, people, places, politics. Let CREATIVITY nip and DOUBT roar. I matter more." SURVIVAL set CREATIVITY and DOUBT to shelter, huddle, warm themselves, wait out the storm. But the two embraced, allied, befriended, plotted to overtake, save SURVIVAL -- or at least pacify, soothe SURVIVAL's alarm -- to dance in the daybreak once more.
February comes, a month of hygge,
squirrels burrow in the knots of trees,
stalks huddle in the too-cold shade,
waiting for the glimmer of a warming sun.
February kills my high,
bums me out.
with its soft slow snow, feathery fistfuls.
February, the heart-smacking,
wait for longer days.
For the spring of birthdays,
of another hula hoop,
scoop around the sun,
for stronger days,
when the shoots doesn’t break in the brittle cold,
and the loon calls from the lake.
And even the Met opens her front doors, wide,
like a seamstress, ready to unfurl her crazy quilts.
inspired by Bill Christophersen’s February.
After today’s second dose of the vaccine,
I feel freer but not free.
I will follow my bliss but ever so cautiously,
And here’s something to know about me when we meet again,
I will not shake your hand or anyone else’s hand for that matter,
Alas, I will hug you.
See, I met a doctor at Kripalu when I were there, from March 6 to 8, 2020, a few days before the world shut down.
She, the endocrinologist, told me that hugging’s safer than shaking hands.
Namaste, she and I said when we parted,
hand to heart probably safest still.
I signed up for an online Kripalu zoom class because I miss the vibe. The class began yesterday. And we were invited to
make a wheel out of the areas of our lives.
My wheel looked a little deflated.
I miss the walk down to the lake.
We will go again, hand to heart.
Be free. Follow your bliss.
Look what it is to ride out a pandemic the tear of masks from a new pup, call him Brandy, from the makers of masks in China or Russia via your school or workplace not made for the bite of a dog who mistook the mask for a bone. You noticed another pile by the entrance to the M5 bus, comfort to know there is more by the door, paper and cloth masks in a glass bowl or on a silver hook. And look what it is to give your mask away, three times now, and to grab another, in three different multiverses, oh tears for the people, the older, the younger, or maybe born on your same birthday birth year, who forget their masks or must wear the oxygen mask alone in a buzzing room with hazmat suits, flowers by the door, pings on the hospital floor, sirens closer or passing your home where you left no room, only tears, for the M5 ride or the dog walk or the recovery room, torn mask by the door for the freezing long hauler.
Inspired by today’s Poetry Foundation poem Torn Coat by Gerald Stern
Because we were theater nerds — RJ and I and who else? Pam maybe — we were asked by Mr. Martello to clean the backstage area and scrub the bathroom because Maine South was hosting a guest speaker of great importance. This was probably 1979.
I remember cleaning the counters for her. And putting flowers in the bathroom. I remember hearing her read her poetry. She was diminutive and grand.
The speaker was Gwendolyn Brooks.
I was jazzed by her colloquialisms. By her direct language. Though small of size, she was huge to us, to us in the lily whitest of white suburbs. Her poetry sang.
I especially remember her reading, “We real cool.” And I remember reading it on the page — how she set out the way to read it out loud by the way she broke the lines. She made us pause. At that time, too, I was learning about ‘the Pinter Pause,’ and I was excited by the pauses that poetic language could invite.
The “We”—you’re supposed to stop after the “we” and think about validity; of course, there’s no way for you to tell whether it should be said softly or not, I suppose, but I say it rather softly because I want to represent their basic uncertainty.-Gwendolyn Brooks
So this is February, Black History Month. And I’m pretty much in love with poetry written in spoken language. And I thank God for Ms. Brooks, and Maine South for introducing me to her poetry. In high school, before I learned of Ms. Brooks’ work, I had fallen hard, as young people do, for Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. We’re so lucky to have such a history of amazing women poets in this country. The dramatic work of poet laureate Amanda Gorman continues and expands this poetic tradition.
By hearing Ms. Brooks read her work, I discovered that poetry could merge with drama. That poetry allowed you to try out a new voice. Just as acting allows you to embody a new person. I celebrate the newness of voice and vision of great poets in this country.