It was a flu bug of panic,
a bad cold of shame,
and mostly I’m over it,
but it comes back again
like a lingering cough,
a fever at night,
and I almost expect it,
but I can’t manage tough
stances and logical self-talk
right when I want to
not each time I want to
even though I know I need to
At least more immune.
A Kafka t-shirt to launch NaPoWriMo in which I will post a poem every day until I don’t, either a new poem or a revision.
It got to where I couldn’t see a way
ahead except for dying. So I went.
So here I am. Just where, I couldn’t say.
It’s odd. Some kind of grass, or cane, all bent
this a way and that, slick at the root,
and spiky sharp half the time, black as coal,
but soft enough to lie down in, some spots.
I’d a slept more, but my dreams is full
of nasty animals and dead presidents.
I got attacked by a whole fleet of armadillos
in a river. An armada. Is that what you call it?
Abraham Lincoln himself chopping wood. “Hello
Mr. Penny Man,” I said. He spoke not a word.
But this ain’t Hell. Of that I am assured.
This was a challenge poem–I wanted to write a poem JUST FOR my reading tonight at UW-Manitowoc (which was terrific–thanks, Jessica!). So the Manti folks suggested I write about Boyd Crowder’s hair, Abraham Lincoln chopping wood, and an armada or armadillos.
I’m imagining Mags Bennett’s voice here. Might write some more of these.
When a marriage makes a baby,
no one is surprised.
When a marriage makes a mess,
When a marriage makes a record,
it is some kind of sign.
When a marriage makes a book,
that book, that marriage–they’re mine.
nath doing the hand-sewing
This. Feels. Amazing.
40 years ago, I put together a collection of some of my own poems along with outright thefty poems cobbled from Beatles lyrics & birthday cards. It was made of typing paper, bound with construction paper and yarn. This was in order to get out of trouble in 3rd grade (having been squirrelly in math class).
I still hope, eventually, to publish a collection of poems through conventional channels, but how lovely it is to have a husband who can take a manuscript of my poems related to teaching, and make of it…a book.
On seeing pictures of bombing suspects, I thought
how very much they looked just like my students.
And now on hearing that “they’re not from here,”
I’m worried about my students, who are from everywhere.
I want to say my students, to the world, to God,
How much I love them. They’re why I do this job
(however well or badly I end up doing it).
I love all my students, damn it.
I love my Muslim students. Christians, also,
of course, and atheists, and everything else, too,
But today it’s Islam someone might be using
as an excuse to beat up a much-loved student.
We come to God so many different ways.
Or not at all. Let’s go where we find more love,
let’s offer hopes and wishes, good thoughts and prayers,
let’s be for each other what we all need more of.
again with the shoulders
up by my ears.
Except for before
when I let loose
the sobbing today, right then
I was loose
all over, no crying for me,
no quiet tears, just heaves
of choking, some gasps,
a big, fat grief orgasm.
I am not pretty when I cry.
My sister was better acquainted
with the deceased, but, if I may,
let me observe how utterly
inappropriate her racket was today.
She says I’m cold at the core.
Well if I am, at least my ice
doesn’t go melting when and where
it ought not, leaving a big mess.
Standing with the smokers,
watching the shadows of clouds race
up the big hill, wishing I could
walk there and lie down
in one of the big green stripes.
Now a big cloud covers the sun.
Now everything looks gray again.
Even the green looks smudged.
It was kind of a hard day, see,
because it was kind of misty
and I just could not get settled
on the the whole wiper setting
because one was too fast
and one was too slow
and the adjust-a-speed one
just wasn’t right at all,
so I was really irritated
when I got to the funeral.