Not True

Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.

Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.

Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.

The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.

Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.

Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.

 

Those Were the Days

May12:  All poets, even house-poets, share bits and pieces of themselves every time they set pen to paper.  My poetry writing started in February, with an online class, and then another and another, with a wonderful teacher/mentor. A recent assignment: write a poem of celebration,  in an exhuberant mood, made from a list, possibly including negatives and positives.  Tall order.  This is what happened!

Those Were the Days

There’s Florida! I’ve got Maine. Shout outs
from the license plate game. Insert tapes.
Sesame Street morphed to Aretha.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T at the top of our lungs,
windows down, rolling along. Campfires
and that sloshing green water jug we lugged.
German shepherds, standard poodles.
One cat named Blossom, not mean like Siamese.
Recitals and running for yellow school buses.
Clouds of Aqua Net created almost asphyxiation.
Legos and taco suppers accompanied by
Circle of Love, our sung not said table grace.
Saucy beef stroganoff caused upturned
noses, just like Alice’s jello salad – green not red.
Escanaba cabin seven, just steps away from cold
Lake Michigan. Real play pens. Emphasis on safe and
play, not pen. RC Cola and Cool Ranch Doritos. Cold milk
and Oreos, no oatmeal and definitely not fish.
Birthday parties in 613’s orange and yellow family
room not at Chuckie Cheese or bowling alleys.
Singer sewing machine hummed near clunking
barbells by the chest freezer. Teenage angst appeared
with hot hormones. Not bad. Just challenging
and sometimes loud. Cymbals swished by foot thumping
bass drum while sticks twirled and beat. Juxtaposed
to sonorous organ chords or piano arpeggios.
Sweet Iowa corn with fresh-from-the-garden red
tomatoes. Melted butter and cherry juice slid down
licked fingers. Tractor tire sandbox in a city yard.
Pals walked to grade school with metal lunch boxes.
Not metal detectors. Split foyer house with upstairs
kitchen and one shower for all. Those Were the Days.

** Title inspired by the folksong, Those Were the Days….watch and listen to the original song by the Limelighters.

Ode to Puttering

NaPoWriMo  day 23 without a prompt. With a shout-out to Lisa Dingle’s Just Ponderin’ blog for mentioning the word “putter” which got me to thinking, then reminiscing. Words do that, right?

Ode to Puttering

Dawn to dusk wage earner kind of guy
one business suit, five starched shirts
Monday-Tuesday
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday
cubicle confined.

Suit shed
like a snake-wriggled-from-skin
sloppy slippers, baggy pants
uniform is no form
Saturday Sunday putter time.

Basement workshop sets him free
Skippy jars stuffed and ready
screws and bolts, drill bits, nails
epoxy glue and old television tubes
scraped sandpaper sits by stained soft rags.

Puttering
that practical art
relax to see to do
replace a blade, splice a cord
refinish renail a peglegged chair.

Dad the doer, mom the asker
knick knack shelves, built-in whatevers.
Puttering, like Jack Benny and Lawrence Welk
a lost art from today’s rush and run, buy and toss
and buy again kind of world.

Ode to a Dying Leaf

NaPoWriMo  Day 9:  Write a calligram:  a poem or other text in which the words are arranged into a specific shape or image.

         leaf
                  misshapen
                                          shriveled once green
                                             donned vibrant red disguise
                         to ward off lurking decay
                                            fallen tendon of skeletal oak
                                                       hardened veins stand out from brittle flesh
                                      dull brown age spots on blackened stem
                                                              curled like death’s beckoning finger elasticity gone
                                                           your smallest pieces granular near dust
                                              hearkened back unto your mother soil
                                    tomorrow’s wind will hurl you
                   to another place
                                or unthinking footsteps
                                     will grind you
                           into
                       no-
                              thing-
                                 ness

Uncle Jim – cherished series, opus 1

Prose Poem? Never created in this form before — sort of like a short story, but shorter and more musical? And so begins the Cherished Series.

Jim

Uncle Jim

We hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years. Now, here I am, watching him peer out of a torn screen door in a mobile home park. I feel his thinness in our hug.

He leads me into the kitchenette where a yellow Tupperware pitcher of pink lemonade sits on the table. There are two metal glasses, one red and one purple. The sticky cardboard can, on its side in the sink.

He listens for a while, to the latest stories about my kids. Do you have any pets? Before I can answer his eyes glance down and he starts talking about Cindy, the black lab he had for so many years. You remember Dickie, my second wife? Well, she just didn’t like dogs and so I couldn’t…..  and his voice trails off. This seems like a nice park I say, filling in the silence. Oh I love the dances and the bingo parties. All the ladies want to dance with me since Dickie died. But I’m not up to any of it so much anymore.

It took an hour to walk the small grocery store. We came back with ten cans of soup, applesauce packs, a quart of nonfat milk, some Comet and three chicken pot pies.

On my way to his place I was thinking it would be nice to see Uncle Jim in his twilight years. But it’s dark going home and I never did see any fireflies lighting up the sky.

Mornings at Sixty-Seven

Before my rejuvenatement, I was crazed in an all-consuming job  — well, being honest  — I let it be all-consuming. I used to blame caffeine for my hyper and frenzied approach to life.

So here I am, drinking the same amount of coffee, savoring it rather than gulping it, and mea culpa  to the goddess caffeine. Slowing down, my body – not my mind, has made all the difference.


Mornings at Sixty-Seven

Eyes open unbuzzed awake
see him next to me half-covered
grey hair matted with sleep.

Legs stretch with pointed toes
while arms uncoil overhead
the body lumbers out of bed.

Breakfast made and savored
rich aromatic espresso beans
fingers smudged tasting newsprint ink.

At sixty-seven,
my mornings have elongated
into the sublime.

The Next Stage

Have you read About me yet?

So here I am, comin’ round the bend in my stages of life. And it occurs to me, there’s a reason why I bought a refrigerator magnet that says Do More of What Makes You Happy. Do you do that?  Guess what I choose in the poem below.

 

The Next Stage

A tectonic shift in life occurs
racing to the next mile marker.
Youth and middle age behind,
we peer
beyond the line.

This time
we will choose.
We’ve earned that right.
Read carefully
and then apply.

Wrinkle-free?
Slap on an age-defying
mystical cream
or pull on press-free
dungarees and tee.

Duty-free?
Must have
a tax-free everything-watch
or toss off the Timex and live,
task-free with exuberant flair.

Self-Portrait: Dancer Down

Have you ever been asked to “define” yourself?

In Holly Wren Spaulding’s poetry class, we were asked to write a Self-Portrait Poem. That seems a bit softer, less in-your-face and serious than “defining” myself.

By way of explanation, I took dance lessons from age 4 to 17 with Miss Edith Tewes in Waukegan, Illinois. She was one tough lady and for a long time I fancied myself a budding RockettePhoto is me in one of the many Boston rehearsals mentioned below.

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Self-Portrait: Dancer Down

There it was. Audition.
Wanted: 100 dancers
for three months prep to perform
in Boston’s Copley Square.
No experience required.
I did this twenty years ago –
in Iowa.
Ninety-nine hoofer-wanna-bes
plus Gene Kelly and me.
Thousands saw me
in the big-ten half-time show
or took a trip for hotdogs
and the john.

So I did it. Again.
Ninety-nine plus me
two nights every week.
Loud fast rehearsals
with slow
every day
repeats
at home
to video
online.
I should have known.
I was twenty years older
not newer.

One month to go.
On burgundy shag carpet
right-turn-slide-spin.
Then on wooden
unforgiving studio floor.
Five-six-seven-eight……
Crap.……dancer down.

Legs sagged. Muscles be damned.
Relegated to rice.
Rest-Ice-Compression-and-
–   – oh hell,
I forget what the E stands for.