Tap Into Life’s Lessons


Magic shoes! Shiny black with big looped bows
slabs of silver metal screwed on soles.
Best gift ever, when I was oh so young.
And oh how I remember…..

NOISE.
PURE NOISE!!!
Swing a leg. Stomp, march, slap, clang!!
Body all feet. ALL SOUNDS.
EVEN WHen i tiptoed.
Add lessons, Tuesdays at ten.
To learn.
Teacher teaches,
directs, muzzles.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
Shu- no, NO, NO!
SHHHH!!!
Like-this.
Con-trol the-swing,
shor-ter. NOT so big.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
One-two, one-two.
Slow-down. Con-trol the-sound.
Com-press your-space.

And there I was, in the mirrored wall,
shrinking. Like putting reins on little feet.
Learning to be small
while growing big.
Learning to fit in.

Junie Z.

West School, still here.
That metal bar around the schoolyard,
smoother now. So many years
of little hands sliding along its surface.
I bend low, touch its coolness
and you’re with me again.
Junie with the short dark hair.
Eyes closed, I see four anklet socks
in plain brown mary janes
kick up and over the rail,
cotton dresses in laughing faces.
Up the street, a car alarm blares.
And just like that,
your laughter floats away,
my hand lifted from the bar.


WRITING PROMPT in my June Challenge class:
 recall a memory of someone, what provoked the memory — a scent, a place? 

With Apologies to Oscar Wilde

I’d never met a ghost
or a celebrity
so was surprised on the treadmill
when Oscar Wilde whispered
directly in my ear,
the heart was meant to be broken.

Home again,
caretaker roles reversed
your heart beats strong
mine now slow,
blown out from stress
like a Japanese octopus bag.

Takotsubo,
Broken Heart Syndrome.
Not the stuff of playwrights.

I learned again that day
the importance of being earnest.
Talking softly with, not at,
we climbed five stairs
inch by inch,
this time
your steps
matched to mine.

This is NOT Happening

Two hundred fifty square feet of living space.
One glass wall with city views no one sees.
Jagged zig zags roll on monitors
lightning bleeps 
across the zags.
Your hands still, bloated fingers slightly curved.
My head hears a migraine beat,
while eyeballs stare so long,
they feel outside my face.
This whirring place makes my skin crawl raw.
Your mouth should be pressed on mine.
Like last night. Or speaking simple words
like this, when, or eggs this morning?
Any words from your mouth,
not taped shut
locked inside an intubation tube.

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