Supermoon, for Joyce

The air is so heavy Even the well notice the labor of the lungs, and all we take for granted, that our machines in their molecular perfection might run forever. Cicadas’ summer roar reminds us of forces beyond our control. And yet, we charge–the heat, still humidity, moisture where oxygen cannot find release. We go … Continue reading “Supermoon, for Joyce”

The air is so heavy
Even the well notice the labor
of the lungs, and all we take
for granted, that our machines
in their molecular perfection might run
forever. Cicadas’ summer roar
reminds us of forces
beyond our control.

And yet, we charge–the heat,
still humidity, moisture
where oxygen cannot find release.

We go to the river, chasing breezes
and a supermoon. A trick of the eye
and perspective, she is ready
to swallow us whole.

A trompe l’oeil, you grab her
in one hand, offer me this gift
of levity and light, a chance
to breathe easy
in the night’s embrace.

 

Holding the moon

Invasive Species

Honeysuckle boy Spins into the sweet heaven A sugar harvest  

Honeysuckle boy
Spins into the sweet heaven
A sugar harvest

 

honeysuckle

Trace fossils

I have evidence of a woman who loved me so completely, traces of her linger in cells that line my cheek and ear. All the years together we traveled, miles ribboning behind us as if we might outlast it all. The whole weight of her footprints has gone to dust, a vessel of memory scattered … Continue reading “Trace fossils”

I have evidence of a woman
who loved me so completely,
traces of her linger in cells
that line my cheek and ear.
All the years together
we traveled, miles ribboning
behind us as if we might
outlast it all.

The whole weight of her
footprints has gone to dust,
a vessel of memory
scattered to the wind.
Boxes of letters wilt
in the attic heat.
Memory has the words.

Here is my proof,
set in a heart no one
else can ever see:

For a while we roamed
this life, one proud creature.
She fell away
I could not stay.

In the still part of night
though
I feel her breathe.

BeFunky_grandmom.jpg

Bring Back Our Girls: Our Naked Mothers Walk

Our mothers walk naked through Abjua, as if flesh that made us could rescue us. Someone must be watching. Our fathers, armed with love and bows come for us, too. They know this Sambisa forest, snakes as lethal as these men, who give evil to these woods. They think I am theirs for the taking? … Continue reading “Bring Back Our Girls: Our Naked Mothers Walk”

Our mothers walk naked through Abjua,
as if flesh that made us could rescue us.

Someone must be watching.

Our fathers, armed with love and bows
come for us, too. They know
this Sambisa forest, snakes
as lethal as these men,
who give evil to these woods.

They think I am theirs
for the taking? As if they could steal
my future, as I had not learned
to speak up, add, read, dream,
as if I had lost my voice?

Life has steeled me for men
such as these. Fear me.

I have a future, it lives
in a dream each night. The jungle
sounds frighten me, but I hear
my mother’s voice,
singing me to sleep.

I dream that I lift over these trees
and reach her, cloak us in strength,
then rise above these men,
who think nothing
of me.

I hear my father’s arrows aiming true.
My mother’s cries
surely reach the world.

Someone must be coming for us,
armies of the good,
who have no fear, who know

we girls are the pulse of the world.

Tough Love

We bury our children whole. All the tools and love In our hands spun out Of our control, destroyed What we meant to flourish. There is no going back From this pile of rocks And dirt under which bright Lives remain, suffocated and lost. We invented our poisons And failed to estimate The caustic profits, … Continue reading “Tough Love”

We bury our children whole.
All the tools and love
In our hands spun out
Of our control, destroyed
What we meant to flourish.

There is no going back
From this pile of rocks
And dirt under which bright
Lives remain, suffocated and lost.

We invented our poisons
And failed to estimate
The caustic profits, unintended
Consequences, wages of pain.

We had no idea, really,
What we were doing,
And pretended.
We could not end it,
Even with all our weight
Behind it, and our hearts
Dragging in the mud.

So here, we bury another child
Who, for all our pain,
Could not endure
This world.

Frozen

I no longer remember why I hated My mother, such strong words For pass-a-day disputes. She was a girl Herself, and I, hers. What she knew Of love and safety, to me, a long list Of should-nots built on her mistakes. On the coldest days, in snow, She would wrap my hands and feet In … Continue reading “Frozen”

I no longer remember why I hated
My mother, such strong words
For pass-a-day disputes. She was a girl
Herself, and I, hers. What she knew
Of love and safety, to me, a long list
Of should-nots built on her mistakes.

On the coldest days, in snow,
She would wrap my hands and feet
In baggies under mittens,
Hoping to keep me dry with what she had.
We made do, so long,
Frozen in joy, snowflakes on our tongues.

I could not wear go-go boots
Or make up, and she warned me
About boys. I believed nothing
Of what she said, so learned
It on my own, she held
My broken heart, and stood me up
My own two feet all any woman
Needed, or could trust.

Now we are both old women.
The numbered years slip by,
like ice on plastic-wrapped hands.

It sears you, then melts.
You try to grab things,
Change them or just hold tight…
And they are gone.

 

key words: mother-daughter relationships, love, childhood, memory, regret, aging

A Future So Bright: C4 Blogathon, Day 4

I’m great at lists, not so great at goal-setting. So goal-setting for my writing is a challenge, but here goes. 1. Five goals to achieve w/in next ten years (personal or professional) Find a regular, paying outlet for creative non-fiction essay Write a few non-fiction books on extraordinary women, first Evelyn Wynn-Dixon, then Sofya Kovalevsky … Continue reading “A Future So Bright: C4 Blogathon, Day 4”

I’m great at lists, not so great at goal-setting. So goal-setting for my writing is a challenge,
but here goes.

1. Five goals to achieve w/in next ten years (personal or professional)

  • Find a regular, paying outlet for creative non-fiction essay
  • Write a few non-fiction books on extraordinary women, first Evelyn Wynn-Dixon, then Sofya Kovalevsky
  • Devote more time, in a more concentrated way, to reclaim the joy of being creative person
  • Get out of debt and get my kids through college
  • Visit some places that I love, and some that I daydream about

2. Now, five goals that need to be achieved in short-term to make these a reality

  • Engage more with writers in my virtual and real-time communities and attend readings and submit work to journals I admire
  • Investigate and understand the process of writing biography, develop book proposals, and pitch
  • Concentrate on centering happiness within myself, not seeking it from validation or support from Erik who cannot provide it
  • Save money, and establish and adhere to budget

3. Now, five goals, this year

  • Write the book proposal and participate in pitchfests I have registered for
  • Connect with people who are skilled in writing nonfiction and learn from them (especially an expert on this, Walter Isaacson)
  • Continue to follow steps to pay down debt, which I insituted this year
  • Continue to work on strategies to address chronic physical pain, and spiritual pain
  • Keep arranging small road trips, either solo or with family, that energize me

Writing these down makes me feel anxious–but I have a good friend who often tells me to put ideas into the universe, that this stating of intentions is the first step to making them a reality. As for a photo, I will insert one from today. This time last year, I thought I was on my last-ever ski trip, due to arthritis and finances. But I am on new meds that make the knees not so bad, and I found a great deal. In this photo, I am on top of a mountain, with the whole world spread out before me. I am not anxious, and nothing is holding me back.

 

Janice on the mountaintop

 

I Knew More Then Than I Know Now: C4Atlanta, Day 3

Just under the wire, responding to the question of my favorite work–my own piece of writing. This question reminds me of the hedging that sometimes occur when people ask about favorite children; as the mother of six, I have come to see that I love them all–but some days, am proudest of one’s accomplishments, or … Continue reading “I Knew More Then Than I Know Now: C4Atlanta, Day 3”

Just under the wire, responding to the question of my favorite work–my own piece of writing. This question reminds me of the hedging that sometimes occur when people ask about favorite children; as the mother of six, I have come to see that I love them all–but some days, am proudest of one’s accomplishments, or most anxious about another’s challenges. The love is constant, but the focus changes.

I write in a few genres: poetry, nonfiction essays, and journalism. Within each of these, I have favorite pieces. (And others which I would once have tossed in the trash, that are now immortalized somewhere on the web.) Among my favorites is a long poem I wrote when I was 18: “Sixty-four caprices for a long-distance swimmer.” At the time, I’d have been a likely candidate to major in English, but instead chose math, always a challenge for me.

I hated writing papers! And so to avoid having to write one for a psychology class, received persmission to write a narrative poem. I swam almost daily in the brand-new pool at Guilford College, and just loved the place: the view of the campus woods, the solitude, the occasional interactions with half-naked professors. The poem eventually appeared in an anthology of sports poetry–the only collection of verse ever reviewed by Sports Illustrated.

Some years later, the poem was anthologized in a collection of English literature: positioned on pages between Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman! I was stunned by my arrival.

This spring, when Diana Nyad completed her historic swim, I googled the poem, and discovered a version online, courtesy of a Yale professor who was using it to teach an undergraduate class. As close as I’ll ever get to Yale!

Anymore, when I read that poem, I can hear the girl I was: She was so sure of herself. She was so confident in her vision. She was so certain in every thing she had to say, and so sure others would be delighted to hear.

That’s the point to which I would like to return as my creative journey continues: That confident center, that willingness to write without self-criticism preventing the first word from reaching the page. And then to release the work into a larger world, where others can make of it what they will. That connection is what I crave and enjoy most.

 

Key words: poetry, writing, swimming, sports, C4Atlanta