A Day Late, but Never Short

Thanks to creative friends, I am participating in a 15-day blogathon hosted by C4Atlanta, whose mission is to bring arts and creativity–and so, joy–to Atlanta and to others in the virtual community. Yesterday, Day 1, was spent in a car, driving through the perilous, dark winding roads of rural West Virginia, trying to get to … Continue reading “A Day Late, but Never Short”

Thanks to creative friends, I am participating in a 15-day blogathon hosted by C4Atlanta, whose mission is to bring arts and creativity–and so, joy–to Atlanta and to others in the virtual community. Yesterday, Day 1, was spent in a car, driving through the perilous, dark winding roads of rural West Virginia, trying to get to a ski resort before today’s big storm hits. On the way, in the midst of the usual arguing with spouse, my son became quite ill, but paramedics checked him out, advised us what to do, and we got through the night. He is recuperating today, and I am watching the dark clouds gather outside the window. Slopes tomorrow, words today.

I did write a haiku for yesterday, about my view of my creative life. Here it is:

I pick up my pen.
Critic perched on my shoulder
Cannot slow me down

In response to today’s prompt-brief answers due to arthritic fingers:

1. Have been writing from the moment I knew how, and have always loved the feel of language, play of words, and opportunities to explore my experience, and develop its connection to others’.
2. Where is it going? Hoping to apply my voice to a new project, that I hope will be a biography of an extraordinary woman whose story and work absolutely inspire me. Writing connects people in so many ways, and it has connected the two of us. I cannot wait to tell her story.
3. How evolving? My first love was always poetry, but over the years, have learned to apply my poetic voice to longer, non-fiction work. For some reason, in the last few years, that voice of the essayist has really come to the fore. Some of that is simply because I write all the time. Everything is a possible source, and everyone is a story. I write and write and write.
4. Experience inspires me, and hearing stories from others always inspires me. I have found that my essays in The Washington Post and on Architects of Change for Maria Shriver touch other people. The best moment is when someone sends me a note or even calls to say, “I read your story. It is exactly like my experience. Thank you for telling it.”
5. What next? How to apply all that I know to the very disciplined work it requires to write a biography. I am wide open to suggestions and insights from others.

There! Day 2 of C4Atlanta! I did it.

 

 

Unborn, Day 28

Your replicating cells divide my life. Books warns I may not love you at first, but how not love this ordinary magic cells wild with separate lives? Though you trespass here, I welcome you. I succumbed to whims that vanished with morning, appeared on the crest of decisions and stayed, wandering in the ark. Tonight … Continue reading “Unborn, Day 28”

Your replicating cells divide
my life. Books warns I may not
love you at first, but how not love
this ordinary magic
cells wild with separate lives?

Though you trespass here,
I welcome you. I succumbed to whims
that vanished with morning,
appeared on the crest of decisions
and stayed, wandering in the ark.

Tonight you grow as you will never
grow again. Like a lizard.
undifferentiated cells: leg and hand,
primitive heart and gills.
You are a menagerie of prehistoric
change and necessity.

All this day I have been sick
with the life of you, who are a stranger
to me, distant as Neptune,
mysterious as Juno, small nova
on my horizon, swelling
toward your hour.

July 1989

That Would Be singing

We had gone as far as the road Could take us. We’d come to other forks, Made up our minds, made do. This place, though, we gave up Our fancy machines and traveled On by foot. Sometimes, we still laughed, Caught our breath at wonders That came our way. When we had to, we raised … Continue reading “That Would Be singing”

We had gone as far as the road
Could take us. We’d come to other forks,
Made up our minds, made do.

This place, though, we gave up
Our fancy machines and traveled
On by foot.

Sometimes, we still laughed,
Caught our breath at wonders
That came our way.
When we had to, we raised
Our voices to the wind
As if it might change direction.

While we had each other,
We were never lost. Even when night
Worried us, or we faltered.
We held each other steady.

But at this stopping point
The path is only wide enough
For one to go, one to follow.

I will take the light, you say,
Wait here, I will clear a way.
I can hear you sing
One old tune we both could carry.

Then silence, so I pick up
Where you left off.
The only way out
Is through. We will meet 
In the end.

Heart Failure

My heart surrendered. Too many years beating for the wrong Reasons–sure, got the blood going Where it needed to be, kept the brain On top of itself, all the billion cells Cavorting in the dance of division. But in all else, it failed, the heart, failed to do duty as eyes and ears, failed to … Continue reading “Heart Failure”

My heart surrendered.
Too many years beating for the wrong
Reasons–sure, got the blood going
Where it needed to be, kept the brain
On top of itself, all the billion cells
Cavorting in the dance of division.

But in all else, it failed,
the heart, failed to do duty
as eyes and ears, failed
to see what was in plain sight
failed to hear the cues,
or listen and know when to quit
the stage. It kept its hungry
longing alive, stuffed itself on whatever
felt good, no matter if it was right
or deadly–was not its place
to decide. It had a mind

all its own. It wanted
what it wanted. It took what it
could get. If it had to break
a thousand times into a million
pieces, it kept its steady drone.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Pulsing,
because once it started,
stopping felt like death.

 

 

January Drifts

We will not gather here again. You slip through time, I stand On a vacant shore. Your small boat Catches waves, drifts, swells, Whitecaps and breakers. We might once Have toyed with these, or, toppled, righted. Anymore, we are stranded. I haven’t arms To keep you afloat. All our terrors, Our worried minds, our loves– … Continue reading “January Drifts”

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We will not gather here again.
You slip through time, I stand
On a vacant shore. Your small boat
Catches waves, drifts, swells,
Whitecaps and breakers. We might once
Have toyed with these, or, toppled, righted.
Anymore, we are stranded. I haven’t arms
To keep you afloat. All our terrors,
Our worried minds, our loves–
We kick them off, like heavy shoes.
We tread, we huddle, we drift
So long we feel like creatures
Of the sea, hardly able to breathe.
The currents move so quick,
The horizon always shifts.

Weather

Where we lived, nothing blew over. We kept our fingers to the air and instruments around the house. We kept our gizmos to the weather. Even when it did not affect us, we knew to be prepared. We could see low clouds on night’s horizon, we could hear wind pounding across the woods. We felt … Continue reading “Weather”

Where we lived, nothing blew over.
We kept our fingers to the air
and instruments around the house.
We kept our gizmos to the weather.
Even when it did not affect us,
we knew to be prepared.

We could see low clouds on night’s
horizon, we could hear wind
pounding across the woods. We felt
heavy rains lashing the roof.
We cowered in the shower.

We could let nothing go
unnoticed. We counted every cloud.
We always had our umbrellas
so the sun could not leave us blind.

Talking to the Moon

I was talking to the moon, Interrupted by clouds and dark, even the stars blinked out of sight. She was so familiar. It seemed words were hardly necessary. She tilted into the sky, so inviting, her cratered face open, she was content to reflect borrowed light, silent beams bending in trees.

I was talking to the moon,
Interrupted by clouds and dark,
even the stars blinked
out of sight. She was so familiar.
It seemed words were hardly
necessary. She tilted
into the sky, so inviting,
her cratered face open, she was content
to reflect borrowed light,
silent beams bending in trees.

Christmas, reel-to-reel

We travel with ghosts. That reel-to-reel tape player You hid beneath tinsel and bows Was going to let you last forever. I could have your voice To carry, no matter what the years Stripped away. I interviewed you Saturday mornings, after Bingo And Fresca and trinkets I won From your jewelry box. Nothing stayed. I … Continue reading “Christmas, reel-to-reel”

We travel with ghosts.
That reel-to-reel tape player
You hid beneath tinsel and bows
Was going to let you last forever.

I could have your voice
To carry, no matter what the years
Stripped away. I interviewed you
Saturday mornings, after Bingo
And Fresca and trinkets I won
From your jewelry box.

Nothing stayed. I can almost bear
The sight of your writing
On old letters in the attic.
But I cannot stand to read
The stories we once shared.

All time comes no more.
I am as old as you were then
And every day, heaven comes closer.
Your voice nearly whispers
In my ear. Crazy is a place
That could keep me from you.

 

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My Husband Does the Wash

The day you turned Springsteen blue Crushed something in my heart. What we talk about when we talk Is never what we mean. I like to keep things Clean, but you don’t see the dirt. I sort by category and weight I read labels, and experience. Rayon shrinks, deep colors bleed. You say you will … Continue reading “My Husband Does the Wash”

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The day you turned Springsteen blue
Crushed something in my heart.
What we talk about when we talk
Is never what we mean. I like to keep things
Clean, but you don’t see the dirt.
I sort by category and weight
I read labels, and experience.
Rayon shrinks, deep colors bleed.
You say you will cover it up, the blue
BVDs and the grey undershirts. I wear
Everything on my sleeve, including old
Memories of Bruce, center stage
On my mind’s eye, his guitar tuned
To the beat in my pulse.

 

key words: laundry, Bruce Springsteen, relationships