This Room Has No Title

I sit, contained

by four white walls,

my back to a window

and the bucolity beyond:

Conifers, bike paths,

raindrops, rolling greens.

I face a screen, drink coffee,

type on a keyboard,

plotting my dream-escape

in excel cells.

Fireblossom asked the Real Toads for a poem in which the physical setting is integral.

Orchard Malingering

Recounting haunts of appled

Cheeks, dappled hair wrapped tightly

Round aching wrist, my habit

Having been kidnapped, nightly

Now I pine for sleep, respite

Long, deficit apparent

Like death’s last inventory,

Our story untold, unspent.

Karin challenged the Real Toads with a word list containing (among others) dapple, hair, inventory, malingers, wrist, and habit.

Rock, meet Hard Place

When what you need’s

to run away & hide

but you’re in It

far too Deep--

That’s when you’re stuck

with developing strategies

& forming Exit Plans.

No Bad Things

Every night

before sleeping,

my daughter incants

No bad things?

No tornadoes, no thieves, 

no ghosts, no asteroids?

Every night I reply

No bad things.

Only good things.

Sweet dreams,

I’ll dream of you,

I’ll dream of all of us.

ants come marching

hey thanks for the cookie

that was a good one maybe it was

from the bakery down the street i really

appreciate the gesture and so

against what is no doubt my strong

self interest i feel compelled

to report that yesterday i met an ant

on your counter here

just the one guy he was scouting

and he might have left finding not much

as youre so tidy in your kitchen but unfortunately

he found a popsicle stick

i know it surprised me too but surprise

or no the reality of it is he

nodded to me and said ahoy

thats a bad sign as i think you know

that one ant is harbinger of an army thereof

they will come my friend

so i worry because of course this means war

and decimation of a platoon of fine

soldiers who are just following orders

and the scent of sugar

use caution my human friend

life is in the balance and you

can tip the scales

Inspired by Archy’s voice: Archy & Mehitabel

Imaginary Friend

Enough

histrionics;

confusing tendency

to conflate real with imagined.

I wish I could be enough for your days,

but failing exclusivity,

I guess I’ll learn to share

if home base is

enough.

Come read more rictameter in the Imaginary Garden.

Igneous At The Core

Granite,

lined like bookbinds,

stratified loneliness--

a pressing, lengthening of limbs,

heaviest words, incapacitated.

I am closed to your ideas,

rejecting your outcrops;

My heart’s weight in

granite.

Grace has challenged the Real Toads to write a rictameter. I've worked with this form but not lately, and had forgotten. Thank you, Grace!

14 Women X Infinity

Friends, I thought maybe you'd like to see a photo of the cast of Listen To Your Mother Providence, as I’ve been going on about how proud I am to have been a part of it.

And I'll bet you’re curious to know what poems I read:

after Newtown

In talking about

the end of the world

and human civilization

by tidal wave or solar flare,

my young son whispers

kids are too young to die

as my heart simultaneously

wilts and blooms.

I reply, yes, far too young

and brush his hair back

from a pretty forehead

clean of bullet holes,

stifle a moan by swallowing.

One heartbeat later,

my child bemoans those humans--

the ones he thinks

will finally realize

the planet is overheating

just about the time

his own children are grown--

and describes his child

wiping her own sweaty brow

as future apologists cry

What have we done?

bed-hopping (not that kind)

When you wake up squished

on the too-short loveseat,

entangled in warm limbs

and breathing in the breath

of your bright little girl,

you manage to peer through

sleep-filled eyes to witness

your long-limbed son

splayed and snoring

on top of this drowsy daddy.

You recall the night before,

one in your bed at one,

the other in with you at two,

At four? Mama, I’m so sorry,

I wet your bed, Mama.

As you throw the sheets

in the washing machine

and the kid in the shower,

you know for sure

you’ve hit the jackpot.

basic human needs

Sleeping, dreaming, drowsing,

awakened,

predictably,

by one, then two,

little bodies in my bed

with their little voices,

cold limbs, and big needs.

They snuggle in,

then drift back to sleep.

Mama is awake at three ay em,

starting to count sheep,

when a cozy little girl voice

says in her sleep, I love you, Mama.

Mama replies, I love you, Baby.

Then the drifting, sleeping voice says,

My butt isn’t getting any blankets.

 

(The first poem is from my upcoming book, SUPERPOWERS or: More Poems About Flying, and the other two are in my first book, Responsive Pleading.)

What you don’t realize is that you really need to hear the stories of all of these women. So I am telling you. Because these stories will affect you, even change you.

Imagine all of this times 24 cities across the country, and baby, I feel like I was part of a social movement.

Incredible.

I know you’re dying to see video from Listen To Your Mother, and believe me, as soon as I have a link, you’ll know it. It’s a big project for the women in charge to put that together, so I expect it sometime in the summer.

In the meantime, I’ll post links to the stories of my sister-writers as they post them on their own blogs, so please check back here often. Here’s some reading for now. Make sure you have your box of tissues.

Kirsten Di Chiappari, The Truth

Brianne DeRosa, Normal

Laura Rossi, Mother’s Day

Jennifer Ciplet, Sunny Side Up

Phyllis Myung, What Took You So Long

Lexi “Sweatpants” Magnusson, I’m Jealous Of You

Lauren Jordan, Pink Butterflies

Alicia Kamm, Baby V

Stephanie S. Lazenby, Nobody Ever Told Me

Carla Molina, Perfect

Kelly Baraf, Tea Party

Jackie Hennessey, The Horrors of Shopping With Kids

Jessica Severson, May-Bell

No Direction But Home

Friends, I am rather beside myself with joy in this moment, as I get to shriek on the interwebz about the publication of a special book by one of my most special favorite poets! What? You don't get to do this every day? Well, my life is charmed, apparently.

ALL CAPS PUBLISHING and yours truly announce the publication today of No Direction But Home, a first chapbook by Seattle poet Sarah Whiteley.

"A gentle foray into beauty and stillness, No Direction But Home is an exploration of the threads that tie travel, nature, and themes of home to the heart. In this first chapbook, Sarah Whiteley skillfully weaves words into snapshots of time and place, creating a reading experience that is both immediately relatable and intimate."

Get your (quite affordable) copy here!

I've been following Sarah's blog, ebbtide, since I started blogging. I admire Sarah's writing immensely--her images, her descriptiveness, her ability to make my heart skip a beat with her words. Her focus on perfection and her clean design. Sarah's just perfect, pals... and I'm all shivery about stacking up my own writing next to hers and the other fantastic authors in our ALL CAPS collective. Yippee!!

I thought you all might enjoy these directions from Sarah about how to read poetry. It's called "Guide."

poetry should be read slowly
standing upon the very edge of a precipice
no turning back
toes curling upon those last rocks
before the world falls away
there at the edge of all that ends
the edge of all that begins
one may have just the right perspective
to understand

Okay, required reading, drop everything and click:

Sarah's poetry blog, ebbtide

Sarah's photography/art blog, tied to sky

Sarah's book on Amazon! No Direction But Home

Our Love of Spring Goes Unrequited

for Jenn

The wall-to-wall chartreuse

has already waned to avocado

and soon will turn dull kelly.

Sugar season’s long over.

Today I walked in a dogwood

blizzard, and it’s raining.

If flowers stuck around longer,

would we love them less?

Izy asked the Real Toads to write about the dark side of spring.

Archy & Mehitabel

Visit the Imaginary Garden to read about a major influence on the writing of yours truly. What are yours?

A Toad's Favo(u)rite: Archy & Mehitabel

On The Rocks

Chill air,

like iced-tumbler

gulps. Breathe inside wide pores,

amber liquid sloshed in rocks glass.

Cold lungs.

The Truth About Violets

They gave each of us cousins,

your grandchildren,

a potted violet, your favorite.

I tended mine,

along with your old asparagus fern,

the one that had been Monya’s.

In truth, that fern

only lasted a few more years

in my care,

and violets are fussy little plants

prone to giving up in protest.

Like you did.

Flowers in Violet, original encaustic by Kim Nelson

For Kim Nelson's weekend prompt to the Real Toads: The Color Violet

upstairs/downstairs

man

i need

right now

to get outta

the hell of

here

failing

escape

at least

i can retreat

into that

song

on the radio

"Radio has changed our lives and practically saved our lives." Rob Zombie in the Imaginary Garden.

Thank Goodness For Small Loud Things

a riot outside
birds are gettin' down
like it's 1999 

Preludes

The story of a girl

who can be found

scribbling

on scraps of art paper,

curled

against the chill of the open window

& the songs of birds,

surrounded by those lying aloud

who should be dreaming.

She steeps, readies her words.

The boy

who creaked down stairs

to empty his bladder

wondering

which was sadder, his nightmare

or his parents lying awake

back to back

while birds cracked on

and on as if

there was no where out there.

The wonder

of engines raced beyond exhaust,

garbage trucks, reverse beeps,

laps round the block

as though everyone’s lost,

fatigued

from endless counting sheep.

Line them up

against the chock

& jump the errant sun.

Kerry inspires the Real Toads to write preludes inspired by T.S. Eliot.

Mermaid Dreams

I woke up in bed

with a man and a cat.

   I thought where are my kids?

but forgot about that

as my gaze traveled down

to the foot of the bed:

   where before were my legs

   was a fishtail instead!

I tried a flap-flap

but instead it just thwacked;

The cat hissed and jumped

prepared for attack--

   What to do with a tail?

   And who IS this man?

   And how did I get here?

Escape if I can!

Then to my great surprise

the man opened his eyes;

What I read in those blues

was terrible news--

   Dude was ogling me

   and I had to break free!

But how, with no legs?

I assumed I was dead.

But then!

   The cat ran for the door,

   I rolled on the floor

And I heard a tiny voice say,

Mama, are you okay?

I spluttered, yes, yes! I’m free

   and the cat saved me!

The first lines of this poem are from Robert Heinlein's To Sail Beyond the Sunset, and this is humbly submitted to Master Class with apologies to Heinlein and the rest of you. It was inspired, too, by Kerry's Edward Lear challenge to the Real Toads, but it came out vaguely Seuss-ish more than Lear-esque. I could have gone on and on in poor imitation, but decided that enough is enough. Enough!