Thursday, May 6, 2010
NEWS!
I just heard that I made it into the final round for Chicken Soup! Funny, though, they added a Biblical quote at the beginning- from the New Testament! I wrote and told the editor that being Jewish, I'm not comfortable with the quote of their choice, so I hope they will change it...Keep your fingers crossed that I make it through this last round! Thanks all...
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Reluctant Rhyme
I have always been a poet,
And I wish I could control it,
But for reasons inexplicable, I can’t.
When I try to write down poems,
There are no seeds of thought to sow ‘em,
And the words I want to utilize are scant.
But then sometimes when there’s no moonlight,
Like a creature of the night,
I rise and leave my warm and cozy bed.
I find my fav'rite pen and little book,
And slip into my chair within its nook
Where the thoughts pour forth from deep inside my head.
It’s as though someone else is writing 'em,
And I’ve learned to stop from fighting 'em
As if I’m a vessel for another’s creativity.
My hand writes down what my brain tells it to-
Before I know it, I’m completely through,
so I go back to bed and sleep 'til the dawn awakens me.
And I wish I could control it,
But for reasons inexplicable, I can’t.
When I try to write down poems,
There are no seeds of thought to sow ‘em,
And the words I want to utilize are scant.
But then sometimes when there’s no moonlight,
Like a creature of the night,
I rise and leave my warm and cozy bed.
I find my fav'rite pen and little book,
And slip into my chair within its nook
Where the thoughts pour forth from deep inside my head.
It’s as though someone else is writing 'em,
And I’ve learned to stop from fighting 'em
As if I’m a vessel for another’s creativity.
My hand writes down what my brain tells it to-
Before I know it, I’m completely through,
so I go back to bed and sleep 'til the dawn awakens me.
Do you think there are people for whom life is a video game?
A violent one
Do you think their recipe for reality must include
Conflict and brutality?
Do you think they create hostility in a world that may otherwise be
Peaceful?
Do you think we stand a chance of containing their
ferocity and force?
Do you think they are unable to survive in a world with no
Enemies?
Do you know who their enemies are?
Is it us?
A violent one
Do you think their recipe for reality must include
Conflict and brutality?
Do you think they create hostility in a world that may otherwise be
Peaceful?
Do you think we stand a chance of containing their
ferocity and force?
Do you think they are unable to survive in a world with no
Enemies?
Do you know who their enemies are?
Is it us?
JOY RIDE
Joy Ride
Remember when you were little and your dad would say
Come on kids. Let’s go for a
Joy ride
His joy wasn’t yours
And yours wasn’t his
But, it was always a joyful experience
Him with hours of driving around the countryside looking at
The scenery
You waiting patiently in the back seat for the final destination
The A&W
where a root beer float would reward you for riding quietly
And pretending to enjoy the bucolic view
Now that we are older, gas is dear and roads are filled with
rage instead of joy
We find our joy in other places
And in other ways
Today, like many mornings, I took my bike out for a spin along
The river
As I reveled in the scenery I thought of my dad
And how things constantly change and forever remain the same
I wasn’t going to have that end of the ride root beer float
But
I dearly wished my bicycle seat could vibrate
Remember when you were little and your dad would say
Come on kids. Let’s go for a
Joy ride
His joy wasn’t yours
And yours wasn’t his
But, it was always a joyful experience
Him with hours of driving around the countryside looking at
The scenery
You waiting patiently in the back seat for the final destination
The A&W
where a root beer float would reward you for riding quietly
And pretending to enjoy the bucolic view
Now that we are older, gas is dear and roads are filled with
rage instead of joy
We find our joy in other places
And in other ways
Today, like many mornings, I took my bike out for a spin along
The river
As I reveled in the scenery I thought of my dad
And how things constantly change and forever remain the same
I wasn’t going to have that end of the ride root beer float
But
I dearly wished my bicycle seat could vibrate
Monday, May 3, 2010
A Comment disguised as a blog
Hey Linda
Please don't call me at 3:00 am in the morning. Take heart, though, that there are other spectres out there, pacing the floor, lighting dim lights. I can't imagine slamming a door at that hour, unless police and weapons were involved. I'm not sure that I would trust what I would write; hobgoblins live there; future ,past, and present merge. There is a Spanish word I love, which means the hour just before the dawn: La Madrugada. Given your present situation, the calm space before the working day begins must be very special to you.
Please don't call me at 3:00 am in the morning. Take heart, though, that there are other spectres out there, pacing the floor, lighting dim lights. I can't imagine slamming a door at that hour, unless police and weapons were involved. I'm not sure that I would trust what I would write; hobgoblins live there; future ,past, and present merge. There is a Spanish word I love, which means the hour just before the dawn: La Madrugada. Given your present situation, the calm space before the working day begins must be very special to you.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Sunday Morning
Here it is, 2:26, on Sunday morning. Remember how people used to say, "Your best friends are the people you could call at three in the morning?" That was always the litmus test. I've never actually tried it, but maybe I will.
Or better still--I'll call you all via blog-phone. Listen in. Eavesdrop. Be amazed. Be happy. Just be here, like pulling up a raggedy and most comfortable chair in the candle-lit living room of a house we all share.
The house color has been chosen: 65% Spun Sugar. The trim: Nacre. The door--well, that's the mystery of the week. I have a line of sample quarts standing in my front yard now like a procession of fat little girls at a wedding.
As I've been exploring paint this entire week--that and door mats and mail boxes and house numbers and fans--I'm remembering the time we all wrote about colors, how much it matters: color. How much the name of the color matters.
Some people may put themselves to sleep counting sheep--or making plans for snails. Or conjuring up drink recipes. But this month, at least, I put myself back into dreaming mode by naming the colors: bluestone, dune grass, paradise valley, Maine shore, Carolina Sky. I can imagine writing a book, each chapter named a paint color!
Strawberry Field meets Twist of Lime.
Skydive Blue meets Tree Frog Green.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Mombo
San Antonio, Texas 1969
I opened the silverware drawer and counted out twelve forks and knives. Some of the forks were for salad or desert, and one of the knives was snapped off at the tip from someone using it as a screwdriver, but all were real silver; not recently polished but with the soft patina of common usage.
No one told me to set the table, but I knew if I didn’t, everyone would be crowding around the stove, serving themselves, and I thought the dinner deserved better. The heavy oak table with the cannonball legs was stretched out, and covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was common enough for us to have roast chicken, or fall-apart chicken as we liked to call it, but Mom had outdone herself tonight – Cornish Game Hens for 12 people. Rounding out the menu was Uncle Ben’s long grain and wild rice, canned asparagus spears with butter, and tomato aspic with mayonnaise. That was about as gourmet as we got. I poured the hot tea into a glass pitcher, and stirred a good amount of sugar into the deep amber liquid, then squeezed lemons through the bent strainer, and filled the pitcher with ice cubes from the plastic trays until it had just the right bright orange color. It was less complicated to just fix the tea than putting out all the sugar and lemons and all. No one offered to help me set the table, but that was O.K. It was my thing. I straightened out the plates with the blue cobalt “kissing dove” pattern. They were something we were collecting from the grocery store; now that we nearly had enough the first ones were already showing chips and hairline cracks.
The fragrant hens were roasting in the largest pan we had; a navy blue enameled tub we called “the turkey pan”, for obvious reasons. Our sister, Mary Ellen was home from college, adding to the sense of celebration. My brother Joe, and I had each invited friends, and a relative was new in town, having just moved to San Antonio from Kentucky. Joe was already warming up the upright piano with some bluesy New Orleans as we finished with the preparations. There was an art to opening windows and closing certain doors to get a good cross breeze across the dining room. The scent of summer jasmine pulled through the window screens and mixed with the aroma of the roast hens.
Mom served my friend Eugene first. Without a thought to the extravagance, she plopped down two entire hens on his plate. Just prior to that moment, Eugene was in love with me. He wrote me a poem. He wrote me a song. But now he was in love with my mom. Eugene was not just big, he was obese. He sat down at the right hand of my mother, with me next to him. He looked back and forth through his crooked plastic glasses between the two Mercedes, and the two hens, pleased beyond compare at his good fortune. It was funny the way she didn’t ask him what he wanted, but just gave him what seemed like the right amount of food.
As the happy din of silverware and dishes commenced, our second cousin Julian began to feel at home, and soon had us laughing with stories about our grandparents and relatives known and unknown. Once warmed up, he proceeded to command the table, consisting mainly of young girls. He put his tweed jacket on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. A college professor, his reddish hair grazed his shoulders in what would soon become a grizzly ponytail. He was erudite and witty. He was opposed to the war in VietNam, and made veiled hints at smoking marijuana. Mary Ellen was in college in Washington D.C., and she began to talk about the demonstrations and sit-ins she was witnessing there. A spark was lit. There was a world out there of young people and ideas and motion, and they seemed to know all about it. It was thrilling. Around the table eyes were shining with approval and acceptance. As was typical, my mom made not the mildest comment about the politics and current events. Her simple question cut like a knife through the conversation. She asked Julian why he hadn’t brought his wife and children over. He shrugged it off, but still it was odd. Why hadn’t he?
I opened the silverware drawer and counted out twelve forks and knives. Some of the forks were for salad or desert, and one of the knives was snapped off at the tip from someone using it as a screwdriver, but all were real silver; not recently polished but with the soft patina of common usage.
No one told me to set the table, but I knew if I didn’t, everyone would be crowding around the stove, serving themselves, and I thought the dinner deserved better. The heavy oak table with the cannonball legs was stretched out, and covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was common enough for us to have roast chicken, or fall-apart chicken as we liked to call it, but Mom had outdone herself tonight – Cornish Game Hens for 12 people. Rounding out the menu was Uncle Ben’s long grain and wild rice, canned asparagus spears with butter, and tomato aspic with mayonnaise. That was about as gourmet as we got. I poured the hot tea into a glass pitcher, and stirred a good amount of sugar into the deep amber liquid, then squeezed lemons through the bent strainer, and filled the pitcher with ice cubes from the plastic trays until it had just the right bright orange color. It was less complicated to just fix the tea than putting out all the sugar and lemons and all. No one offered to help me set the table, but that was O.K. It was my thing. I straightened out the plates with the blue cobalt “kissing dove” pattern. They were something we were collecting from the grocery store; now that we nearly had enough the first ones were already showing chips and hairline cracks.
The fragrant hens were roasting in the largest pan we had; a navy blue enameled tub we called “the turkey pan”, for obvious reasons. Our sister, Mary Ellen was home from college, adding to the sense of celebration. My brother Joe, and I had each invited friends, and a relative was new in town, having just moved to San Antonio from Kentucky. Joe was already warming up the upright piano with some bluesy New Orleans as we finished with the preparations. There was an art to opening windows and closing certain doors to get a good cross breeze across the dining room. The scent of summer jasmine pulled through the window screens and mixed with the aroma of the roast hens.
Mom served my friend Eugene first. Without a thought to the extravagance, she plopped down two entire hens on his plate. Just prior to that moment, Eugene was in love with me. He wrote me a poem. He wrote me a song. But now he was in love with my mom. Eugene was not just big, he was obese. He sat down at the right hand of my mother, with me next to him. He looked back and forth through his crooked plastic glasses between the two Mercedes, and the two hens, pleased beyond compare at his good fortune. It was funny the way she didn’t ask him what he wanted, but just gave him what seemed like the right amount of food.
As the happy din of silverware and dishes commenced, our second cousin Julian began to feel at home, and soon had us laughing with stories about our grandparents and relatives known and unknown. Once warmed up, he proceeded to command the table, consisting mainly of young girls. He put his tweed jacket on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. A college professor, his reddish hair grazed his shoulders in what would soon become a grizzly ponytail. He was erudite and witty. He was opposed to the war in VietNam, and made veiled hints at smoking marijuana. Mary Ellen was in college in Washington D.C., and she began to talk about the demonstrations and sit-ins she was witnessing there. A spark was lit. There was a world out there of young people and ideas and motion, and they seemed to know all about it. It was thrilling. Around the table eyes were shining with approval and acceptance. As was typical, my mom made not the mildest comment about the politics and current events. Her simple question cut like a knife through the conversation. She asked Julian why he hadn’t brought his wife and children over. He shrugged it off, but still it was odd. Why hadn’t he?
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