The Pecan Tree

The Pecan Tree

Despair is watching you try to
mend your heart day after day.
It is wanting to fashion a breastplate
from my own bones to keep you whole.
It is the color of the earth
found at the base of the pecan tree
in my father’s front yard.
Dark and mysterious, the earth
flings the tree toward the sky.
I gaze at clouds with dirt on my hands
and wonder if we will be as old as
this tree before we can touch them.


This is a Magpie Tale and a response to the Poetry Jam prompt.

Vessel

For the Poetry Jam this week Mary has given us the task of writing an Anaphora poem. Here’s the definition of an Anaphora: "the repetition of a word or expression several times within a clause or within a paragraph." I actually do that a lot in my poetry (here, here and here for example) - I just didn’t know it had a name. Here’s my effort for this week. After you’ve read it please be sure to go here to check out other responses to the prompt!

Vessel

I felt that sharp fierce joy

I grasped it with my right hand

I held it there encupped

Then I opened my fingers

And saw an empty palm

I felt that deep bitter despair

I clutched it in my left hand

I held it there imprisoned

Then I opened my fingers

And saw an empty palm

I couldn’t hold the joy

I couldn’t hold the despair

I felt freedom caress my cheek

Then I drank the wide blue sky

And poured it out for you

Rooked

I wrote this for the poetry jam, where the prompt this week is "you can go home again." I had so many memories to choose from, but for some reason this particular one bubbled to the surface. As soon as I thought of it I was right back there in the kitchen of the home where I grew up. It makes me laugh now, but I have to tell you that I spent the entire summer being indignant. Of course, I was a teenager, so indignant was my natural state.

Rooked

I stand at the kitchen island
case knife in one hand,
Duke’s mayo jar in the other.
Muttering under my breath
I fling the ham and the cheese
then start on the banana sandwich,
schmear saltines with peanut butter.
Aggrieved sighing accompanies
the scooping of cottage cheese
and canned pear halves.
This was the summer
I packed my dad’s lunch
every single day
because my mom
cheated at cards.

To read more homegoing tales, go here.

Weary

Photograph of Florence Thompson with three of her children by Dorthea Lange, 1936. Reproduced from The Commons on Flickr with use restricted to personal, educational or research purposes.

Weary

I move through the rooms of my life
As if in a dream, exhausted by
All those undone and undoable things
As if in a nightmare, moving through
Molasses air and endless hallways
As if my life were an inescapable burden
Placed upon my bent and broken back
My rucksack is full of food and clean water
And currency for the desires of my heart
In that rucksack is a college degree
And an embarrassment of shoes
I have five pairs of black trousers
The back of my petulance is broken with blessings.


This poem is for the Poetry Jam and for my ABC’s of Gratitude series. Almost done!

Ghost Jam

Chris from Enchanted Oak has stirred the pot and these words surfaced: laugh laundry ghost edges beer. She told us to write a poem using those five words. It brought to mind an incident from my college days. Go here to see how other folks respond to the prompt.

Ghost

I remember that night
On the edges of my memory
Laundry would have been safer
But since when does nineteen
Do the safe thing?
I can still hear your laugh
Cynical and you warned
Me that you were a little bit drunk
You kissed me in the back seat
With an apology, but I said I didn’t mind.
It was the first time that I tasted beer.

Any Saturday in October

Jessica Maybury has charged the jammers with writing a love poem. Go here to read other responses to the prompt. Here's my effort!

Any Saturday in October

You call my name.

Indulgent, I turn my head

and gaze at my

heart.

I watch the flowers rushing by

outside the window,

stealing glances at your

beloved profile.

The night air is cool.

But your arm is warm

around my shoulders.

We watch the growing moon,

marveling at planets

and our own contentment.

Would you trade this moment

for any other?

Dreaming with Mrs. Maxwell

Margaret at Poetry Jam has given us the task of writing about something that bothered us about ourselves when we were younger that ended up helping us succeed. Or the other way around – something we thought was good that has actually hindered us. This is tough for me because I tend to think of my flaws as being ginormous & in desperate need of changing. Alternatively, I can’t imagine any positive thing about myself that isn’t for the best of humankind. Yes, there I am in a nutshell: insecure egomaniac. It’s hard being me. Heh. And I’m continuing to type as I try to come up with something to write about. Hmm. Well, there’s this picture here, which is the Magpie prompt. Perhaps that will inspire me?

Dreaming with Mrs. Maxwell

When I was a child

I often lived in

another world –

one where

nuclear elephants

grew wings and

were forces of good.

They solved many

crimes and the winged

elephants carried

me safely away

in my hazmat suit.

But then Mrs. Maxwell

rapped my small hand

with her wooden ruler

and I arrived firmly

back in first grade

reading about Dick

and Jane and that dog

that wouldn’t listen.

Mrs. Maxwell tried

but it never really took.

That rapped hand

has since written

many a dream.

Note: Mrs. Maxwell had discussed what to do with my mother before she used the ruler (this was in 1970 or so). When she talked to my mother about it afterward they both cried. I loved Mrs. Maxwell!

2^nd Note: I probably didn’t actually dream about nuclear elephants when I was a first grader – that was more of a 7^th grade daydream.

Fictional Jam

Barbara at the Poetry Jam has given us this prompt:

...It's the details of those made-up worlds that get me buzzed. What would Scarlet O'Hara's curtain dress smell like? (or the inside of the Trojan horse) What would an adult, looking out the kitchen window, see when we know Snoopy is at this typewriter? Give us a little something that never made it into the story. Awful. Wonderful. Awfully silly.

Here's my (awfully) silly response :)

Mary’s Desk

She thought she could
probably just fit
underneath
(dried up gum
brushing her hair).
Sinking below the
cacophony she
closed her eyes.
It smelt of shoes
and chalk and paste
and, distressingly,
it smelt a bit
like wool.

Not sure what I'm talking about? Go here. And go here to read other responses to the prompt.

Secret Jam

Dani from Haiku Love Songs is making the Jam this week. She has given us several images from which to get our inspiration. The photos were taken by Ainsley Allmark at Dolphin Visions. They're all really lovely - you should go here to see the other options and to check out what other poets did with them. Here is mine.

The Tree of You
 
I know I’m not your first love.
For example, there’s always
been Stevie with her
gravel & grace.
You have your secret dreams
and secret places.
I want to march through
that forest with the
gibbous moon
for cold company.
I want to climb into
the tree of you
and pluck your hidden
thoughts like ripe apples.
Then I catch sight of you
at the edge of the meadow.
You have your walking stick
in your right hand and
illumination in your left hand.
Carrying a basket to hold the fruit,
I follow.

Poetry Jam - the One about the Drugs...

Lilu over at Poetry Jam has challenged us to write about prescription drugs. I've written perhaps the worst poem I've ever written - no really, it's fairly horrid. I wish I could blame some prescription drugs, but as you can see at the end that isn't the case. Go here to read what will probably be some excellent poetry on the subject.

I'd like to apologize for the poem on another level. I know that there are a lot of people for whom prescription drugs are a real problem. And I always assumed that if I was ever given access to the right narcotic it would be a problem for me too.

Farewell Little Pill

I don’t drink or smoke dope
in case that would be the rope

to hang myself in addiction.

But my recent hospital stay

found me eager to say

please wipe away this affliction.

I welcomed the narcotic.

Its effects were quite cathartic.

My pain was drowned in sweet relief.

But I was fairly bemused

and (when awake) was confused

by the appeal of this stuff on the street.

It eased the pain in my hip

and when the pain was gone I quit.

The End.

In an oxycontin haze...

Krispy Kreme Jam

Evelyn from Filling a Hole is the jam maker this week & has asked us to write a funny poem. I have other poems that I think are actually funnier, but this memory makes me laugh every time I think about it, & I’ve never written a poem about it. I decided it was high time I did. It might be one of those “you had to be there” things, but I don’t care. Ha! If you want to read other, probably funnier, poems, go here.

Krispy Kreme Doughnuts

It’s midnight and I’m

sitting in the back seat

holding on for dear life.

“Hey Mom – I’m not too

sure this is a good idea!”

But Lucy & Ethel just

laugh maniacally as we

career through those

dark Charlotte streets

making illegal U-turns

in our quest for the coda

of our concert experience.

I’ll take a half dozen

chocolate covered

kreme filled please

and eat them all by myself

in that back seat cocoon,

ignoring the further

traffic law defying

antics of Lucy and Ethel.

I’m humming Islands in the Stream

and wondering if that cute

lead singer for Sawyer Brown

is really as short as he looks.

Sue and Mom

[Note: My mom & her best friend were absolutely hilarious to hang out with – they truly were Lucy & Ethel to me. I used to go to concerts & shopping with them in Charlotte NC, about an hour from our home. Each trip was a total blast, and always ended with swinging by the doughnut shop on the way home. The fact that you couldn’t really get there without making several illegal u-turns was no impediment to my mother.]

Things Are Looking Up

I haven't written a poem in so long that I think I've forgotten how. But I decided that I would just jump back into the fray & hope that the quality improves with time. Kind of like how I'm re-learning to walk without a limp.

Mary, from In the Corner of My Eye is stirring the Poetry Jam this week & has asked us to write a poem about Always Looking Up. Here's my response - thanks for getting me going again Mary! Go here to read other responses to the prompt.

Things Are Looking Up

I’m examining the cracks

on the sidewalk.

They are my enemy

as I hobble along.

Leaning on this vital stick,

I consider the grim reality

of pitted concrete

and an unsteady gait.

Oh, but it won’t be too long

until I am looking up

at the sky and the trees

and the face of my companion.

Each step is a giant step

on this moon-cratered concrete.

I risk a glance at your face

and smile fiercely at the sun.

Mom Boxes Rerun

I was going to write something new for the Poetry Jam. Chris from Enchanted Oak has asked us to write a poem about the loss of something beloved. I wanted to maybe talk about my beloved lunch bag that I lost a few months ago, or my mobility, or the more recent loss of my mother-in-law. And I might come up with something new later on because the topic intrigues me. However, for now, I'm bringing out a poem I wrote almost a year ago. I didn't change the passage of time in the poem, but if you're keeping track, it would now be six years, one hundred thirty seven days and one hour, give or take.

Mom Boxes

It's been
five years, one hundred
forty two days and
four and one half hours
(give or take)
since you left.

I have boxes that
store my memories -
good and bad.
I sometimes mix them up -
thinking I'm opening
the 30th birthday box
and there you are -
five years, one hundred
forty two days and
four and one half hours
ago (give or take).

Frantic,
I open boxes
willy nilly
only to find you
there in all of them.

Here is my wedding day,
and here is that trip
to look at colleges,
and the time I busted my chin,
and the time you came to Africa,
and there you are just beyond
the window where I can't
see you anymore.

I am a woman grown
and it's been
five years one hundred
forty two days and
four and one half hours
(give or take),
and obviously
(obviously),
we aren't done yet,
are we?

Please go here to read other elegies.

When I’m 67

It's time for some Poetry Jam & I am the chef du jour. I was dismayed to realize after reading the prompt (that I wrote, mind you) that I didn't have any idea what I was going to do about it. Here's what I said:

...write about what you think your life will be like at age 67. If you're already there, then tell us what your life is like now. And while you're at it, write in a form you don't usually use. If you're a rhymer, don't rhyme. If you're not a rhymer, rhyme.

Well I have to say I did not find that to be a very easy prompt (sorry!). Of course, I'm not really feeling the poetry these days anyway. But I prevailed & wrote the following. I didn't feel like rhyming, so what's different about this poem is that I made the lines a lot longer than I usually do. Woo and hoo. Heh. Anyway, after you read this one please go here to read what other poets have written.

When I’m 67

There are two versions of my life –

the one I’m living and the one that I want to live.

Shifting to ease my ancient bones

I list the sins that that litter the doorway

between the two.

There is avarice and a toddler’s egotism

and the belief that now is all that will ever be –

that bread today might not be here tomorrow.

It makes me sad, to see my mean spirit

exposed this way.

Not everything needs to be swept away.

My heart is sometimes opened wide for love –

opened wide for God’s least of these (amen) –

and opened wide for justice most of all.

Opened wide.

I look down that long road with hope

that I’ve made it through that coveted doorway.

But mostly, I want a desk, a chair, a descendent of

this computer and you with that irresistible dimple

just there.

Apple Jam

This week's Poetry Jam theme (by Butler & Bagman) is TEMPTATION. Because my muse & I are on a break, I'm recycling a poem from last September. Enjoy! And then go read other poems about temptation here.

Absently I take a bite.

I’m not really

Paying attention

Not really tasting

That tart enticement

In just such an

Offhand way

I lose my innocence

-------------

[Note: for those who read yesterday's post, my doctor was not concerned about my cholesterol. She was concerned that some of the results of the blood test point to kidney problems & has ordered more tests. Perhaps my ibuprofen habit is coming back to haunt me. We'll see!]

Ordinary Girl

Jessica Maybury is stirring the Poetry Jam pot this week & has given us a choice of two prompts: 1) write about insomnia, or 2) write about these pictures: here, here and here. I chose option #2. I sort of followed instructions. As per usual, I didn't have a lot of control over the end result. (I wonder if I should explore the possibility of automatic writing). Anyway, here you go!

Ordinary Girl

I have always been
an ordinary girl.

Brown & brown

and pale pale skin.

I watch my eyes

in this broken mirror,

fractured irises

reflected back.

I wonder if I were to

wear my broken soul

would it be Hello Kitty

or Morticia Addams?

Or, even broken,

is my soul an

ordinary girl

too?

Please go here to read other Poetry Jam poems!

Babe Ruth League

Jeanne Iris is stirring the pot this week & has asked us to write about our favorite summer sport (she wrote about tubing, here). I have always been an unathletic slacker (I think it was in my teenage bylaws & I just never rewrote them), and while I do have memories of playing softball, I wouldn't call it a favorite. And, really, we know what my favorite summer sport is. I was really going to try to not write about it again, but my cranky teenage muse had other ideas. Sorry!

Babe Ruth League

My Mom can’t talk again.
She has screamed her head off
(not literally, but nearly).
I watch you pitch or play third,
wondering how soon I can
get my suicide from the drink stand.
I was pretty darn proud of you –
this is most definitely true –
but I was at the game
to see the other cute guys
(who weren’t my brother),
to drink that suicide,
and to enjoy a speechless
mother at the end of the day.


Join in the fun! Go here to read the prompt & check out other poets.

Note: A suicide was a squirt of each of the soft drink flavors in the dispenser mixed all together. The ones I remember from my youth were best because they had Cheerwine in them (a cherry flavored soft drink). Yum!

The Summer of Marigolds

For the Poetry Jam this week Poetikat has charged us with the task of writing a dark poem about flowers. Having recently had an interesting flower experience at my mother-in-law’s viewing I imagined that I would write about that. But I couldn’t put that into words just yet. So instead I offer this. It might actually not be dark enough for Kat, but in the tradition of the poetry bus (now jam) I’m sticking my tongue out at her & posting this anyway. Ha! Please go here to read other rebellious, or conforming, entries.

Kindergarten Bug

The Summer of Marigolds

There were marigolds
lining the sidewalk
at my cousin‘s house.
I ran through them
and said, “Simon Says”
and “Mother May I”
and something
complicated about
ice cream and black
widow spiders.
Games of childhood
when I belonged.
In the fall, when the
marigolds were gone
I learned to read
and never really
belonged again.

In my minds eye
I watch that laughing girl.
Did I kill her with books?
Or save her.

1st Grade Bug

Grace Filled Jam

Brian Miller is stirring the jam this week & has instructed us to write a poem based on our favorite song. I like music, but often sit in silence rather than listen to it. And in my car I listen to books (music just makes me want to ram people with my car). So in thinking about what song to consider for the poetry jam I kept thinking about Amazing Grace since church music is one pretty consistent thing in my life. But I decided to wait to see what kind of music they had at my mother-in-law’s funeral first. Of course one of the hymns we sang was Amazing Grace. Did you expect anything else?

Grace

What is grace
but the thing that
makes a family?
Your father’s eyes
fill and overspill
as he gazes upon his love,
that final caress
of eyes and heart.
And I witness this
moment because
my blind eyes
were opened
that long ago night
and I accepted the
gift of unmistakable
miraculous grace -
the gift of you.

I always thank my God as I remember you in my prayers …Philemon 1:4

Go check out the other jammers here - I think it should be pretty interesting this week!

Summer Jam

Margaret has asked us to write a poem about our favorite summertime activity. Being a sedentary sort, I think that I've captured my favorite summer activity perfectly. Go here to read other poems, most likely filled with more interesting activities!

By the way - I was feeling stumped so I pulled my old college trick & asked my cousin KJ to give me a line to write about. So, to be perfectly honest, the first two lines are hers.

Summer sits on the
edge of her seat
vibrating with anger.
Thunder rolls.
Lightening flashes.
She glares balefully at
that brazen Spring.

Spring, always in a hurry
scorns soft days for
heady heat.

And I, caught between,
lift my face to the sun.