poem!
Ode to the Guy Chopping the Tree
I googled it, and apparently the job is called Tree Climber
I step outside with the dog and
find myself
staring and analyzing your every move.
You are so high
taking steps up
the trunk,
pausing, moving your lasso tether up each time it dips below your waist,
leaning back against the rope,
trusting balance
but moving methodically,
pulling the trimmer up on the rope where it hangs
somehow
from your waist? or shoulder? or back?
and chopping a branch on one side
moving up a foot more
chopping a branch on the other side,
obviously evaluating each small movement,
the picking up of the electric trimmer,
the letting it go,
the shifting of the lasso,
the leaning back into it,
your feet, planted into the trunk and moving
in steps that combine the short-term accomplishments with
your big-picture long-term goals
Make the area safer
and do it in a way that won’t kill me
that won’t involve dropping branches on workers below
but will still be close enough to the wood chipper
avoiding immoveable branches, interminable distances
and always and still and also don’t cut
indiscriminately
because
after all
these are trees.
They matter.
The dog insists on going in. I think about writing and how the labor
is similar but not the same as climbing and cutting trees.
I look out the back window. You are slowly moving down now,
cutting the trunk above you as you go,
making your precarious work look easy
but from afar I see the concentrated focus of mind and body in your sweaty art.
The woods are lovely, bright, and green.
I watch you climb and cut and lean.
Yet I turn from the window to the screen
I turn from the window to the screen
faith hope love for $7
#NationalPoetryMonth
I started April writing several poems, partly because it’s fun to write poetry, partly because I’ve been all about doing projects of all sorts in order to keep myself from working every waking hour (or feeling guilty about not working every waking hour).
I painted a china cabinet. I’ve continued to have fun with my Irish tin whistle (that phrasing sounds inappropriate, but I’m talking about playing the instrument….okay, that still sounds inappropriate, so I’m just gonna let it go). I’ve done some workouts available on OnDemand. I visited some colleges with my favorite daughter (I only have one daughter, and she’s my favorite), and I worked on some mega spreadsheets to help her make a decision about where to enroll. I’ve done some reading.
And I wrote poems at the start of April, which is National Poetry Month.
Not bad.
This morning, I was hanging out on social media, and suddenly I didn’t need to look for a poem because a poem found me. Or at least the inspiration for a poem. We will see what happens. Here goes.
faith hope love for $7
—clearly the best deal available at the Putnam Yard Sale.
You’re imagining knick knacks and tchotchkes
in unceremonious rows and piles on cheap folding tables
while browsers scan for treasures and see only junk,
sometimes saying a cheery hello to the sellers in their suburban driveways
but mostly shifting eyes away, ashamed to see the sad spoils of a household,
ashamed at all that ends up relegated to the sales table,
ashamed if they want the leftovers Susan has affixed a fluorescent stickered price to
and embarrassed for Susan if they see nothing of value
at all.
You’re hoping for a meet cute, for two hands reaching for the ceramic frog at once.
You hope that the relentless pursuit of treasure among yard sales of consumer waste
might be a symbol of faith and of hope and
might result in love
—the unexpected take-away as they each pitch in $3.50
for shared custody of the ceramic frog (originally priced at $10)
and it eventually sits on their mantle
and they tell the story to their grandchildren
and they don’t mind when little Bobby drops the frog and chips it, exposing its fragility.
After all, it was imperfect when they bought it, so many years ago,
together.
But my story is of a Facebook notification:
“Susan added 6 photos in Putnam Yard Sale.”
I click and scan the china place settings, imagine the dinnerware in my household.
I scroll down: toy box, dog cage, mattress, blazer.
This page is a veritable folding table
overflowing with household castaways,
The Island of Misfit Toys or Corduroy
hoping, always hoping, a little girl will take him home despite his missing button.
After the mini travel blow dryer and
before the huge estate sale
the poem arrives.
FAITH LOVE HOPE
$7
Susan has posted it, the same Susan with the 6 photos of china that drew me here.
I imagine it is her hand in the photo, holding the framed piece upright
on the quartz countertop
with dark kitchen chairs in the background.
In her ad she has switched the order of the words from the “art” she is selling.
She has transformed lowercase swirly script into capitalized block.
faith
hope
love
They appear on a heart stretched vertically to hold the words
offset by polka-dot backgrounds in complementary pinks and browns
and double matting.
It is the best deal of the day—
in whatever order, faith hope love for $7.
I predict no one will buy it
maybe because it’s in the wrong place and needs other hands to pick it up, to hold it,
to sense some value in it
—to at least see the potential in the frame and matting
that could hold something, someday, worth keeping
How much I love Callie
You probably won’t understand my fourth poem of National Poetry Month, but I simply
PUPPIES!
I was trying to say that I really
PUPPIES!
Huh. Well,
maybe if I tell you that yesterday she texted me a photo of her English paper assignment and followed it with a row of exclamation points, you might begin to understand how much I
PUPPIES!
What?! Shall I try to tell you a different way?
She is versatile, able to move from artist to mathematician, from deep thinker to goofball.
We love to shop for her prom dresses together.
She doesn’t want to have kids but she loves to babysit.
She asks repeatedly if she is similar to me and doesn’t seem bothered when we both realize she is.
She has photos of friends and family all over her room.
She tells me stories of her days at school. She asks for my stories.
She loves music and watches terrible TV and reads nonfiction books about Russia.
Whenever we go to the mall, we make time for ice cream, or pretzels if it’s a lame mall without an ice cream shop.
She can write.
I’m feeling all Cordelia-like, except I’m actually trying to capture something and failing badly instead of saying “nothing”—what a stupid premise for tragedy, really! Use your words, Cordelia!
And I’ll use mine as I end this poem about how much I
PUPPIES!
Ugh.
Channel
It’s National Poetry Month and I’m writing a poem a day. It’s 11:07pm. I’ve been working on the fall schedule, which mostly involves telling people they cannot teach when they want to teach because classrooms are not available at that time (whatever time faculty have requested). It’s one of the suckier parts of my job—trying to make things work with constraints beyond my control.
And I’ve been working on taxes.
It’s 11:08pm. Now 11:09pm. I’m in a horrible mood. But remembering about writing a poem is helping. I’ve got something to do with my pent-up negative energy.
Channel
A soft blanket covered with elephants and
my super-pretty lamp nearby and
the sound of my daughter blowing her nose upstairs are
not enough to keep the wolves at bay.
The bristly beasts stir inside my bones, wrestling to
get fully out, growling as
my son’s phone buzzes over and over and over to
my left and the folder of tax information lies open to
my right, accusing me of screwing things up and
emptying the accounts, and why does that
freaking phone keep buzzing and buzzing don’t
these kids ever need to sleep and leave me the
ah. I haven’t written the poem yet. I
feel the wolves settle into my
bones, soothed, knowing they
will speak and be
herd
And now I’ve made myself laugh because I’m a sucker for a wolf pun.
contained
It’s National Poetry Month! I’m trying to write a poem every day. Today I went here and am using prompt #1 even though it is Day #2.
- Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.
The book (borrowed from my Aunt Marie, about my maternal grandfather’s family roots):
Words from p. 29:
contained born Cunningham emigrant vessel remainder lives record death family Board cove ship sailing lost
Poem:
contained
Sometimes I don’t completely follow the rules.
An emigrant vessel sailing through mornings of cereal or toast,
drinking from family-etched coffee mugs,
I record my journeys—lost and found in the daily rituals,
faking profound thoughts and stepping back to look and laugh,
to remind myself (and you) that no cove or gentle rest
or “Final Answer” in our Who Wants to Be a Millionaire lives
awaits
except death.
I’m on board with that eventual emigration, but
let’s play through the remainder of days and nights,
steering our ships by charts and stars we don’t know how to read
in waters of unfathomable depths
or sometimes—let’s be honest—rocky shallows
while appreciating how delicious breakfast can be
Ode to my heart
April is National Poetry Month, and I just saw a Twitter challenge to write a poem every day. @WTangerine is providing a prompt each day, and today’s prompt is: Write an Ode to Your Heart.
Here goes.
Ode to My Heart
Today is your day, oh heart of mine.
April 1 foolishness
the fibs and lies and tricks
the jokes laughter silliness bubbling up & over & out
—Our human condition?
Easter risings
cycles of dying resting stirring in the tomb & suddenly
against all boulders of reason
walking freely & rejoicing in the feel of sunlight on the face
bare feet on the dirt
and the 1916 passion to stand
to fall
to arouse the hearts of others who had been walking numbly
settling
as if barely okay in loose shackles is all they dared hope for.
You, my brave heart, know better. Or perhaps
it’s that you depend on laughter, that you find ways to get a kick
out of the ongoing trick.
Easter weekend in Maine
I posted this poem on 5 April 2015 on Facebook. Something about the recent snow or maybe my parents’ visit to my home in NY made me think of it, and I thought I’d place it here as well, where I can more easily find it.
Easter Weekend in Maine
“I can’t believe how much snow has melted since you arrived,” my mother says.
Three generations smile through windows at sparkling snows and soggy grass,
wonder at bowing trees and belligerent winds,
worry over splintered branches on the shrub by the front door.
It’s all right.
We ask small questions, eat small meals, play Monopoly, take turns insisting on cleaning up. SpongeBob and true crime stories punctuate the silences and conversations.
We move through ordinary days,
measuring time with arrivals and departures and the transformative waters that mark our homes.
taken in Mahopac NY Nov 2016, but it made me think of looking out windows in Maine in April
Shoveling when I should be grading
The driveway stretches from the garage to the street
unmarked except
unproductive footsteps
my trudging for shovel
searching
for the best way to begin
I scoop from the garage, close to the right side of the drive,
feeling with the shovel’s blade
for the place where blacktop meets grass.
I uncover the edge of the path—narrow,
the width of two shovel horizons,
leading around the side of the house.
I turn my back on the driveway, let the repetition
lead me until I’ve cleared my way to the recycle bin
and turn back.
From the garage, moving outward,
crossing the driveway in short diagonals:
Arms, legs, shoulders, back—I bend,
lift, push out or flip over—
again and again, pausing to strategize, to see the
white, the mounds, the distance, the work.
I measure what I’ve done, what I’ve left to do.
Relish the challenge.
Ignore the layer of white hiding the rectangle of black that I already cleared,
ignore the startling snowflakes,
ignore the stark trees in stoic relief,
try to ignore the guilt I feel
but it comes to me in metaphors
If I don’t shovel now, it will be more difficult later.
The day will warm, the rain will come, the snow will grow heavy.
And it feels good—to lift, to move, to see what I’ve done, even though there’s always more to do.
I head inside, open my laptop, and
write a poem when I should be grading.
But I’ve written the path to the recycle bin now, am ready to head back to the drive,
to clear my way to the street, telling myself to relish
the startling snowflakes, the stark trees, the work.
the ride
at Idlewild Amusement Park with my young daughter
Callie and I start with the Spider.
Our first twisty-spin-and-sudden-dip around,
my body remembers this feeling and relaxes
into the wild ride and the wide blue sky.
But Callie is a crunched “C” atop the seat,
back forward, head down, fists clenched
around the safety bar, arms and legs
braced rigid against the movement.
My right arm finds its way around her in the
swooping chaos, draws her to me;
my left hand releases the safety
bar loosely grasped and holds her
left arm firmly.
I am an out of control cocoon.
Spin madly with me, my Monkey Girl.
Laugh and scream with me in
dizzy joy.
Feel my arms around you and feel safe.
Don’t notice that I’m holding onto nothing—
Nothing except you.
first drafted July 2010
The day after commencement
I came across this bit of writing today when I was cleaning out some Notes. Notes are some kind of app that comes with my Mac and my iPhone and my iPad (back before my son somehow acquired my iPad for his own use). I don’t know why I wrote this particular thing in my Notes, but it was interesting for me to read a year later. So I thought I’d share it here.
Enjoy.
Day after commencement
I’ve taken the dog to the parkSwept out the garage andVacuumed cobwebs from the underside of the wheelbarrowI weeded one bed, newly defined and mulched at last summer’s endI took Callie out to breakfast. We chatted about writing and poems and we laughed when walking back to the car because she said, “I have to write a sonnet. I don’t know what to write about. I really don’t want to write this sonnet” and only minutes before we had noted that she is always Tom Sawyer at first, never wanting to whitewash that fence, but she always turns into Tom’s friends, finding joy in the chore that is now pleasure well executed.I assisted Jace as he made brownies with chocolate chip cookies on top.And nowI’m in the sun on the back deck in a blue bikiniReading and dozingAnd summoned to look at the wonder of the backyardThe chattering invisible birds punctuated by a regular 2-note reminder of a voice and a pattern and the lives beyond my own.I’m restless: Can I look and not notice the weeds? Can I relax and wonder and be in the moment without the evaluation and coming up short? Can I love this weedy yard and my big thighs and the conversations I had yesterday that I don’t understand because so many so often seem ready to take offense?I notice my impulse to fix and improve. I tell myself Iove the whole thing, weeds and all. I tell myself that “weed” is an unfair word; it sets up the undesirability of the plant from the get-go.My thoughts spin lazily round and round, the sun brightening the inside of my eyelids, me wanting to make things better, me wanting to accept things as they are, me, knowing I won’t ever be a bird without a care but at least I know to take time to read in the sun on the back deck when one more academic year is done.
- I had forgotten about making brownies with chocolate chip cookies on top. How yummy!
- I still wear that blue bikini (and a couple other bikinis as well, but not all at the same time) and I still read and doze on the deck. Ahh.
- I have no idea what I was referencing when I described “a regular 2-note reminder of a voice and a pattern and the lives beyond my own.” Was that my phone? the peepers in the creek behind my house? something else? I really don’t know….
- I vividly remember a reception I attended after commencement last year (“the conversations I had yesterday that I don’t understand because so many so often seem ready to take offense”). Two people—both were administrators in love with the university president—reacted with great umbrage to innocent questions I asked, which is an unusual experience for me. But lots of stuff went down in the following year, and it turns out I’m occasionally a force to be reckoned with, so maybe those two people somehow already knew as much. It’s funny that I exaggerated with the phrases “so many” and “so often.” Um, two, Laurie. Just two people. Just two times. Lol. So dramatic.
- I can’t believe how much I got done that day! I’m like some kind of freaking super woman. Part of me wants to edit some of that out of the writing, both because it sound a bit show off-y and because Guilt. Past Me is making Present Me all ashamed of my lack of productivity. Which is totally not the point of the writing. But I’m too lazy to edit. (did you see what I did there?? embracing my lack of productivity, baby!)
- I still struggle with the tension between improving and just loving things (including myself) as is. I feel like the kinds of wisdom I constantly hear are about acceptance, but that’s not always so practical, and even total acceptance seems like something I’m supposed to strive for, which is annoying. Don’t make me strive and tell me not to strive at the same time! Ugh.
- I just reread, and I think the part about Callie and Tom Sawyer makes me feel better about productivity and acceptance and laziness. All kinds of moments can be filled with joy. Sometimes I get too caught up in what I’m “supposed” to do or “need” to do, and the pleasure disappears until I remember that often these exact things are what I want to do. I think I enjoyed all kinds of activities in the day after commencement last year, and writing it out was not a way to inspire guilt in Future Me but instead was meant to remind Future Me of an ordinary day that was full of pleasure. Again: Ahh.
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