Poetics: The Stuff of Life in Old Reno

The streets were gray, safe alleyways
showed some minor decay.
Bums slept there at night under neon signs
as street walkers strutted by.
In winter there was snow—
the valley air was crisp and clear,
scrubbed by high desert winds.
Morning came and many casino
workers mixed with fewer office
workers on the sidewalks, as some
drunk gamblers swayed, holding smudged
drink glasses, bleary-eyed and determined
to break even in the new day.
And all were connected by scent from the
old brick corner bakery with steamy windows—
a sweet yeasty aroma created in the
dark of night when the baker and his crew
in white aprons mixed and kneaded
and baked breads so sumptuous
as to make the people proud to live there,
to breathe the same air, to break bread
with one another, to be nourished for another day.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Grace, in a truly lovely prompt, asked us to write about bread.
.

Poetics: Reno

 

A homecoming

Everything, everything I saw while driving
there was enveloped in beauty.
Besotted with three great forests, I
had haiku in my head, celebrations
transferred to scrappy notes at stops along
the way and later simply written on
paper with the steering wheel for support
as I drove. Everything, everything so
sublimely crystal real had full appeal
until, seemingly surreal,
The Biggest Little City came into view.

How now brown cow town,
with your bawdy teats suckling the masses
who build on your dry rolling hills, sucking
the life out of my memories of the place
where my mother breastfed me
in a room near the Truckee River, the
place where my haiku stream ran dry.....

But some love the town I left long
ago and left again, this time feeling
somehow renewed in spite of the disjunction
as, in spite of myself, a part of me
functions there still: a little blessing part that
whispers "please stop growing" - all the while
knowing it won't, and guessing it does not
mind that my mind was fresh with haiku
once I reached the next timber line
where everything was everything.

~~~

Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Abhra shares beautiful thoughts about frequent moving, and returning home, then asks us to compose a poem about a homecoming: "what it is to stay away and the coming back after a long time – have you been worried that the place you call home has changed all the time you have been away?"

~~~

This scene seems necessary to me. RIP, Robin Williams.

.

Poetics: Animal Symbolism or Antics — Cats

 Image: painting by Karen Margulis

Cats:
beings
so sublime,
mysterious,
e'er independent;
Up, down, here, there! - and then
sleeping, tucked in by the sun,
lost in dreams of earth and cosmos.
Worshipped by ancients, with them preserved;
My lap reserved for the one I adore.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, hosted this week by Marina Sofia. Her prompt, Animal Symbolism or Antics, invited us to write a poem about an animal. Mine is written in the poetry form, Etheree, which consists of ten lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables.
.

Poetics: It's a micro/macro world—Tracings

Image by Shanyn Silinski


This is what Woman is about! — The photographer
traced outlines of her curves with an ice cube.
She posed in a flotation tube,
dreamed she was an astronomer.
Heard: Pout!



 ***
 
Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Shanyn Silinski shares her micro/macro photography (lovely, indeed) and challenges us to write a poem in 140 characters describing one of them.
.

Poetics — Looking up at the source

Image: Look Up! by Katie N

My mother described the tiny place she rented
in Reno, the place in that town that became my
first home. I recall nothing of it except
what she told me: It was miniscule, a room
in the back of someone's house - with a private
entrance off a courtyard. She cooked her meals
on a warming plate and breastfed me as the
January snow fell. In months her husband
was gone and it was quiet, so quiet then,
a silence broken only by our crying for
different reasons. The seasons changed to
a tentative spring and she introduced me to
the courtyard, where, bundled warmly and
laying in a buggy, I fell in love.

The glorious giant spreading above me began
to bud and to teach me slowly about time, showing
me day-by-day how that season would change
to another. My mother marveled as I lay there
contentedly— hours long staring up,
eyes moving from limb to leave to bird to blue
blue sky beyond. Soundlessly, I would weep—
bright baby tears streaking my face—all the while
smiling.




Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Björn Rudberg's exquisite prompt is Under the canopy, and invites us to write tree poetry. As I have had a lifelong love affair with trees it was difficult to decide which one to consider, so I went back to the source.
.

Poetics — These boots

These boots have not taken me anywhere.
Yet.

I do dream of the places we could tread
together, but I must of course first
get

them. Then we'll go to Romania, Scotland,
Vienna, and Paris -- places I have not seen
yet.

We'll walk the streets of New York
again, and tip a street vendor who
has knitted the perfect scarf and
see what's on exhibit at the marvelous
Met.

We'll visit my hometown, kick up
our heels in the old stomping grounds,
pose for pictures from my knees-down
in the sweet old schoolyard where
my first love and I long ago
met.

Sometimes we will just stay close to
home and eat at Los Girasoles, have
a delicious traditional Chavindeca
served by the daughter of the cook--
A family pulling together, making the
American dream from their tears and
sweat.

I think these are the loveliest boots
and wonder where we might wander.
Will I make such a splurge to have
them, and if I do will my dreams
come true? I am not sure. What's your
bet?

***

Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where our host Shanyn Silinski 

offers a most whimsical prompt titled A mile in these SHOES. 

.

Poetics — Save me

I know, dear one, I know.
The ice flow beyond this soggy floater is a
swim through water once solid where you romped,
your cubs by your side in the mornings, later safely
hidden inside a cold cave while you hunted. It
smelled of your sleep, had special bones in small piles
reminding them of your care, telling them
of the sacred life of the Polar Bear.

Now there are haunting reports that you
sometimes must hunt your own kind, hideous
acts far removed from your natural ways.
Your great beings must suffer this
demonic forced survival skill only
to keep your tender promise: that your
cubs will not starve while waiting your return.

And so your soul beseeches mine to save you, begs I
summon even my last act as a force on your behalf.
(My kind is hot for distinction, thinks little about
extinction.) I know, dear one, I know.
What would my life matter if I did not care,
if I did not remind them again and again
of the sacred life of the Polar Bear?


***
Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where our host Claudia has us "writing to the artwork of Catrin Welz-Stein." Ms.Welz-Stein, a German artist who lives in Zürich, was kind enough to share with us six of her amazing works from which to choose one as our writing prompt this week. You can enjoy more of her artwork at http://catrinwelzstein.blogspot.de/

***
If my post moves you to learn more about the Polar Bear's struggle for survival on a warming planet, I selected from Charity Navigator some three- and four-star (the highest rating) charities working on their behalf as possible donation sites for your consideration. They are:
Natural Resources Defense Council (4-stars)
The Wilderness Society (3-stars)
Trustees for Alaska (4-stars)
Defenders of Wildlife (3-stars)
Conservation International (4-stars)
Wildlife Conservation Network (4-stars).
World Wildlife Fund (3-stars)
.

Poetics — Playing with Slogans

It's Not All Passion, Passion, Passion, you know.

Enter a word for your own slogan:

Generated by the Advertising Slogan Generator. Get more passion slogans.

It's not all passion, passion,
passion, you know. You know
it's not, more or less,
all that. It's more. And,
lest you forget, it's more
than all passion,

It's less. Moreover, it's
complicated in its simplicity.
Simply put, complications
arise. So deal with them. Don't
allow complications to
deal the cards. It's not the
luck of the draw. It's reality.

Tending to reality makes
it real. Makes it hurt, makes
it tender. Love me tender.

Talk and listen. Tell new
stories; hear old ones again,
again, again, without
sighing. Save the sighs
for your passion.

Let it simmer in the morn,
sizzle in the night.
Reverse the order; know
that timing is right.
Question right and wrong;
to your own self be true.
Know it's right to live your
own truth and wrong to
live one another's. Dream

freely, scheme rarely. Laugh
often. Save the frowns
for doodles, or for wars
among peoples -- but not you
two people. Get along well,
or, well, get alone. Get alone
with your doggy or your kid
or your soul.

Reflect and remember: It's all
passion, passion,
passion, you
know.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Brian Miller wants us to play with slogans this week. I found a site that actually allowed me to do just that: The Advertising Slogan Generator! I settled on the above slogan for the word Passion. But that was only after laughing myself silly with slogans generated using other words. Some examples generated for other words I selected were..... for Truth: Because Truth is Complicated Enough; Time to Make the Truth; Truth, Take Me Away......for War: It Takes a Tough Man to Make a Tender War.......for September: You've Got Questions. We've Got September; September Saves Your Soul........and for Interesting Times: My Goodness, My Interesting Times!

.

Poetics — Dear Bonbon,

You never learned to read but
you are old now and one day
in some foggy otherworld you
may have a knowing that this
is for you.

Puppy, I taught you to count to five
and have since counted my blessings
that the quick commands included my
fingers in scrambled succession -- one,
four, five, three, two --
as well as my voice, as well as
our happy eyes admiring one
another in this learning game
as the years grew to two digits.

Now, while your ears no longer hear
the commands, your eyes -- though hazy --
still can detect what my fingers tell you,
and your voice strongly barks the
correct numbers. I am
proud of you.

Sometimes, while you are sleeping --
harder now than ever before --
my love is so great that I reach to
pet you, often alarming you,
occasionally hardly able to rouse you,
and you gaze unfocused from your bed,
trying to return from another place.

Sometimes, when your head is turned
a certain way and I raise my voice to
just the right pitch and loudness you
react -- not assuredly as in times past --
but dreamily, like you know love just
came around the corner, and you
smile wistfully from across
the room, but you do not
come to me.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Mary asks us to write a poem in the form of a letter.
.

Poetics & Mag 180 — Unplugged

The challenge, having begun three hours earlier,

(that task being to go unplugged for one full day)

invigorated many of those who decided to try.

They set upon the hours ahead with confidence

and ideas aplenty for ways to fill up their time.

Games of all kinds topped their lists,

followed by activities in natural settings,

followed by non-activity in unnatural settings...

the point being, when they logged off and

powered down they got off and got down without

needing prompts, pauses, or reset buttons... but

Hank felt no personal power surge, he who had

thought ahead that he might write on paper

with pen in hand, then when nothing came he

tried a pen in each hand to see what might come.

What became of Hank as he sank to new lows,

realizing he was not an unplugged sort; did he

abort the challenge or find in the day new highs?

It was the latter, you see, as in the course of

one day he conquered his slump, found reinvention

by way of those pens in his hands, and appointed

himself the Chairman of Doodle before honoring

his success with high fives and a solid fist bump.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where Hobgoblin2011's prompt is Unplugged. I haven't been unplugged, but have not blogged for one month (and this post shows it!) so the prompt had special appeal for me. The prompt is for us to write a poem having something to do with shutting off the technology that drives us through our days. Hobgoblin2011 actually did it for one month! Check the link to read his impressions.
    -ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 180 that inspired with the above image prompt

(Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher).

.

Just a Sliver

 Image via Jabba the Hutt with Hair at tumblr

Fat and stinking, and muttering
to herself, she was the old woman
who lived in her shoes and clopped
around our house calling herself
"the housekeeper," the slob who
was given our spare room, a short-
lived experiment by worn working
parents who had no intention of
raising latch-key kids. With tongue
attached to one corner of her mouth,
she mumbled her three favorite words:
"My, my, my" overandover as her
weight thundered on the old floors,
and kittens scattered like Lilliputians
while we laughed behind her back.

After dinner my father would offer
the troll dessert— usually cake or pie.
"Just a sliver," she always said, she
always said, "Just a sliver," until
one night his disgust at the view of
this Jabba the Hutt drooling for 
the large slice he always gave her
so overwhelmed him he used his
sharpest knife, his sharpest skill,
to carve from the chocolate cake
a sliver so tiny it made her cry.

Written for Poetics — It's Tempting! — at dVerse Poets, hosted 

this week by Mary, whose prompt asks us to "...write about ‘temptation’ 

in some way.  Yours or someone else’s.  Factual (perhaps historical) or fictional."

.

Poetics: An Evening of Short Verse

cats eye by Keith Stanosz


The old stone bridge, another springtime,
gentle creek flows on in shadows and light:
Together reflecting an imperfect circle.
A solitary youth cycles along over cracks,
whistling another imperfect springsong.

:::

Written for Poetics — An Evening of Short Verse — at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Fred Rutherford, aka Hobgoblin2011, whose prompt asks us to consider short verse and to even break rules as we write. I chose to try the Gogyohka (5-line) poetic form. Not sure if I broke any rules with my Gogyohka, but while working on the draft something in my Blogger formatting "broke" and I am now editing in some miniscule view (about the size I see on my tablet) that I cannot get out of.....arggggh.

.

Poetics: Leonard Cohen at The Theater of the Clouds

The legend from the tower of song and verse
Now seventy-six, maybe still five-feet-eight,
With the limber long legs of the lover he is
And storied long face of the friar he was,
Began most songs on his knees.

That hat: a sartorial punctuation mark, cool
Tipped down, shaded twinkling eyes, then raised
Up to dance 'midst three light beams spotting
Just him raising his hat against the bright shafts --
Just to see us high in the third tier, to thank us
Just for being there, and to caution his fans in
Steep places not to lean too far forward,
Else we set in motion "an avalanche."

Later, before the third encore would see his
Final bow, unable to contain his gratitude, he
Pressed that hat against his chest and dropped
To his knees, bowing fully to the floor.
Then the limber long legs of the lover and
Expressive long face of the mountain friar --
Tucked serenely in child's pose with
A child's kind of soaring joy --
Rode an avalanche of applause.

 MLydiaM ~ December 2010

Written for Poetics — Leonard Cohen and Place at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Mary, whose prompt post asks us to consider the poetry of Leonard Cohen, and our memory of a place such as his memory song about The Chelsea Hotel.  I hope you will forgive me for republishing an older post, which was my tribute to Leonard Cohen ...but is also a memory of the place where I have been fortunate to see him twice in my life. 

Note: I first published this post in December 2010 in response to the photo prompt (image of sled at top) provided at Magpie Tales. It was written following the first time I saw Leonard Cohen in concert, and it was the best concert I'd everever seen.......until he returned to Portland in November 2012, and he eclipsed the 2010 concert!

That second time our seats were were about 20 rows back from the stage and not in the "nosebleed section" near the ceiling as described in this poem. Among other memorable moments from the second concert was Leonard Cohen and Hattie Webb of The Webb Sisters singing their tour debut of his old song "Joan of Arc" that night in Portland (see video recorded by someone in audience here). I sat there and wept. I adore this man, his poetry and his music.

.

Poetics: The Art of Letting Go

In the art of letting go,
practice makes perfect.

All your life you practice.

Each person you love,
once let go, is another
helper along the way.

Each goodbye you say
to another is also
whispered onto your
heart like a tender
engraving.

Each hurt you endure,
when fully felt, becomes
artful hurt, maybe
hurtful art, ultimately,
art.

You are practicing,
all your life,
the art of letting go
of your life.



Written for Poetics — The ART of Letting Go at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld, whose prompt post included one of her well-crafted photographs, and (I should not be surprised by this any longer), a commentary that was so beautiful that it made me cry.

Image via 3LambsGraphics at Etsy.com

.

Poetics: bright shadows

Homage, Tom Mix, "Cupid in the Cow Camp," 1913 by David Lee Guss

Were children called "bright" when he was a boy
or when she was a girl? Was this child bright,
or dull as those eyes staring out from the
shadows of Time? What brightened the child's
days — a trip to the dark hardware store
where hard candies were a prize for being
still over by the stove as the adults spoke?
What lurked in the shadows behind
the folds of that developing brain? Sinister
plans or nonsense nuances? Does it even matter
now? Who loved the child enough to keep the
portrait, to stand it against the dusty, cold
stove? Someone who recognized that art thrives
in bright shadows.



Written for Poetics — The Poetics of Groundhog Day — Bright Shadow at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Karin Gustafson, whose prompt post gave samples of wonderful shadow poems, and asked that we consider "jumping off (or into) bright shadows" in our own poems this week. 

.

Poetics: P e a c e

peace04 by Doug Ross


Perfect peace is not something to preach.
Even the holy ones should know that to be true.
Ancient teaching cannot ensure peace for today yet
Cosmic energy still beckons us toward a tranquil tomorrow.
Enlightenment is within our stretched imaginations.  R e a c h.


~~~

Written for Poetics — Peace Within and Without — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Mary Kling, whose prompt post is was truly beautiful and gave me pause for contemplation. Thank you, Mary. 

As happens on occasion, I found the ideal image for my poem after the poem was completed. Could hardly believe how well it fit. The artist's Imagekind site is linked under the photo, but I wanted to share also his website, here.

.

Poetics: Change is turning?

chapter of my life. by Menachem Krinsky



When there is a restless stirring inside me
that callsandcalls, leaving no message —
but turns over upon itself, overandover,
waiting for me to decode the signals,
urging me to remember how novel
boldness can be, while not
misreading it as in the
past, a new chapter
may be ready to be
read, or written -
passive or
active -
change
is
?


Written for Poetics — ChaNGe & TuRns — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld, who shared with us her freeway photography, and asking us to consider changes or turns in whatever form we chose.

.

Poetics: I remember Nogales

I remember Nogales,
just over the border a world
away we romped in our shorts
and college awe on the gritty
streets and in tiny shops where
smoke mingled with smoke,
where old cars and metal shacks
were a rusty orange-brown
and our painted toenails
were dusty from the road.

I remember Nogales,
with shelves of worms
in tequila bottles drowned
and sunk to the bottom –
and that woman passed out cold
in the heat of the dying day,
sitting drunk against a rusty
car with her dusty child
fidgeting by her side.



  

Written for Poetics — photography by Terry S. Amstutz — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld, who shared with us the photography of Terry S. Amstutz, a.k.a. mobius faith. I selected his image above as the prompt for my poem.

.

Poetics: The lights are back on.....

The lights
are back on
but is
anybody
home? Who
will scrape
the mold
and rust from
this building
built for
those who
marched
to a different
drummer
in a different
time:


When
summers sang
from ship to
shore,
when tales
were told
of a great
Nor'easter
back in the fall
of '25 —
the biggest
storm ever — 
thus,
nevermore.

Memories,
memories: 
Black mold,
red rust
March out of
this time
Drum ship to
shore
Tell tales
nevermore
of a biggest
storm.

The lights
are back on
but is
anybody
home?


Written for Poetics — Through the Artist's Lens  — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Brian Miller, who shared with us the art and photography of a blogger/artist named SueAnn. I selected her piece above as the prompt for my poem.

.

Poetics: acting my age on the stage

live oaks-Oak alley plantation-Vacherie, Louisiana via Pixdaus


Acting my age on the stage...

We were walking briskly under a lane of old oaks--
arguing,
and out of frustration she screamed at me
Act Your Age!
The oaks said they were,
standing solidly against the wind--
defiantly,
I fell away.

                  :::

Five of the oaks fell in a storm,
leaving the lane the same year
she left me
acting,
my age acting my age,
arguing with my body--
defiantly,
I walk briskly in the wind.



Written for Poetics — It's About Time  — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Mary Kling, whose  prompt asks us to contemplate the passing of time. She refers to one of William Shakespeare’s most famous monologues in the play As You Like It -- the “All the World’s a Stage” monologue, and also shares with us a wonderful video of Morgan Freeman reciting the Seven Stages of Man.

As this weekend marks 12 years since the death of my mother I am thinking of her, our complicated relationship, and undying love for one another.

.