For #NationalPoetryWritingMonth2014
(a.k.a. #NaPoWriMo14), I tried to compose a new poem, or revise an old poem, to
post on Facebook every day. I confess I missed three days. Here’s my almost-a-month’s-worth
of poems (one is a revised poem that is too long to post among these short
ones). Please let me know which are your favorites! If you have trouble leaving
comments here on my blog, leave them on Google+, please. I’d love to hear from
you.
Stretch
If I weren't stretching on the
floor right now,
I wouldn't see the sunlit leaves
through the half-raised blinds;
Sometimes when you're down,
you see more than when you're up:
The beauty of a grounded
point-of-view.
Leader Dog
My blind
dog
Looks as
if he sees,
While
sitting and staring at me,
Silently
conversing as I rub his neck.
My blind
dog
Seems
guided by radar
Until he
walks into a piece of furniture, out of place,
Then
pivots and reroutes
Like a
robotic, self-propelled vacuum cleaner,
Without
even so much as a whimper.
My blind
dog
Helps me
see
How
adaptation and positivity
Enable
rerouting to roads less traveled.
He is my
leader dog.
Morning Metaphors
Before
turning on the shower,
I hear
the trash truck outside,
And
smile because my neighborhood
And I
are both about to get cleaner.
Maybe I
will be editing
When the
recycling truck comes by.
Fox Sniffing a Flower
Relishing
Nature's perfume,
he
thrusts his furry nose among yellow petals,
showing
us that "joie de vivre" is not just a fancy French phrase,
but
an attitude possessed by all blessed animals.
Facades
Arrogance protects
fragile egos
from connecting
with non-admirers.
Superiority uplifts
the lowly,
who envy
the confident.
Disdain attacks
the best
to maintain
the worst.
Goodwill empowers
the needed
and needy,
balancing life.
The Power of Innocence
Tiny hands with dimples
where knuckles will be
have incredible power to
force smiles
fade worry lines
elicit silly faces and
high-pitched voices,
and to loosen tight
shoulders
by pulling burdens down our
sleeves
to be shaken out
as we bounce babies in our
arms.
Who Can Write a Poem
If you can listen and sway
and dream to music
You can write a poem
If you can clap a beat or
play a tune
You can write a poem
If you photograph an image
that captures eyes and awe
You can write a poem
If you use a brush and
paint to awaken scenes like a magic wand
You can write a poem
If you give new life to
clay or wood or stone, to dirt with seeds and plants and love
You can write a poem
If you can remove yourself
from the world long enough to see the world, the whole world, in a moment—long
enough to feel a realization,
You can write a poem.
Yes, you can write a poem.
Ripples
Ripples in a pond
overlap, blend, create
currents,
spread themselves outward
to touch more of the shore,
without pushing each other
aside--
no egos involved in
maintaining the power of their circles.
Unlike many ego-driven
"philanthropists."
Give and let give.
Poem About a Poem
My child’s old poem,
“Rolling with Laughter,”
a poem she wrote at 12
years old
to celebrate the various
sounds of our mirthful family,
translates in today’s
language to:
“LOL,” or “ROTFL,” or “LMAO,”
in a world where laughter
is not heard as much as it is read,
because people spend more
time texting and “messaging”
than they do speaking
or laughing together.
Worn-Out Shoes
The
shoes I’ve worn since childhood,
Have
been patched and polished
To
conceal old scuffs,
Have
been re-soled
To
keep me balanced and stepping forward;
Yet
they still cause blisters
Whenever
I walk too close to “home,”
And
they still make me trip
If
I don’t watch my steps on old territory.
Why
do I even keep them in my closet?
When
will I throw them, once and for all, in the trash?
Maybe
after I type the period at the end of this poem
On Education
Teaching
to prepare for tests—
At
best, I call that “training”;
Teaching
means igniting thoughts,
Not
pouring facts, then draining.
Writing
is an art, a skill,
One
not quantifiable,
Rated
best by knowing nods,
Feedback
that’s reliable;
Questions
that elicit thoughts,
Encourage
their revisions,
Coaching
that enables them
To
make their own decisions.
I
want to spark awe for words,
For
clear communication;
I
want to teach not for scores,
But
for true education.
Cool Hair
We’ve
always imitated
What
Nature has created,
This
view makes me elated:
Jacaranda
emulated
With
purple hair—berated
No
doubt, by those related
To
her, and she has waited
For
them to say, “Cool hair!”
Blood Moon
Why
do we call the eclipsed moon “blood” red,
Not
rose red,
Or
tomato red,
Or
licorice red,
Or
wine red,
Or
candy apple red,
Or
any other red that has no ominous associations?
Could
it be that scientists named it so?
Or
was it the name coined by media writers,
Hoping
to evoke more awe from the public.
As
if it weren’t awesome just by being red.
Passover
Assembly
of free people,
Commemorating
enslavement of our ancestors
Symbolically—
in
stories, songs, prayers, and food metaphors—
Because
we CAN.
WE
CAN.
Thank
God.
Erosion
Erosion
creates unique beauty
In
bland smoothness,
The
way wrinkles etch a face
With
evidence of smiles.
Drama
In
plays, as in life,
an
"aside" allows a character
to
establish a True Self,
to
connect with an observer,
while
the other characters remain but
dimly
lit players
in
the background,
players
not meant to hear
shared
hushed confidences that
break
through fictional walls
long
enough to shift and extend spotlights
for
a moment of candid communication that
adds
depth to a series of acts and scenes.
Trust,
in plays, as in life,
may
start with a stage whisper
of
truth,
away
from the other players,
who
feign ignorance
and
listen only for their cues.
Celebration of Silence
Silence
is the soundtrack of blessed moments,
filling
my ears with oft-muted sounds
of
my own breathing,
of
these words spoken in my head as I transcribe them,
of
the birds outside my window conversing with the wind chimes,
of
my fingertips clicking the keyboard as I write this poem,
of
my little dog’s sweet snoring,
of
my oblivion to the bad news surely streaming on TV if I were to turn it on,
of
the hum of introspective thoughts brewing softly, like coffee, awaiting sips
and sighs and pouring.
Silence
carries into the foreground of my mind
a
soothing darkness that illuminates the usual din
so
that I may see what is worth hearing,
and
hear what is worth listening to,
and
feel blessed by the silence that elicited these words
from
nothingness.
Shaded with Light
Shading
creates new life
On
slices of dead trees—
New
life that, off paper,
In
soil,
Seeks
the opposite of shading
To
live.
This
shading is enlightening
Like
chiaroscuro.
Willful Words
The
badge you wore,
identifying
you by your work,
no
longer displays your name and role.
You
gaze into your mirror, squinting at the empty spot
above
your heart
that
now reads: “Unemployed.”
Friends
ask you how it’s going, and you mutter,
“Out
of work,” “laid off,” and “jobless,”
your
will draining with each reply,
as
your patience is dying.
“Willful
words hold the key to healing and rejuvenation,”
prescribes
this spin doctor,
injecting
positivity into your will-draining replies
and
transforming them into
“Between jobs,” “self-marketing,” “free to
pursue a new career”—
words
uttered (not muttered)
willfully,
even
though at first you don’t believe them.
“The
more you practice, the easier it gets,” advises the spin doctor,
and
sure enough, your dull eyes spark,
your
chin rises,
and
your posture lifts your stature.
You
no longer look in the mirror for an old badge on your chest.
Now
you look at your own eyes and smile,
Preparing
to do the same with others.
Digest This!
If
social intolerance for minorities
could
be modified by enzymes,
like
lactose intolerance,
then
the verbal diarrhea
spewed
by bloated egos
would
be mitigated,
and
the acid of cramped minds
would
not by regurgitated;
then
all would feel settled,
and
the growling and discomfort would cease.
In
the absence of such enzymes, though,
we
might try dietary restrictions:
limiting
our slanted media consumption
as
a first step.
Detour from Laundry Folding
Our
thin, white cotton helmets shifted
as
we jumped from the spaceship to the moon,
sending
piles of sloppily folded clothing into orbit,
and
then bounced back without noticing the gravity
as
we almost hit the open dresser drawers.
We’d
tuck the elastic underwear bands,
meant
for thighs,
behind
our ears,
to
keep the “face window” in place,
garble
our voices to sound like radio static,
and
took turns playing lookout for the commander,
who
would surely abort our mission,
if
we didn’t “crack open” our heads first.
Puddles of Wax (for Holocaust Remembrance
Day 2014; in memory of Irving Lipson)
A
candle flickers in my heart for you;
I
symbolize it with a wick just lit,
Commemorating
millions also due
For
honor as we rise from where we sit
To
sing of lives snuffed out before their wicks
Had
burned for all the years they should have glowed,
Before
they were consumed in flames like sticks,
Or
piled in pits and ditches by the road—
A
road less traveled by the ones who’ve dug,
Unearthing
truths embodied by their bones,
The
ones who will not sweep under the rug
The
evil echoing in ghostly moans.
The
candle flames will end in puddles here,
While
yours will burn and shine in every tear.
AN
OLD POEM I POSTED SINCE I WAS STILL IN THE SONNET MOOD, AND HAPPENED TO FIND
THIS IN A FILE OF PUBLISHED CLIPS FROM THE ‘80s…
Blessing for Anonymous Laborers
Predrilled tiny holes in
picture frames
evoked a blessing from me
today
for the anonymous hands
that helped mine
perfectly place the tiny
screws in the hangers
to ease my hanging of the
picture
that will now brighten my
day
every time I glance at that
wall.
And come to think of it, I
also bless
the hands that crafted my
computer, too,
for allowing me to type and
save this poem--
oh, and the hands that cut
the slab of granite
upon which my elbows rest
as I type--
and the hands that crafted
the wooden parts of the chair I sit upon,
parts that I assembled with
my hands,
thanks to the mind that
wrote the directions for the assembly of those wooden parts--
AND, I can't forget to
mention, too, the hands that...
Sorry
To Burst Your Bubble, but…
Possessions
Or
Positions
Persuasions
Or
Permissions
Politics
Or
Pontifications
Pop
Fizzle
Fade
Fly
Only Love survives.
