Poem: Kitty Reigns in Full

Kitty Reigns in Full

Napping of an afternoon on the couch

Recovering from a night of mousing

A yawn emitted from that haughty mouth

Breath of rodent, content from carousing

Through the night enjoying sun from the south—

Just a stretch, a movement now returning

To the daytime snooze of full contentment

Of mice populations having made a dent.

Sure, she sharpens claws on the armchair there

And makes it look a sight not fit for house

But we never worry about chewed holes

In the flour sacks or mice droppings where

We don’t want them, because there is no mouse

Anywhere here where kitty reigns in full.

January 2023

About This Poem

I was inspired to write this sonnet because I had read another sonnet about a cat. I don't have a cat anymore, but I have had mice in the house. This poem is just an homage to cats and the relationships people have with their cats. I am definitely a cat person.

 

Poem: Shadow Box with Emily Dickinson's "Banish Air from Air"

Shadow Box with Emily Dickinson’s “Banish Air from Air”

I was just sitting at the counter there

When—Banish Air from Air—he came upon

Me—Divide Light if you dare—But I saw

Fate, oh yes—They’ll meet—it said there to me.

And I knew—While Cubes in a Drop—like sparks

Glinting—Or pellets of Shape—Stop floating

And just then they—Fit—like in a movie

Yet—Films cannot annul—reality

Entire—Odors return whole—when He

I smelled—Force Flame—into my ignition

So felt—And with a Blonde push—felt his voice.

It rushed—Over your impotence—and mine

So that head—Flits steam.—In a rush of strength

I took Him, for that moment, He was mine.

January 2020

About This Poem

This is a shadow box poem using Emily Dickinson’s “Banish Air from Air.” I think it’s both an example of how a poet can influence you and how you can absorb that poem. Of course, this one may be a bit forced, but it seems a little more organic to do that with one of her poems that escapes my full understanding. I was able to force a meaning onto it in almost an act of violence. That certainly is not my style at all, but with this it seemed to work. The pronouns can be switched into an even more forceful meaning that would seem to consume the poem—almost desecrating it, even as it stays completely in tact within my exoskeleton of my own doing. So in the end it maintains, even gains strength for me.

 

Poem: and then what happened

and then what happened

was-

and then 

what happened-

an' then I 

was thinkin' 

that it was

feelin' better.

I was 

feelin' better.

I was just

let alone.

So my mother 

bought me an ice cream

an' I bought myself

an ice cream

and I ate that.

I thought that

would make me

feel better.

I was all

shuup, shuup, shuup, 

you know,

and then,

you know,

just all of a sudden-

an' then

I started feelin'

real

sick.

I just got

this 

terrible feelin'

after I stopped 

eatin'

ice cream,

and what not,

like

Oh shoot!

Oh God!

About This Poem

I wrote this poem in the mid 80s, so it's old. I was given a story to read and I took some of the dialogue and reworked it into this poem. I guess what I'm saying is that ice cream doesn't always make you feel better...  The picture is from Faneuil Hall in Boston (one of the oldest markets in the country) in November of 23.

 

Poem: American Riddle

American Riddle

Flying ferociously, unfurled like feathers

Of a big bird brilliantly braving

The wild winds, wonderful weather

For patriotic peals, princely in a priceless

Land where mad monarchs are marvelously marooned

To islands of an archipelago’s la la land.

I’m colored in crimson, crowned crisply 

With wonderful white stars waving

Brightly in a big beautiful blue.

I represent torn lives, towering strength

Arising from rubble to reign unconquerable.

I flutter on wings, tethered to a task 

Never ending.  What am I?

About This Poem

I wrote this poem with my students a few years ago when we were studying Anglo-Saxon poetry. The Anglo-Saxons were fond of riddles and alliteration, but not rhyme. This is that style. It also seems that the American flag is a bit of a riddle in itself. What does it mean to be American? Do people in one party suddenly become less than American when they disagree with the other, or are they more American? (I don't believe either are possible, but it does seem some people think that.) We Americans have a way of turning the flag into as much of a riddle as it is a symbol, but then, that's who we are. That it is written in the Anglo-Saxon style was just because of my lesson in poetry writing, not a promotion of any sort of identity or any taking away from an identity--not woke or anti-woke, just a style of poem. 😀

 

Poem: Before the students

Before the students

I demonstrate the twist

After reading an Eady poem

about the twist

about his neighborhood

about Rochester, New York

about Cornelius Eady

and it’s turned into

another poem

about me doing the twist

about us

about Potlatch, Idaho

And I nearly crashed into the filing cabinet

When one of the girls wanted to put me

On YouTube doing the twist

And I said, “No way.”

And I stopped doing the twist

because I didn’t want it to be

about anybody else

except us

but it keeps moving

twisting

from Rochester, New York

to Potlatch, Idaho

Whether I’m on YouTube

Or Cornelius Eady is on the page

“Shake it up, Baby!

Twist and Shout!”

2017

About this Poem:

    I wrote this poem during a poetry writing assignment with my students after reading some Cornelius Eady poems and then put it in the archives, making no real connections with myself and Rochester, New York (having never been there) or Cornelius Eady (in spite of what the poem alleges). Now my oldest son lives in Rochester in his second year of his medical residency. So this poem is still twisting between Rochester, New York and Potlatch, Idaho and I'm still shaking it up. 

    And, in case you were wondering about the Twist, well it was the first dance that the couple didn't hold or even touch each other and it happened about the time my parents were teens and I was born. Little tidbits of information keep popping up with this poem! The photo is a street in Rochester. 

 

Poem: August Prayer

August Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for this day,

A day in which I’ll have lots to say.

What, in your plan, needs to make it so hot?

Not gonna lie, I think it’s a lot of rot.

I know it’s not really my place

To complain of the heat in your grace,

But you even named Jacob

“Wrestles with God,” and hot it is, God.

But maybe that is part of your plan

Because in this heat I do sweat, man.

Not likely to get me wrestling well

When I’m slick as grease. Oh hell,

You make it just as hot as you please

And I’ll figure a way to cool a spot. Geeze.

I know you care for the sparrow that falls

And in this heat, you got a lot of gall

To make so many of those little ones fall

And my morning whining is just my call.

Thank you for September when it cools

And you don’t have to hear this whining fool.

August 2022

About this Poem:

I think some people think God doesn't have a sense of humor, so we have to be completely reverential and serious in our prayer. I, obviously, don't think that at all. This is a lament with a humorous bent. And I thought it appropriate for this year. The photo is the sun in its smoky splendor a few years back.

 

Poem: Rimas Disolutas

Rimas Disolutas

At the table we sit

Every morning to eat

Some breakfast or

Drink our coffee.

Our daily routine.

Before thoughts start to flit

Or musing begin to beat

Guilt into us for 

Transgressions that we

Have made, we make pristine

The new day in its way

That will be different—

Different from the previous

So that we can forgive

Ourselves of previous sins.

But sometime that day 

Comes when we rent

From ourselves devious

Ways to guiltily live

Without forgiving within.

December 2022

About This Poem

While I love winter, I do get the typical doldrums and dark thoughts when it's dark. This is a poem that indicates that. I titled the poem after the form. It has rhyme from line to line, but not end rhyme. To me the type of poem looks like a poem, but reads like prose. I think the photo is in San Diego in a restaurant. It might look like morning, but not on the west coast... Still, I found it fitting for the poem.