Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

Revisiting an old poem. Tonight was one of those strange times when I was reluctant to go inside. Between parking the car and walking to my apartment door, I could feel a youthful wanderlust tugging at me. I often complain about the cold of winter, but there's something about the solitude and the night and even the cold that was calling to me tonight.

I don't feel I can walk alone into the wee small hours of the morning nowadays, in part because crime, and in part because I keep binge-watching the X-files. These two things combine to make walking alone at night seems fraught with peril. But the city lights kept reflecting off the rainclouds tonight, so instead of walking, I re-worked this poem a little bit. Maybe some night I'll walk instead.



Walking Thoughts

I walk to sleep
and take my walking slow.

I used to walk more often
years ago.
Heartsick, I would wander uphill,
past the silent homes of strangers.

Now,
I lay in bed and think
of those star-filled nights,
with the moonlight on the snow,
and my heart
slowly
pumping
someone’s name.

Now,
I lay in bed
stretching the muscles and tendons of my legs.
For the most part,
I no longer yearn.
His name is in my blood
and he is warm beside me.
So often now,
I walk and tire in the walking.

But now and then,
on a December night,
I will glance upwards
and think of how the moonlight looked
when I walked alone in the snow
and I will miss the cold silence of it.
I will miss how the cold
and the stars
and the snow
and the moon
filled the walking places
in me.

photo via

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Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

A poem, or "Public school is hell"

Hello!

I've been busy doing "Damn Yankees!" and substitute teaching, so the blog has been a little neglected. But today I was digging through some old poems and came across this one, so I thought I'd share. I wrote it while I was doing my substitute teaching back in 2012. I was focusing a lot on imagery at the time, and it's not my best work, but it kind of stood out to me today; I think because I've been spending time in public schools again lately. 

Dante’s Industrial Kitchen

Steam rises
in ephemeral bursts
mushrooming out from the
heinous, Dante-esque mouth
of the automatic dishwasher.

A school cafeteria is full of medieval hell-mouths.

Dirt is fed into it on a conveyor belt
and with every hiss and puff of super-heated steam,
trays come out clammy and sanitized from the other end.

A middle-aged woman
with outdated pants and keys on a lanyard in her pocket
stacks the trays with no expression.
Her feet hurt. This is her job.
Her non-slip shoes make sucking sounds
as she steps through soapy puddles
to the sink.
Rubs her red-cracked hands on a paper towel
and begins stacking trays again.

The kids with IEPs
walk from the dishwasher to the sink
and back again
like the tigers in city zoos
who have developed obsessive-compulsive disorders
in the absence of higher stimulation
walking back and forth and back and forth
repeating a task they are destined to repeat.

And there are all these kids,
standing in line.
The tills fill up as we
perpetuate the illusion of them walking
in empty and coming out full.
They check their phones and stare into space and
talk to each other but not to the girl whose shoes are too big.
They stand with the rain from the courtyard
on their shoulders,
the heat of the room making steam to rise
in ephemeral snaking columns.



(In a shameless bit of self-promotion, if you're interested in more of my poetry, I have a published book of it! You can buy it here, or on amazon.com. Or if we're friends and I see you regularly, I've got a dozen copies or so I can give out--just ask.)

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A poem, or "Public school is hell"

Revamp! And Odes! And things to look forward to!

Hello everyone! The ole blog got another makeover--I keep thinking I'll be satisfied with THIS revamp, but let's be honest, I'll re-do it again in another six months. That's okay, though. I enjoy it. Buttons with links will be forthcoming, html and I are in a little fight, but we'll work it out.

So, some of you may have heard of this fundraiser thing I've been doing for Jacob. He's in a play that's set to be performed at a festival in New York City in July! Woo hoo! But as you can imagine, 11 days in New York City ain't cheap. So the cast has organized a fundraiser through GoFundMe.com (link in the sidebar), and on Facebook, I offered to write an ode for anyone who donated during a given 24-hour period, with 1 line per dollar donated. Mad crazy thanks to EVERYONE who has donated so far. And a special thanks to the following folks, in ode form:

Amanda Kelley
Oh New Yorker of fame!
Now mighty mother of three!
Advocate of others whose children are still arriving.
We sing thy praises,
with our Jamberry nails raised high, glinting in the sunlight.

Carrie Chapman
Oh see what she hath done,
that woman of great beauty and smarts.
Her children smile, and it is her doing.
See her now, book in hand, taking in words of beauty!
She types, and the world hearkens unto her wisdom.
Great Carrie--defender of rabbits and babies!
How generations shall rejoice at the sound of her name!
We long to go unto her house, decorated fair,
to sit and talk and laugh.
For we love her, dear Carrie!

Mary Gritis
Oh Mary, returned missionary and theatrical goddess!
She coordinates and actors listen.
Costumes are arranged with such precision.
What joy is hers, as she wanders the halls of the Snow Building,
hearing her friends sing her praises!

Carey Ventura
And what great things hath Carey done!
Tis not easy to be the wife of a soldier.
Mother of three, she stands tall.
Commander of her household,
She shall prevail.
And what performances hath she given.
Hear her voice as she treads the boards!
The audience sits rapt, silent, and awed.
She is a star
in the theatre universe.
But see!
Her talents are not limited
to theatre and song!
See the marvelous works of her hands
A glory of yarn-made goods!
What more can be said?
A heroine of home and hearth,
with great generosity she stands
Queen of all she surveys,
from stage to etsy to home.

Jamey Meteer
Oh writer and speaker of great words!
See her courageous fingers fly over the keyboard.
Hark! She speaks, standing beneath the stage lights!
And in the eyes of her son,
she is a mighty heroine.

Kathleen Thorson
(in limerick form, for old time’s sake)
There once was a girl named Kathleeny
Who certainly wasn’t a meanie
She donated cash
For Jake’s New York bash
And the amount that she’s loved isn’t teeny.




And what's that, you say? You'd like to donate too? Well, right here on this little ole blog, I'm doing a GIVEAWAY for donations! The giveaway will open later this week, so stay tuned!

(Of course, if you WANT, you can just donate now, without entering the giveaway. Link in the sidebar. But hey, who wouldn't want free stuff?)

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Revamp! And Odes! And things to look forward to!

A poem

Dug this out of the archives a while ago. I've been too busy/too tired/too writer's-blocked/busy-reading-instead to blog much lately. So here's this.

Fields

I drove fourteen miles today

through the same potato fields

I passed the summer I drove Jordan Tait’s

red Honda CT 110,

skipping grammar class

to wear my father’s old leather jacket

and go joy-riding.

That same year, between sessions of April’s

general conference,

we rode his motorcycle—a real one—out to

Barney Dairy Road

stopped and wandered through the same graveyard

that Jacob Chapman and I would eat cereal in

years later.

Just talking.

I’m surprised the car has made it this far today.

Riding out here between sessions

of April’s general conference.

This car is rusting away at the edges

and like so many things, it seems about to die.

Every day I think “This week, this month, this year,

it’s going to die.”

And every week, every month, every year,

it rustily carries on.

You press the gas pedal and the damned thing

just keeps going forward.

There was an afternoon in these fields

when Shaun Scrivner and I drove and drove and drove

I remember some old potato bunker

roof gone

that we climbed around in.

I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it

Lately, most memories seem like that.

Too surreal to have actually happened.

You get out of the habit of making things extraordinary.

You get too old to unthinkingly say yes.

We go through days when we are

as ships in the night and when I drive,

I imagine—I keep picturing—

that I’ll see Jacob, meet him in a field somewhere

between the cemetery and that roofless potato bunker

and he’ll play the guitar

and I’ll keep saying yes

and we’ll pull everyone out of the cave behind us.

So many things keep going.

Ted, the car, marriages.

And every few years, I sit in the driver’s seat of a car
and write a poem that feels important.

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A poem

A cold and broken hallelujah

It's mid-December.
I find myself, after a few weeks of denial, in the throws of the winter blues.

I can't decide which is worse--the beginning of the winter blues, when the unthinkably long winter stretches before you in all of its grayness, or the long February days towards the end, when you've woken up and gone back to bed over and over again in the same grayness for so long you can't imagine life any other way.

I keep almost doing drastic things, as a way of coping.
Like cutting all my hair off. Or canceling class for the rest of the semester. Or throwing away most of my clothes.

I can't think straight during winter.

The things I actually do to cope are (so far) less drastic.
Baking.
Staying up until 2 or 3 am on a regular basis.
Reorganizing my makeup.
Swearing way more often than usual.
A few weeks ago, I read an entire novel in one sitting. And then did it again with a different novel the next day.

I kept looking for pictures of winter to post with this blog.
But none of them felt accurate--they were all glittering snow in the sunshine, or mystical fog in the forest, or serene blue skies.
Because no one actually wants to photograph the day-to-day dirty snow drudgery that winter is most of the time.

I'm far from the darkest place I've ever been, but my winter blues are no less real for that.
This is not the great black dog that has visited me in the past.
But it's a medium-sized gray dog, large enough to demand my attention.

As I write this, a little voice in my head keeps whispering, "Be positive. Be positive. Be positive."
But in the words of this blogger, "Trying to use willpower to overcome the apathetic sort of sadness that accompanies depression is like a person with no arms trying to punch themselves until their hands grow back."

But the bizarre truth is that sometimes, if the depression is small enough--if it's a small, manageable kind of perpetual sadness--it kind of does work.
Punching yourself can make your arms grow back.
I know it sounds insane, but I've done it before.
So I'm trying to do that.
I've got a handful of beautiful things that make it easier to get up in the frozen mornings. Rehearsal with Danielle and Kieffer and Jerry and Emily--the chance to create beautiful and important art.* A smile from my husband. The possibility of baking more things.

And occasionally, you get little gifts that can sustain you for days on end.
Beautiful dances that are full of truth and art and honesty.
Funny and life-affirming movies.
Lovely songs.
Weekend nights at Jack In The Box that are filled with un-repeatable hilarity.
Long talks with good people.
Visits to best friends in Salt Lake City.
And I'm grateful for those things.

And set against the background of gray and snow and night and cold, I think they shimmer with more loveliness to me than they would on their own. So I suppose that while the gray gathers outside, I'll just keep trying to hold those sustaining things up to the light and let them shimmer.

* Theatre is the insanity that keeps me sane. 

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A cold and broken hallelujah

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth

It's official!

And it's exciting!

I've got a published book of poetry. You can purchase it online here.

I'm also working on getting available for Amazon Kindle and a few other channels.

Thanks for supporting your friendly neighborhood blogger/poet! I'm so thrilled to share these poems with you.


Sneak peak:
Here's one poem from the collection. Enjoy!

Poem About Birds

There is a bird outside
that has no idea what time it is.
One in the morning and
I’m brushing my teeth to an ornithological serenade.

I wonder if birds develop
mental illnesses.
Bipolar barn owls.
Manic-depressive mockingbirds.
Autistic African Silverbills.
I’m brushing my teeth at one in the morning,
and there’s this bird
in the farthest corner of the backyard
singing itself into a frenzy.

Not a lullaby.
Not some haunting nightingale,
a loon calling lonely on a moonlit lake.
I’m talking Mickey Mouse club
Bozo the clown sing-along
1950’s cornflakes commercial.
One in the morning,
I’m brushing my teeth with tears in my eyes
and there’s a bird out there
who doesn’t give a damn.
Who’s just singing hallelujah to the good Lord
who made him.

Lissa said
there are things
that hurt so much that
it feels
like you don’t even have a heart.
An empty cage in your chest,
a vacuum in your ribs.
Anything that sang flown away.

One in the morning
and some bird doesn’t give a damn
that the sun set six hours ago.
Darkness already swallowed up everything,
started in the corners at 7:00 p.m.
and slowly ate its way to the open empty spaces.
At one in the morning
everything is desert places
Silence that sludges through your veins
like mud,
making empty places emptier.

And somewhere
invisible in a corner
there’s this bird
who doesn’t give a damn.
To hell with empty cages
and the darkness that will remain
for another five hours at least.
This insomniatic out-of-touch damn crazy bird
is just singing hallelujah
to the good Lord who made him.

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Ink runs from the corners of my mouth

Validated

Thursday night, around 2 am, when I was still awake playing solitaire on my iPod, I had this sudden realization. I won, I thought. I won third place in the Rexburg Poetry Slam. Holy crap. HOLY CRAP. THIRD PLACE. And then I stayed awake for another 10 minutes, letting the adrenaline finish coursing. Then I finally fell asleep. It was like my brain had to finish processing the event, and when it had come to that realization, I could sleep. 

Anyway, I know it's the tiny Rexburg Poetry Slam. But I told Jacob last night that if I could sum up the experience in one word, it would be validating. I think I could go through my whole life being fairly confident in my abilities as a poet. I am not Anne Sexton or Robert Frost or Sylvia Plath. But I am Liz Chapman, and I'm a pretty decent poet. But it was a pretty awesome experience to have a whole room full of people think so too. I'm really really grateful. And I was also very impressed with the other poets there, and honored to be there with them.

Especially since standing in front of people and performing your poetry is just about the scariest thing ever. I was chatting with some of the other poets (who were all incredibly talented) and we had this conversation: 

Me - Someone once said that acting is standing in front of an audience, completely naked, and rotating slowly. I've always agreed, but after doing this, I don't think acting is that. Because you have a costume. POETRY is standing naked and rotating slowly. 

Other Poet - Yeah. It's like you're naked AND on fire. 

True story. 

Anyway, here's the poem I performed. I also did one about a pig for the finalist round, but posting two poems feels like tooting my own horn way more than I already am, so I'll just post this one. This poem was the first one I ever wrote with the idea of performing it in mind. It was actually totally different, and then I did it for my sister Beckah and she gave me a brilliant critique and I changed a ton. So I guess half of that free pie-shake I won Thursday night goes to Beckah. 

Marginalia, or “You Dear Sweet Fragile Little Thing”

I mean,

Billy Collins said it was one thing,

but here

is what it means.

Margin.

Marginalized.

It means margarine instead of butter in all the bread

she baked for 20 years

in the oven that could have ended everything

at any moment

had she stayed leaning down

for long enough

just long enough.

Just by a slim margin

long enough.

Another girl,

she was only 14 but

they put her in the margins

when they said

you are responsible for that man’s thoughts

don’t bare your ankles

and don’t lean over your books

that way

you’ll get top-heavy, girl.

When my sister was born

people put her in the margins.

They told her

what color was her color

without looking into her eyes

to see every light-spectrum color there

in a pattern that was all her own,

coloring outside all the lines

that they tried to give her

when they said

“This is a man’s world.”

And me.

Me, I have walked through

my own garage under

the heavy stare of a man

who was there to fix the air

conditioning

when I was 16 years old

and didn’t know what it was

he was thinking about my teenage legs.

And if I could

walk past him again,

I would start reciting

Shakespeare at the top of my lungs

just to show him

how much godhood these two legs

are actually holding up.

My friends,

there are women who

are wearing makeup and

Beatles t-shirts beneath their

burqas,

despite the fact that no one will see them,

despite the fact that they cannot drive a car,

despite the fact that they cannot appear in public alone

they wear what they want just to scream to themselves

that they still have a choice.

My friends,

when the magazines

tell you what position

will give you power

they are telling you

to try to change the world

from the margins.

But you

you are

words that belong

not between the lines

but all over that page.

And when they say

don’t bare your ankles

and when they say

try this position

and when they say

this is your color

you tell them

it is your book

you tell them

it is your page

and you tell them

that your words

were meant to be read. 

Also, last night was the final push of validation I needed to make this announcement: 

 

This is a mock-up cover design for the book of poetry I've decided to self-publish. Like, available on amazon.com and maybe even at the Idaho Falls Barnes and Noble self-publish (but I'll get a higher royalty if you buy it from createspace...I'll tell you more about that later). I've spent a lot of time researching and thinking about this, and I've decided to go for it. It'll probably be available sometime in the Fall. (I've actually been working on it for a while...) Just in time for Christmas.

So blog-readers, start saving money now! I promise I'll make this as affordable as possible, though, so you probably don't actually need to start saving money now. This book will have some new stuff and some old stuff and maybe some art stuff. I'll keep ya posted!

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Validated

Remember this?

*

Oh hi.

Remember when I used to post poems on here all the days? I wanna do that more. So here are two poems. I'm took a poetry class this semester and my writing has taken a step up, I hope. Here are two compositions based on exercises we did in class.

A Father and Ballerina in a Grocery Store

“She’s beautiful,” she says.
Her arms are long and slender,
and in the tilt of her head,
there is something of the swan.
He cannot take his eyes
away from her neck.
He addresses it shyly.
“She’s new.”
Foolish words, he thinks.
All babies are new.
It’s what defines a baby.
But the woman laughs,
and reaches past him
for a tomato,
and the hairs on his arms do
pirouettes.
His daughter’s eyelashes
brush her own cheeks
four times briefly
before she sighs
and turns her head to the side.
They both watch her.

The woman takes
the tiny hand.
“She has a dancer’s fingers.”

“So do you,” he replies.
Foolish, he thinks.
But she smiles at him
and then at the baby.

And for a moment,
he is the prince
and she is the swan
and they are smiling
at their own perfect daughter.

Emilia whimpers
and he remembers his wife.
At home, un-showered,
waiting in sweat pants
for him to return with tomatoes.


I Would Have Married Him Twice

His face seemed four feet tall.
Squinting one eye
(to indicate his emotion),
he curled his lip and growled
“Sus ojos!”

His compadre squinted one eye and drawled
“The Grasshopper, amigo? Is that all we have?”

“Si. That character stuff
was just kind of
my inference on it.”

There was a sign
on the truck out back.
“Do not crawl
under raised body.
It may drop and
kill you.”

“You are the chemical suppression, tio.
YOU are The Grasshopper, amigo.”

“Si. I am the echoes
in the empty lecture hall, compadre.”

One wife turned to the other
and sighed.
“Mi esposo is an absurdist.
Had I known before the wedding…”

* I've never actually slammed. In the poetry sense of the word. I'm intimidated by it, but I wanna try sometime.

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Remember this?

A poem again

(TA DA! Thank you everyone, for your guidance on making blog changes! I've made a few minor changes, but I'm pretty sure we won't change the URL for a while. Also, I'm in love with my digital tablet.)

Another poem for my poetry class...I started this a few months ago, made some revisions, and post it here.

Lunchroom Savior
Wasatch Academy High School, 2010

It is middle school
all over again.
Tables full,
tray in hand,
a labyrinth of jovial disdain.
There are necklaces
and finely sculpted hair,
dakine backpacks,
and I have memories
of the jungle I felt
at age fourteen.

It is Talent Middle School.
Taran Nadler and Christine Scholes
are sucking face
in a cheering circle of their peers,
And I am standing with my tray
in my hands.
Apologetic.

It is Phoenix High School.
I stand surrounded
sumptuous breasts,
obscene thighs.
I watch
and build towers
out of the remains of my lunch.

It is Girl Scout Camp.
Summer of 1999.
And I walk in to a cabin
in time to hear laughter cut short.

I take my tray
and wander again.
Twenty four now,
but still unsure of the jungle.

And he comes.
Bare feet. Long hair. Blue eyes.
He sets his tray down beside me
and for this half-hour,
we are outcasts no more.

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A poem again

Heartfelt

I'm supposed to share a poem for my poetry class. With someone...anyone. So I decided to share it with the whole WORLD! Or at least the blogosphere. I wrote this last week, and it has some similarities to another poem I wrote a few years ago about a heart, but which I haven't posted here, so a mention of the parallel is irrelevant here. The point is I like this poem's personality too, and its message, which is completely different from that other poem I wrote that's similar in structure but not in meaning. So here it is. 

(I feel like the ending is a little anti-climax/oversentimental...meh. That whole last stanza needs polishing. I'll keep working on it.)

 

The Heart

I am filled with light

and blood.

I am tireless.

Ceaseless.

Unrelenting.

With each contraction

I fill you with life

and take into myself

the dregs of blood,

wearied from their

58-second journey.

I wait for the day

when I shudder

and tighten.

When, rigid,

I let the blood trickle in

and rest.

There are names written into my walls,

carved on my stony altars.

The graffiti of one born straddling a grave.

Here is “God” and there is “strawberries”

and here is “Jacob.”

“Jason Willmore holding his little sister.”

“Playmill” and “Kirby Sentria Home Care System.”

“Baby Molly.”

I am aged with the etching

of words.

I began my life before you did

and in the end,

the words written on my fleshy tables

define you more

than my steady rhythmic thump.

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Heartfelt

Out of the rut? Maybe...

Still needs some work, but about 7 poems later, I think this was the "de-rutting" one I was waiting for. It needs a week and a re-write or two, but here it is anyway.

Him
Let him have a mind like a maze,
shoulders like basketballs.
And when he walks,
toes start tapping.
Let him come reading
the backs of cereal boxes.
A junkie for the printed word
metaphorically shooting up
receipts, movie tickets,
nutrition labels.
Let him come
packaged like
1947.
Suspenders curving
over basketball shoulders
and spats for tapping-toe-walking.
Three whole pieces of
Easter-Sunday finest,
tie-pin of the Union Jack.
Let him come
with no instruction manual.
Clean-slate
un-shaven.
Loving God,
singing tenor,
hugging Mama.
And when he
reaches a door before
a woman,
let him hold
it open for her.
Taking the weight of it
and then turning to
find her
smiling there.

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Out of the rut? Maybe...

"It is very difficult to live among people you love and hold back from offering them advice." --Anne Tyler

Not a terribly good poem...it's really pretty crap actually, but I was giving that whole "form" thing a go again, and the result was this light-hearted tone, which I felt served the whole irony of the poem fairly well. Ah, well. Onwards and upwards.

Tools

You say there’s crime there in Tibet?
‘Gainst monks on prayer mats?
Let me grab my army knife
I’ve got a tool for that.

It’s twelve steps to recovery
And he’s still full of pride?
I think I’ve got a tool for that
Yep, next year he’ll have a bride.

And what’s this about genocide?
The Congo’s filled with fear?
Well, good thing I’ve got a tool for that.
This will dry all of your tears.

Say, she keeps on calling him
Even after returning the ring?
The tool’s called “Don’t misinterpret this.”
That one carries a little sting.

And what about the ozone?
You say that layer’s fried?
Well, I’ve got my good army knife
Hey look, a brand new sky.

He’s got commitment issues?
I’ve heard that one before!
This tool’s been used quite often
But there, your love’s restored.

Come to me with problems
I’ve got a tool for each
It’s the greatest army knife
You wouldn’t believe it’s reach.

Yes any problem big or small
and I’ve got tools to spare.
But the damage done by my fixing lives
That I cannot repair.

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"It is very difficult to live among people you love and hold back from offering them advice." --Anne Tyler

A dedication

"Half of the time, I can't stop crying for him, even though I know I should throw him away, let him go. I believe the day will come when I'll go out into the yard and toss up my hands and he'll sail away. The winds will take him." --Jane Hamilton, "The Book of Ruth"

This poem still needs some work, I think, but here it is anyway.

Shoes and Souls, A Parable

“Can a life that is lived
still love what it lacks?” -J

Say perhaps
that when you were 12
you lost one shoe
on a canoe trip at
summer camp.
One half of
a favorite pair of sandals
given to you months earlier
a birthday gift from
your father.
And when you climbed into the canoe,
you glanced down and thought
about tightening the strap
but got distracted
by life-vests and bug-spray
and sunscreen and current.
And within the hour,
you watched as your shoe
floated downriver.
Say perhaps
you tried to stop it
with an oar
or even jumped out
after it.
But it swirled and dipped
out of sight
to be lodged in the debris
somewhere miles down.
Say perhaps
that because you were 12
(and 12 is the very cusp of adulthood)
you didn’t cry
until you could escape
to the corner of your cabin
and mourn for the loss of
one half
of a perfect whole.

Say perhaps
that you cannot stop dreaming
that one day
A Heavenly Messenger
will arrive
hand you an envelope
that explains everything
hand you the shoe that you lost
when you were 12.

Say perhaps
the dream came true
and you could hold again
that one half
a something lost
that you could keep
to have and to hold
for the rest of your life.
And after you’ve told it
how many tears you shed
the only thing to do
is to put it on a shelf
and look
at something you’ve outgrown.

And if he jumped ship
and floated down the river
it’s only a matter of time
before you’ll outgrow him.
And after you’ve cried
in the corner of your cabin
you can pull on your own
complete pair of shoes
the ones with just your name on them
throw your hands in the air
and step back into the boat.

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A dedication

"'Pan, who and what art thou?' Hook cried huskily."

'I'm youth, I'm joy,' Peter answered at a venture, 'I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.'

Wrote this for a friend a while back and thought I'd share it here. This is for anyone who's ever felt any sense of an identity crisis, whether it be a twinge of doubt or a longing to completely redefine oneself.

Because You Inspire Poetry

All children (but one)
grow up.
“Curiouser and curiouser”
we think
as we tumble down rabbit holes
and eat the things that make us smaller.
We wander in a world
where kings are talking backwards.
Far from the cornstalks and twisters
of Kansas.
We move from room to room
until we outgrow the house,
wondering which side of the mirror
we are on.

In our metaphysical pockets
we carry a handful of absolutes, of constants.
The speed of light,
the book of Nephi,
bad knees,
his eyes,
and Cocoa Puffs never being on sale.

Because we are bundles of
self s
Resume and cover letter self
Painter and poet self
Wife and lover self
Mother and nurturer self
and chain-smoker
hippie
bookworm
sister
student
it girl self.
We are defined and categorized
drawn and quartered
while some nebulous other
"self"
defies definition.
We look in mirrors for her.
Forgetting that a cake
is not separately flour, sugar, eggs, etc.
We are defined by the
painful whipped up combination
and the heat of a burning oven.

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"'Pan, who and what art thou?' Hook cried huskily."

One part angsty/two parts chic novel/one part therapy (ain't that what art's about?)

14 Lies
(Or “ Wishful Thinking”)

If I’ve lived in Idaho
for the last four years
this shouldn’t feel cold to me.

I am a natural redhead.

Men with commitment issues
are an urban myth.

Milk chocolate
is good for you.

Janis Joplin never did
any drugs.

Comic Frenzy will be
rescued.
I will be a part of it.

I’ll never have acne
during this mortal
life again.

I’ll make a habit
of going to the gym
regularly.

There was nothing
I could have done for him.

We’ll both be accepted
to study
at The Actor’s Studio.
And then interviewed
by James Lipton.

He never slept with her.

One day I’ll see
the Beatles.
Live.

Chef Boyardee is the same as
real spaghetti
and home-made sauce.

When I get back, it will be my turn.
This is the semester that
something will
finally happen.

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One part angsty/two parts chic novel/one part therapy (ain't that what art's about?)

Yet more poetry

This poem was born of several parents. One, of James Best's most recent poem posted on his blog. Two, of my own current poetry kick (itself born of a lot of recent emotional upheaval, I'm sure). Three, of this nutty bird that's been living in my grandparents' backyard, who has no sense of day or night. Enjoy!

Poems About Birds
“So when I am ready to read it, that bird will startle itself
right into my mouth. Down my throat.
And sing for me, make for me a second heart.
Trill away what I need trilled away."
--James Best, “The Bird”

There is a bird outside
that has no idea what time it is
one in the morning and
I’m brushing my teeth to an ornithological serenade.

I wonder if birds develop
mental illnesses.
Bipolar barn owls.
Manic-depressive mockingbirds.
Autistic African Silverbills.
I’m brushing my teeth at one in the morning
and there’s this bird
in the farthest corner of the backyard
singing itself into a frenzy.

Not a lullaby.
Not some haunting nightingale
a loon calling lonely on a moonlit lake.
I’m talking Mickey Mouse club
Bozo the clown sing-along
1950’s cornflakes commercial.
One in the morning,
I’m brushing my teeth with tears in my eyes
and there’s a bird out there
who doesn’t give a damn
just singing hallelujah to the good Lord
who made him.

Lissa said
there are things
that hurt so much that
it feels
like you don’t even have a heart.
An empty cage in your chest,
a vacuum in your ribs.
Anything that sang flown away.

One in the morning
and some bird doesn’t give a damn
that the sun set six hours ago.
Darkness already swallowed up everything
started in the corners at 7:00 p.m.
and slowly ate its way to the open empty spaces.
At one in the morning
everything is desert places
Silence that sludges through your veins
like mud
Making empty places emptier.

And somewhere
invisible in a corner
there’s this bird
who doesn’t give a damn.
To hell with empty cages
and the darkness that will remain
for another five hours at least.
This insomniatic out-of-touch damn crazy bird
is just singing hallelujah
to the good Lord who made him.

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Yet more poetry

Channeling cummings...

The e.e., not the Alan. Here's a poem. It's kind of an experiment, but I had fun writing it. Like I was telling a friend, the resulting poem here seems to be one part e.e. cummings, the other part sullen teenager. The ending's a little weak, as per usual, but its the line the poem was born of, so I couldn't bring myself to change it.

Also, I completed my first video blog yesterday, and have learned that its fun and that I detest the latest version of iMovie and that my startup disk is almost full. Youtube is currently processing my uploaded video blog, so expect to see that up here soon!

NOTE: In its original format, this poem is all over the page, and the placement of the words is important to the meaning. However, blogger isn't caring to recognize that, so until I figure out a way to make it do things MY way, you'll have to settle for just the words and my assurance that the poem is much more interesting in its original cummings form.

One Smart Cookie

If she baked you bread
and
if you took a bite
just a taste of her
bread
would it turn into butterflies?

I sense you wanting
she writes in tongues

Thow wing lang widge
like EllaQueenOfAllThings Jazz
throws syllables

Comic Frenzy’s
been doing it for years
and that God of Language
He’s all Mine.

(all Kleenex all snottearschocolate)
“asaWomanI can tell”
“I know you”
my green green green eyes all MoralsHonestyFriendshipLoyalty

stay on my backburner
simmer simmer slowly
constantly
Let me let all the bitter
simmer simmer out

please
begin to see the light at last
For I shall disapprove of anyone you date
so long as she is not
Me.

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Channeling cummings...

Another poem, of course...

A Father and Son Asleep in the Oakland Airport

A little before midnight.
Even airports sleep.
A few seats behind me,
a man and his son lie sleeping
sprawled out on the floor like it was their own living room.

This father might be younger than me.
His raised sleeve reveals a tattoo on one arm.
His son can’t be more than 5.
They’ve made a make-shift bed
airport floor mattress, suitcase pillow.

He’s got his hat over his eyes
like someone out of a Steinbeck novel
an average Joe sleeping off the Great Depression.
The boy’s safely curled up by his side,
his head is resting on his dad’s shoulder.

Perhaps dad fell asleep first,
and with 5-year-old stealth,
the kid quietly and oh so carefully crept closer and closer
until he could lay down and fall asleep almost in his father’s embrace.

Or perhaps after work and school each day,
they fall asleep in front of the television next to each other.
Maybe there’s a woman somewhere with pictures
of the two of them
safely asleep like this.

I may be a stranger to them both
but now I have my own picture
of these two
safely sleeping in an airport.

Not one of my best, but I enjoyed the image. It was difficult as hell to get that picture without looking suspicious, for the record.

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Another poem, of course...

What do you say to taking chances?

My poems very rarely, if ever, rhyme, so I thought I'd give it a try. Robert Frost says that having no verse to a poem is cheating, which is total bullocks, but I thought I'd at least do something different from my norm.

Moving to California on Thursday. I'm a little terrified. Although I hate good-byes, and I'm very done with saying them, and for that reason alone, I'm also very ready to go.

Seventeen South Fourth West, Number Four
(Or “On Contemplating the Move to Fremont, California and Taking Classes at Ohlone College)

“What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy-
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?”
--William Shakespeare, “The Rape of Lucrece”

From April to June I have felt myself lost
A fading self on every wind tossed
A striking contrast to confidence I’ve known
To feel one’s face is not one’s own.

Young men have passed before my eyes
And all I have felt has made me wise
Broken hearts have many women made
Who see the need to let love fade.

Miles away waits a room with blue walls
Where I could spend one of hundreds of Falls
Where a woman has kept house for 50 years
There where wait my greatest fears

But then what changes in me silently wait?
What thoughts and faces blooming late?
What transformations could I know
In exchanging an “I” to get an “O”?

If Faustus must hurt in order to heal,
Then, Lord, let me have this ache to feel!

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What do you say to taking chances?

Hometown: ?

Home

I dreamt of Central Point last night
Of the highway that leads past Costco
and the Evergreen Ballroom
I dreamt of the stretch of road between 2210 Rio Street
and the Medford, Oregon Temple

Home is bookshelves and shoes in the racks
a place for the laundry basket
and a knowledge of shortcuts

In four years, the roads
of Rexburg have blended in my mind
with those in Southern Oregon.
The Rogue Valley’s radio stations
play the same music
on the same frequencies as the towers
in Madison County.

I can make no claim on Medford
today.
A sister in Boise, two more in Honduras
Mother and stepfather in Alameda, Caifornia.

Since the end of August 2004
I have not seen trees like the ones
that line the road to Applegate.

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Hometown: ?