an ode, of sorts, to fellow poets this month
an arrow connects me to you–
and you. forward. back. a surprise
around the bend. heartfelt-ness
near. heartbreak there. two doors
down, a reminder. all
in breath-filled words and breaks
and imagery. community. unity.
trust. green-fresh-vulnerability.
kind connections. sans rejections.
all engaged in kentucky affections,
in blue-white-gold-green.
in poetry.
in hope.
TODAY WHAT SHOULD BE EVERYDAY, BUT ISN’T
I spend the morning trying/ to remember what it is I have to do.
I make a list in order of importance:
1. submit poems to KSPS contests—both close June 30
shit today is June 27
2. write a poem or something
3. do PT exercises-did already and am now my list is out of order
4. look up side effects and research of efficacy on people with TBIIs for memory enhancing drugs Aricept, Namenda, Exelon/ my GP says I might should consider taking
5. prepare for tonight’s comedy/talent show Thunderdome Balls hosting gig in Louisville at Planet of the Tapes
I type on the computer keyboard,/ this counts as writing/even if I ‘m not using a pen/ even if it’s just a list/ list poems are a definite type of poem /
and making is creating,
and I’m using words,
attempting eloquence and alliteration. This will suffice
as LexPoMo’s today poem.
Yes people, this is a poem./ Especially if I insert slashes and dashes/
for line breaks, don’t forget line breaks.
Exelon is a Chicago based utility corporation/
on the surface appears to have nothing/ to do with enhancing memory.
I’m curious, but must stick to the script/ the list,
but wait — home careers—do I want a career with Exelon,
maybe they are the makers of this drug/ I’m tempted to go, to see
if this is the company for me, for cures to my ailments/
financial and cranial?
I resist the urge/ reverse the cursor/ don’t go there. Go where?
Different search words reveal:
Rivastigmine administered 2 hours after closed head injury reduced edema and accelerated recovery. What about 24 years after/ one‘s memories and life fell/ to the earth to become one/ with compacted soil never/ to return to the brain they left?/ Is this drug to fix this frigging mess-of-me?/ Side effects—dizziness, diarrhea, depression,/ memory loss, skin rash, insomnia, blurred vision,/ etc…—the list is long—many things I already struggle with,/ in one way or another, /some not yet, but I know/ I sure as hell don’t want to risk/ burning sensations along with my frequent urinations!
Shit I forgot to put on my list;
read emails and respond/ to those that warrant response,/ delete what needs deleting, /like all the things my mind deletes minute by minute.
I was late with the lunch today
And for that I was chastised
The Blue Jay lands on the iron table
Cocks its head, ruffles its feathers, and jeers
Where are my peanuts, lady
The squirrel scurries to the back door
Stands on its hind legs and taps on the glass
Where are my peanuts, lady
The chipmunk darts out from its lair
Sniffs the air and stamps its front feet
Where are my peanuts, lady
I see and obey
Opening the door, I sprinkle shell peanuts
The squirrel grabs a peanut and buries it in the grass
The jay grabs a peanut and flies to a tree
The chipmunk stuffs its cheeks until they bulge
Five peanuts full, it scampers back to its lair
The lunch lady’s work is done
Most of my family left,
some to England,
others farther, to America,
before the Germans came.
I couldn’t, with my husband
needing my care, the neighbors
eventually needing my nursing.
Somehow, I survived the horrors.
All these years out of touch,
I need to send letters, a photo.
They’ll have heard the news,
but don’t need the truth from me.
(after an unattributed late-1946 photograph of a portrait photographer in Warsaw, Poland, colorized by Marina Maral and found at https://www.flickr.com/photos/132844921@N08/37365621530)
we’ve, all of us,
been kicked when
we are down
but there are
kicks
on the way
down, too
and kicks when
we are upright,
minding our own business
kicks from behind,
cheap shots,
kicks to the face
kicks from loved ones,
kicks from strangers
hell, we even kick ourselves
from time to time
we start out with
the bright, untarnished
heart
of a child
and end as broken,
mended,
re-broken and
mended again
“adults”
adults who
somehow
still feel
what’s left
of that
bright, untarnished
heart, still
beating in spite
of itself
I called you Champagne, the factory’s glam
name for your golden hue. You hummed
& purred, you caught the light just so,
your doors shut with a satisfying thump,
sealing me inside you, safe from the world.
But those years on Chicago’s potholed streets
were hard on us both. Instead of gliding
on air like a magic carpet, you bounced
& shimmied like a voguer on Halsted Street,
your struts shot, your axles grinding, your
tires as slick as the rain itself. We escaped
to Kentucky on fumes & I drove you into
the ground, left you for dead in the driveway
two whole years. Forgive me, sweet chariot.
I couldn’t afford to fix you—I couldn’t
afford to fix myself—but I couldn’t let you
go. Acquiring a coat of tree sap, dry leaves
& regret, you stood for my old life, when
I could go anywhere, anytime. In the end
I gave you to another man, some guy who
could look after you the way you deserve.
I bathed you, shined you up one last time,
then waved, old girl, as he towed you away.
You looked as lovely as the day we met.
I have a notebook. Purchased in 2016. Entries based on life and the changes I have sought. I have seen some come to be. Lost a bit. Won not much except friendships and higher pay. Which is truly something. Time now. Move on. I have listed new goals in the notebook. Telling myself by the time I arrive on the final page. All will be well. I am seeking. Direction. Guidance. Hope which I have never quite lost but have quite certainly allowed to disipate. Time has a way of showing up. Screaming reminders of my age and station. Could it be too late? Although it’s never. Except it is. Reality is harsh yet reality is where the truest resides. The peace. The ultimate reasons. All that’s ahead. Tangible. The notebook on my lap as I write. Pen in hand. Conspiring.
Nursed along with siblings
Tended to day and night
In The makeshift greenhouse
To reach their 4 inch height.
Moved to a larger pot
Outside when threat of frost has gone
Spritzed and sprayed and admired
All summer long.
Shown to friends and family
As the smallest green orbs appear
They’ve grown into the most beautiful
Specimens this year.
Red semigloss is their color
The size of a tennis ball
Multitudes to share with friends
And can and freeze this fall.
The day has come to harvest
We all are filled with glee
Only to find that the local deer
Have had their fill before me.
