{npm24: 16}

Okay, this is WILDLY off-topic for my project this month, but I have to do it anyway, because Reasons.

Author Charlie Jane Anders did a brief series of reviews for ‘terrible gender-swapping’ films in her newsletter this week, and admitted that she’d never seen the 1993 Robin Williams comedy “Mrs. Doubtfire.” Neither does she want to see it, but invited reviews of it on her behalf – in haiku only.

See what I mean? I need to write this haiku because REASONS.*

A 90’s Movie Truism

fat folks in films, and
women of a certain age:
interchangeable

Level Up Your Parenting: Do Drag!

he was a “bad” dad:
but such a stellar nanny…
was it just the dress?

The Reason We Watched

a diamond in mud
shines despite its circumstance:
We loved you, Robin.

*With apologies if this is your all time favorite film. It wasn’t terrible, exactly, it was just… a 90’s movie… reflecting an epically wretched, horrifying era.

{npm24: 15}

Ah, yes, the Ides of April, our modern day of betrayal and infamy and what feels like the sudden death of any hope of having a reasonably full bank account. April remains the cruelest month, as the sun has been snatched away again, and returned us to gray cold – although I’m excited to say we got out and worked hard after our Sunday gig to get a few more flowers into the ground. Still, today, is cold and gray, and it feels hard to push through the fatigue and know that better days are coming. You?

it’s not through

the only way out
is a trail marked with arrows.
I choose a U-turn.

{npm24: 14}

I kind of hate the waste of a waxed amaryllis. It’s such a popular holiday gift, but the wax renders the plant useless for composting, and also creates an impenetrable boundary for the roots to cross. People watch them bloom, and throw them out. I’m sure I’ve whinged about this before.

I’m relieved that the ones I rescued survived to go outside. I’m thrilled that one is standing tall.

leafed

greenery brilliant
glowing red petals, spattered
and weather-beaten:
sturdy beauty’s cultivar
affirms what it takes to bloom.

{npm24: 13}

Spring swings in on a pendulum – we move from fair high seventies back to restless winds and driving rain. And back again. And yet, it’s a good day.

Sometimes our homes feel more homey than other times, and for me, that’s a rainy day spent alone. Peace and plenty are things I’m thankful for – plenty of time, if not plenty of money – and solitude, stitching, and tea…

rainy morning

the poppies have bowed
gaudy heads lowering
tea steams the streaked glass

{npm24: 12}

Happy Poetry Friday!

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Brené Brown’s TED talk from a few years ago wherein she mentions a Christmas movie – a family in a car singing carols, the camera panning over the individual faces, and then — she stops the imaginary movie, then she asks people what happens next. People immediately say “car crash.” Others add to that, imagining oncologist based bad news, serial killers – menace. I heard this in a talk, and laughed out loud. Like, what the heck?! Who are the people who think that?! And what the hell is wrong with them?

Um…? The people who think that is …us. Me. Brown talks about how many people feel like ‘the worst’ is always going to happen. We are fear-based society, raised in fear-based systems – even our faith is fear-based. Joy is greeted with foreboding, and disappointment is a state of being.

When I got done laughing about this, I had to cry.

Do You Believe in Love?

I struggle to believe
My faith lingers in facts:
Time moves on. People leave.
I live with my bags packed.

My faith confesses fact:
Gifts get taken away.
I live with my bags packed –
“Nothing gold can stay.”

Gifts get taken away
Fears, holding them too tight,
Since “nothing gold can stay,”
Dread keeps us from delight.

Fear makes us grip too tight
And, one foot out the door,
Dread blotting out delight,
Does absence faith restore?

My one foot’s out the door,
Time’s moved on. People leave.
Losses leave my heart sore.
I struggle… I believe.


I felt this TED talk rated another repeating poem – but just to be difficult, I have returned to pantoums. Jone’s our hostess today, with a smart interview with the author of a most gorgeous ekphrastic anthology – and Jone herself has a photograph included. Thanks, Jone, and Happy Poetry Friday.

{npm24: 11}

I enjoyed writing with a mentor text so much the other day that I’m going to try it again… (and to be honest, this is the easiest way for me to gently move into blank verse, and avoid my pathological need to rhyme things…) I was introduced to this poem in my small writing group, and just loved its simplicity. But, as I’m practicing not evading, its simplicity turns my eyes a new way.

One of the simplest truths about humans is that they are fear-based species. About a year ago, the National Geographic did a whole piece on how our fear drove our evolution (yay?). It’s an unpleasant truth, isn’t it? But our ability to fight or flee or freeze has made us who we are…

Others have used Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Valentine for Ernest Mann” as a mentor text and taken it a new direction – today I’ll be replacing courage with poetry. Or is poetry actually courage?

Getting to Grips with the Gift

You can’t order courage like you order fries.
Move up in the drive through and, say, “two orders, animal-style”
and wait for the shiny-faced young person
to hand you a waxed-paper box.

Still, it’s a worthy quest.
Demanding of the cosmos, “Give me courage,
I need to be brave,” rates something in reply –
Maybe more than the expected:
Courage collects. Behind the bunker called Fear,
it is bunched up under a drift of “fight” or “flight. It
crawls from beneath the bed, but crouches, trembling
at the edge of the stage
when it is our turn to step out into the spotlight.

It erupts at the call of karaoke,
sometimes with no notice.
It pulses to life when your section stumbles.
In realizing, “I recognize this part,” you’re reminded,
And your voice rings out, flaring
bright against the formless dark,
pointing out the path. Your singing,
no better than it has been before, but for
love of song, you break ranks and shove aside
silence. When courage layers a chord,
it discloses the secrets that fuel it,
forcefully vouchsafing that though we fear,
fear can be forced away.

Maybe if we refuse what secrets and silence suggest,
we cultivate courage. Spread your shutters, loose
your lion heart, and approach the subject which distresses you.
Let courage grow.

{npm24: 10}

When I was a student teacher, one of the big discussions we had – when we weren’t being fed careful sips of theory from our lovely teachers – was how to acclimate children to the dark and jagged place the world could sometimes be. I find it deeply ironic that, as a writer – in writing groups and at conferences and such, that’s still the same question we spend a lot of time on. How much do we tell them? How much do we reveal?

That refrain always reminds me Maggie Smith‘s poem. How much do we keep from the children? And how much do they know anyway?

Futures

Adults struggle, though we keep this from the children.
Adults struggle, and we struggle still
and in a million different ways regret
the choice to keep it hidden. What brought us here
we keep it from the children. A fear-based beat
drums deeply through our bodies, and that’s our
normal, though we needn’t tell the children.
For every friend, a bully stalks the playground.
For every clear drop, a neighborhood drinks down lead
from the River Flint. Trust is an alien potsherd excavated
by antiquarianists, baked in the dust of injustice on a
planet so profoundly and purposely poisoned it breaks you,
though we hide this from the children. Are we not trying
to market equity? Any bullish trader,
upselling such a valueless commodity, rattles on
about futures: This one could be the big one,
right? A little investment, and it could mean security.

{npm24: 9}

The Poetry Sisters’ recent pantoum project reminded me of how much I have disliked repeating poetry forms – but the pantoum was fine. However, I recently compared the pantoum to the villanelle. For a rigid topic, a villanelle works SO well – short lines, direct ideas. It’s good for inescapable truths. A pantoum sometimes leaves more wiggle room…

Pivoting back to my examination this month of those “deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being,” that T.S. Eliot mentions, I started thinking about growing up poor. Talk about an inescapable truth. I remember seeing an hourly pay stub of my mother’s when I was in the seventh grade, and being …afraid. I remember murmured, late night conversations that were probably my parents trying to figure out what to do, what not to pay, how to stretch what we had. That they owned their home was their sole saving grace.

My life is so different! I don’t own my house. I don’t own much. Yet, am I better off?

inescapable

Couch cushions never hid cash
We winkled every last cent
Never allowed to buy “trash.”

Squirreling away in a cache,
So youth could not be ‘misspent.’
Couch cushions never hid cash.

Washed and pressed – neat, not slapdash.
“Who do you girls represent?”
No one could call us poor trash.

Concocted “cures” for a rash.
A doctor’s care? Infrequent.
Couch cushions never hid cash.

In school we read of the Crash,
Kids worked in fields for the rent
They even reused their trash.

Treats – cash and candy – I stashed
Where I hid my discontent.
Couch cushions never hid cash,
We were never allowed to buy trash.

How’s that for not “evading,” my truths, Mr. Eliot?

{npm24: 8}

It’s one of those weeks where I’ve already lost track of what day it is — being busy on the weekend sometimes does that to you, when you have a List of things that need to be done by Monday.

I’ve been reading up on the little mental aberrations that humans in sport endure – the yips, the twisties, the waggles. They’ve all got such cute names, but they represent the times where your body says “No,” and you forget how to throw, how to bat, how to land, if you’re midair in a flip.

I don’t think sport is the only arena in which human beings encounter mental blocks…

trapped

if we just believed
the psychologists tell us
we’d be limitless
but we’re mimes in glass boxes
walls built of anxiety

{npm24: 7}

Another year, another eclipse, though we’re nowhere near the totality this time – though there must be myriads of people hastily traveling from here to there, eager to see the moon blot out the sun. I saw an eclipse in the first grade, and they were SO EMPHATIC about us not blinding ourselves that to this day, I don’t think of an eclipse without a mild sense of lingering dread. Though it is indeed dangerous to blind yourself with the sun, it’s a little sad when the wonder is wrung out of a thing due to warnings and reminders and instructions. It’s a bit sad that I don’t know why people hop on planes, drive for hours, and insist on being there… what are they looking for?

april 8, 2024

klaxons sound warnings
in silence totality
swallowing us whole

like birth, we’re released
the ineffable, reached for
while we stand, gazing