Penny Lane, my wee dog and I walked up our Interurban Trail to Walgreens, to pick up a prescription. It was a cool day, early September, autumn in the air. A young man was by the doors as we approached. He was carefully pawing through the top of the garbage bin. Long dark hair and a handsome face, dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a light jacket, he opened a discarded meal container, made a face at the contents, and tossed it back.

“You hungry?” I asked. He smiled, a mouth full of beautiful white teeth, punctuated by dimples.

“Yes,” he said.

“What would you like?” I asked, hoping it was something that might be available in the drugstore.

“Anything,” he said. 

Where do homeless people come from? Where are they going? What are they doing here? These are questions we all wonder. Are they dangerous? Are they on drugs? What happened to them to make them homeless?

I told him to wait for me. The pharmacy was busy with covid testing out their drive-up window, people inside getting vaccinated, and two people in front of me who appeared to have extremely complicated issues. While I stood in line, properly distanced, I decided I would get a twenty and let the young man go shop for himself. But when I asked for cash over the purchase, the clerk rang it up and forgot to click that button. She said I’d need to make another purchase to add cash to my purchase, and I’d already made my purchase. Half an hour had passed. Frustrated, I wondered if he would still be there. He was. I was struck once again by how young this not-much-more-than-a-boy was. He was clean, he looked like he took care of himself, good-looking.

“Walk with me,” I said. “Let’s go over to Trader Joe’s and you can pick out what you want.”

Penny liked him. That’s always a good sign. On the way, a couple short blocks, I asked his name. Matthew. From Palmdale, California, and not in contact with his mother, who has problems of her own, and kicked him out long ago, while he was still in school, and no, he didn’t graduate. Matthew does have regular contact with his grandmother, who he’s close to, and always lets her know where he is, and that he’s okay, and she worries about him, all the time. Twenty-three years old. Homeless for all practical means and purposes. Matthew and his dog are on their way to Whitefish, Montana, where there is migrant work. He travels with a friend, and they take turns guarding their tent and staying with the dog. They were in Seattle, waiting for their connection to Whitefish. Often, they ride in empty boxcars. They never try to get in while the train is rolling but sneak in while it’s in the yard. Usually there are security people who do see them but let them be.

I carried Penny into the store. No one paid any attention to this older woman and young native man. Matthew took his time carefully choosing something to eat. It was a tuna wrap.

“Get something for your friend,” I said.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He grabbed an Italian style wrap sandwich and when I told him to get something else, he took a chicken Caesar salad. I asked if he’d like some fruit and we had a look at apples and oranges.

“I think the cut-up fruit would be better,” he said, and I reached for the largest container.

At the check stand, I made sure I was going to get cash back and handed Matthew $20.

He was so grateful, tears in his eyes, as we stood outside the store, and it was clear he wanted to hug me.  We grasped each other’s elbow instead and he gave Penny a pat. The bill was $17.66 and I later kicked myself for not getting him dog food.

Low-income migrant workers are amongst the most vulnerable to exploitation and abuse.

1 in 10 young adults ages 10 – 25 endure some form of homelessness in a year.

People of color have an 83% higher risk of homelessness.

A big challenge for homeless people looking for jobs is not having the right skill set.

We have attitudes about homeless that are rarely based on facts.

I’m not a religious person. My friends are aware of that. I do weary of Christians in our society who rely on certain types of media to get justification for their actions and judgments. However, what a difference it would make if they simply applied lessons from the scriptures, which they ignore in favor of those they choose to interpret to validate their own causes.

Matthew 25:35-36 – For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger…

Matthew 25:40 … Truly I will tell you, whatever you did for the one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.

Thanks for reading….

(This is not a photo of Matthew; it is a stock photo.)

Life is Short

I didn’t have a valentine yesterday. I was married on Valentine’s Day 33 years ago but my life has changed drastically. Since that time, I've been single for one year less than I was legally wed, though our courtship started a few years prior to the day we tied the knot. We were inspired to make our relationship legal by a near death experience; mine. Life is short, we concurred, and we could never be sure that time was truly on our side. We grew fat and lazy in our complacency; we became comfortable in our ability to overcome first world problems. When disaster struck, we were as unprepared as waltzing partners on the ballroom floor of the Titanic. It took years for me to recover from the avalanche of shocks and revelations. I was often mistaken for a nurse because for over a year, I was an instinctive caregiver, learning more about the foibles of the human body than I’d ever cared to know about. But I rolled with the punches and I am good now. I live a solo life, involved in extended family, and with no desire to find a partner. That phase of my life is over. But it doesn't give me any more time than I was allowed before. I'm still running circles around myself.

Currently, I'm witnessing a dear friend go through similar motions as I did twenty years ago. Her husband’s illness is completely self-inflicted but the end results are similar. I can reach out and lend support but more than anything, I’m here, for venting, ranting, weeping, hugging, listening. I know the importance of having people shut up and simply BE THERE. Bottom line, that’s what friends really are for. It’s also nice to have someone to go with to movies, shopping at Nordstrom, and splitting a bottle of wine or two. 

However, I’ve found the most important part of a friend is his or her ears. And sometimes… shoulder. Many of us find that making time to lend an ear isn’t always easy. We all have busy lives, but to hear a friend say they’re too busy; don’t have enough time can be like a blunt needle in your side; it hurts. If we have time for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, we have time for a phone call, or a lunch date.

In the past year I've lost some friends and we all witnessed shocking deaths of famous people we admired and loved, many gone far too soon. Let’s make time for one another until the day comes when all we have left are memories.

Thanks for reading. 

..

Vertigo - Not Just a Scary Movie

The Epley Maneuver

Miraculous is not a word that gets overused in my personal vocabulary.

I had vertigo for a long time, off and on and sometimes debilitating. A couple years ago, I had a fierce episode that lasted eight months. The Adele song “Rolling in the Deep” was my theme every morning when I woke, turned over and traveled from bed to bathroom, a mere few steps. I started each day with an initial wave of nausea that eventually calmed down but never quite disappeared. 

More than once, I slid into friends on both level and uneven terrain, was obliged to apologize and straightened my pace but I almost succeeded in knocking some of them off their own feet. People who’ve never had vertigo have no idea what an unbalanced plane the victim suffers; how equilibrium swings around like an out-of-control pendulum; what getting out of bed or rising from a seated position entails.

I’m not sure if all vertigos can be cured as mine was, but I know there are a lot of people who have never even heard of the Epley Maneuver and neither have their doctors. I was lucky that my physician, Dr. Vanessa Feliciano, on the staff of UW Medicine, sent me to the UW Medical Center Physical Therapy. She was convinced I could be helped, even though I was sure it was hopeless.

When I arrived, I was confronted by a waiting room full of people who were clearly disabled with canes, walkers, wheelchairs. I thought perhaps there was something wrong with my neck and/or spine, so maybe I was in the right place. I met with a physical therapist, Emmanuel Craig. As we chatted, we discovered we had friends in common and I relaxed and allowed him to manipulate my head and neck. I've never been comfortable having people fiddle with my neck.

When Emmanuel told me it was clear I was suffering from vertigo, I told him I knew that! but then he explained BPPV to me (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo). BPPV is the [sudden sensation that you’re spinning or that the inside of your head is spinning.] I had a severe case. Surprise, surprise. What he told me next promised to change my life. It could be cured, simply and within moments.

I walked out of the UWMC PT, clearheaded and balanced. I was also astounded. That this treatment could be so uncomplicated, involve no drugs and leave absolutely no after effects, amazed me. I tried to share the information with others who I knew suffered from vertigo but was met with disbelief (I could relate) and skepticism. I told them to ask their doctor and make an appointment with a physical therapist.

I am well now. I know how to resolve my vertigo if it returns, and it may. I no longer need to fear falling and running into people, furniture, small children, etc. I don’t have to cling to walls. I get out of bed in the morning and sit up normally, ready for my cup of coffee, not afraid I will vomit it up.

If you have vertigo and you want to try curing yourself, you can follow the instructions in this video, which is what I will do, if mine returns. Have someone with you to help guide you along. It won’t hurt, isn’t complicated and can change your life. Good luck.

Thanks for reading.

Tonight I Think About Tomorrow

Tonight I think about tomorrow. 

Fourteen years ago.

We went to bed innocent and woke up completely startled. 

Furniture and dogs were kicked. 

Implacable disbelief. 

Merciless reality. 

Overturned lives, loves, plans, convictions.

Our world changed. 

We began to think and feel as others have for centuries. 

Fear. 

Anger. 

Distrust.

In fourteen years I have heard about conspiracy, lack of evidence, missing recordings and documents.

One thing remains. Loss. We are stuck with that.

Loss of freedom, confidence, loved ones, futures.

What have we learned?

Little to nothing.

The fighters continue to fight in the wrong arenas. The radicals continue to terrorize and strike where the desert is no longer about camels or oil or negotiations. 

The vital organs cling to reason, wisdom, compassion, with heads in the clouds 

and argue about camels, 

arenas 

and 

fighters.

Tonight I think about tomorrow. 

Fourteen years ago.

.

.

Thank you for reading.

.

.

KPLU FOOD FOR THOUGHT Haiku Contest

I had the honor of winning the KPLU Food for Thought Haiku contest August 28th. Below is a link to the podcast.

It was a heady experience, competing with nearly 500 contestants. First prize was a $200 gift certificate for Uwajimaya www.uwajimaya.com, which has four locations, including the Uwajimaya Village in the International District downtown. We're planning a family outing to spend the day, shopping and having lunch, once we can get all the go-back-to-school stuff ironed out. It'll be a nice adventure for October.

Mila was my wingman and upon arrival, we met Nancy Leson, who I immediately identified as coming from my home planet. We felt very at ease with her as she guided us to the broadcast room. Dick Stein was far away in the Tacoma studio, yet... just as close as the earphones on my head. Mila stood by and observed me flub the spelling of l e t t u c e as I spoke into the microphone, which magically (with help from Stein) edited that, and everyone's um's and ah's. The runners up went first, then me.

"My pomegranate 

Embraces your persimmon.

Lettuce rap our love."

The studio was an experience in and of itself. Mila followed wide-eyed as we spied on Marcia Ball doing a live performance in the large studio, reserved for KPLU broadcasts. We watched her play the piano and met her at the end of our tour of the premises. That tour brought an introduction to Nick Morrison, Production Manager/Jazz and Blues Host and I tried to not gush, but I love the guy.
We also met Bellamy Pailthorp, the Environmental Reporter for the station and the back of Gabriel Spitzer, busy working on a Health and Science piece. Simone Alicia, an intern, had her own desk and headset and both Mila and I expressed our envy, when we heard her in a detailed report a few days later, investigating the new rental car rage. What fun it would be to work at KPLU!

Our tour ended at the Wall of Fame, where guest artists sign their names on a white board. I thought about the disaster that could ensue, leaning against it. Nancy pointed out John Pizzarelli's self portrait of his nose!
There are some impressive autographs on that wall and I was humbled, wishing I could take the time to peruse the length.

Mila and a gorgeous cupcake, compliments of Tom Douglas Dahlia Bakery.

Mila and I had lunch at the Cherry Street Cafe and while we were munching away, discussing how much fun we had, my phone rang: Nancy Leson, hoping we had a decent photo for the website. Good thing Mila had taken a couple with my phone.
The next morning we rose too late to hear the first broadcast of Food for Thought but caught it in a later segment and there was my voice, which my friend, Linda, far away in Germany,  told me sounds light and youthful and beautiful. Thank you, Linda.

And thank you, KPLU and Dick Stein and Nancy Leson and all the wonderful people who voted for me. I am incredibly honored.

HERE IS THE LINK:
http://www.kplu.org/post/and-haiku-contest-winnahs-are

We're the Government and We're Here to Help

I’ve been notified that I owe the government money; Employment Security to be specific. For those of you who don’t know, that’s “Unemployment” and if ever there was an oxymoron…

The amount is $409.00 because “the information provided is different than the information provided by [my] employer or other resources for the same period.” Sigh. Those were my bonuses. I shared them with my co-manager, too, but the checks were made out to me.

Considering I get approximately $194 a week from ESD, this will take a big bite out of my crime.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the funds filtered into my bank account every week, enabling me to barely make my rent, pay my bills and depend on friends and family for fun and frivolity.  I would be getting more, if not for the fact I receive $575 a month in the form of rent stipend for a job that I put in somewhere between 65 and 80 hours a month. Break that one down. The money, I must assume, that I’ve made from bonuses, is not, indeed, bonus money at all, but regarded as income. So screw me if I want to have a latte, or buy a book or take a ferry ride or go to a movie. Never mind an extravagance like a nice dinner out and/or a concert, new boots, yoga classes, a road trip (but that would require my car, which is a whole other story.)

I know what you’re saying: So, get a J O B.

Yes. I’ve been working on that. As a matter of fact, Employment Security put me in touch with the Department of Vocational Rehab, who have been so kind as to help me get hearing aids, since my hearing loss is one of the reasons I am limited to what type of job I can get.  They also looked into helping with auto repairs to further facilitate my job seeking, which was greatly appreciated, though it didn’t work out. The woman who’s been helping me referred to getting the “breaks” on my car fixed. I overlooked it, as we all make mistakes and after all, spell-check probably wouldn’t catch that. But when I asked her if the DVR would be willing to help with payment for classes, I was told the courses I was interested in taking didn’t really fit with my profile and she wondered if that make “since” to me.

I don’t see myself as some flaming intellect. If I were, then maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, where my retirement funds got eaten up by some national debt monster or bestowed to some global purpose that I had missed somewhere in small print.

The DVR put me in touch with one of their employment agencies. I would need a new profile. After being flipped around to three different people within that agency, one who chewed gum throughout the entire interview, I was assigned to a young lady who explained that she was an expert in resume writing and could really help me out. She proudly presented my re-written resume to me, with experience misspelled three times. She made me look like a whiz kid by including that currently I simultaneously managed a dental office, restaurant, two business offices and apartment buildings. If I did all that, I doubt I would require her assistance in finding employment. (I manage an apartment building in which there is a dental office and restaurant. The other information she simply fucked up in general after I repeatedly gave her details.) 

I’m not afraid of work. I do lots of it, get paid little and what I’m collecting from the government is a bit of a joke. An insult. And now they want me to give them money. For my bonuses.  

Beware of: We’re the government and we’re here to help you.

REJECTING REJECTION

After asking why didn't I self-publish, a friend recently wanted to know how long I would continue to promote my books. There was no hesitation in my response.

“I will always continue to promote my books.”

My first, Nothing Gold, is a memoir. It’s totally on the shelf now and if I ever have time to devote to such narcissism, I’ll pull it down and put it through a re-write. Nothing Gold is about my husband, how he got sick, almost died, recovered and turned our world upside down. We’re not married anymore and to me he's dead, because the person we knew vanished, replaced by a stranger whose brain was deprived of oxygen for sixteen days.

I completed Mozo in February 2007. I was busy at the time doing other writing and didn't put the effort into querying that it deserved (and I was over confident, the plague of all first time novelists). But that was okay, because it desperately required a complete re-write, which I finished in 2009 and proceeded to have properly edited. I changed the name to Seven Waves and in 2011, received some serious interest from a couple agents, one who hung on to it until all the tequila had evaporated from my query battery. I have changed the name once again to Sing, and Don’t Cry and my heart is buried somewhere within the pages of that book. I’m counting on it to be a great follow up to my first publication.

In November of 2011, I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo; the once yearly effort of many crazed and sleep deprived writers who, with a minimum of 1667 words a day, turn out a 50,000 word novel in one short month. Not, Actually was born. I came up with the name from some late night thread where a writer was asked if she knew what she was writing for NaNoWriMo and said “Not, actually.” It struck a chord and I headed into the future with my past. I wrote a book about a nineteen year old naïve farm girl, who ends up in Los Angeles, pregnant and directionless. Her mother arranges for her to place her baby with an adoption agency but Robin, the protagonist, proceeds to marry a cute British boy, who happens to be gay and in need of a green card to stay in the country so he can continue his relationship with a South American. With their financial help, she is able to take care of her baby, whom she miraculously retrieves from the adoption agency. That was my own personal history and I started to pound it out on the keyboard early in the mornings, before I took off to work at a snobby little boutique in the University Village. Those were long days.

After I got my NaNoWriMo badge, I kept going and ended up with over 90,000 words. Then I went back and did a complete re-write and after much consternation, came up with a more workable title: The Story of Robin Dockery and Her Songs. This book is partly cathartic, because it lets me end things much better than they have actually (there’s that word again), plus I have been able to get a story out there that begs to be told, regarding the 60’s/70’s and what it was like to be an innocent pregnant teenager, without any guidance. There were many of us, believe me.

I began sending Robin out on July 26, and have thirteen total queries submitted, as of date, with four form rejections received and eight messages floating in the ethernet. On August 6, I had an amazing turnaround of twenty minutes when Kathleen Anderson of Anderson Literary Management responded and asked me to send a FULL HARD COPY. I dropped everything and went about getting a new flash drive, making a full copy and sending it via FedEx. The clerk at Kinko’s backed off a bit when I kissed the manuscript and slid it into the envelope. It cost me an unsightly $67.69, which is a lot of money for someone who has taken the year off to finish writing a book. If I get another request like that, I may have to wander down to the local 7-11 with my paper gun.

Now is limbo. FedEx left Robin at the front door of Anderson Lit on August 13 and I’ve heard nothing since. I’ve preoccupied myself with things like the KPLU Haiku contest (link below), reviving my blog and polishing old silver platters that haven’t seen the light of day since last century.

I’m also working on Carlos at the Broken Arms, another novel. At dusk last night, on my walk, when deciding who I would dedicate my first book to (ah, perchance to dream), I realized the ideal name for Carlos’s dear aunt, whose death sets his new life in motion. Authors manage to find ways to literally bestow honor, assign heroes, villains and misanthropes. That’s why we write.

And that’s why we continue to sell ourselves so we can share what we write.

So… until the cold front warms up, the land of rejection decides to no longer embrace me, and the warm meadow of acceptance, contracts and undivided attention to honing my craft opens up like a reluctant clam shell, yes.

I will keep promoting and querying and hoping and praying. Always. 

Thanks for reading.

To vote for me in the KPLU contest, use this link. I thank you ecstatically. 

http://www.kplu.org/post/food-thought-haiku-contest

PEACHES

                                 

Peaches, being a baby’s first food, were never in short supply in our old farmhouse. Fresh in the summer and obtainable all through the rest of the year, they beamed from a long row in the pantry, jar after jar of canned smiles.

Every August, on a mild weekday morning, before the sun made an appearance, I dragged my sleeping children into the gas guzzling Gran Torino station wagon and buckled them in. With wobbly heads they fell back to sleep instantly.

Once on the road, I had time to listen to the radio, twisting the dial when out of range, hearing agriculture reports along with weather and road conditions. I listened to everything, relishing stolen quiet moments until one yawner awoke and quickly roused the others.

The drive from Enumclaw to Union Gap, over Chinook pass, was about three hours and by the time we got there, I had hungry travelers. Their first meal of the day was a big, fat, fresh peach, fuzz removed with whatever buffer available. They didn’t actually mind the downy skin and begged for more. There is nothing like a fresh peach straight from the orchard.

Once I made my purchases, usually three lugs, approximately 75 pounds, we headed back to the other side of the mountains. Ordinarily we pulled into the driveway shortly after noon. The kids were wired from the long ride and tumbled into the yard, chasing chickens, doing cartwheels and unloading pent up energy.

I hauled the lugs onto the tailgate and started picking out ripe fruit. The canners were already on the stove, filled with water and ready to be loaded with jars, which had been sterilized and covered the day before.

The next two days were spent canning; first dipping peaches in scalding water, then into a cold bath, peeling the skin and halving them. The sink was full of pinkish water skimmed with peach fuzz. Dinner was late on those nights and kids fell asleep somewhere in the vicinity of bedrooms if they were lucky. The baby usually was located in a Johnny-jump-up or infant seat, following my every move with her eyes.

Today, the peaches one buys don’t taste, regardless of where you buy them, Whole Foods, Co-op stores or the like. By don’t taste, I mean they aren’t like the dripping, sweet, candy-like peaches I hauled fresh over the mountains and fed my family throughout the winter.

The other day my friend Marni brought an apron-full of peaches from her family orchard in Kettle Falls. The taste is like juicy sugar heaven. I miss having a baby in the house who I can introduce this first fruit. I nearly ate them all myself.

Dear Mr Julian Fellowes

Spoiler alert!!

Dear Mr Julian Fellowes,


Sunday night, the Oscars were on television, so we didn’t miss Downton Abbey as much as we might (even though Seth MacFarlane made it painful to regret.)

After somber meditation on the subject, I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to say goodnight to Carson, Mrs Hughes, Lord and Lady Grantham and the entourage. If I want to watch soap operas, I’ve got access to the best… in Spanish, no less.

For me, your ending was too contrived, Mr Fellowes. I can’t forget the sunlit backdrop in the hospital room after an early, yet otherwise uneventful delivery of the Crawley heir, Mummy and Daddy bursting with love and pride, followed shortly by the view of the one lane country road (always a good setting in English drama). Did you insist on the ghoulish scene of Matthew tossed into the leaves, blood pouring from his ear? Or was that someone from the writing team’s idea? Because that we could have easily done without. If you had to kill in him in a crash, a more subtle approach could have called for the scene to be left with the smiling image of the new father and savior of Downton Abbey, hair blowing in the breeze, happy as can be, rushing back to share news of the precious arrival. The unsuspecting milk truck barreling from the opposite direction would have left little to the imagination.

I truthfully thought Matthew would meet his demise in the Highlands, mistaken for an elk, this time the bullet doing the job it hadn’t been able to accomplish in Season 2. That would have been ironic; I'm afraid what you gave us was pulp. I’ll admit, the first time I saw that shiny new convertible, I didn’t like it. I knew it was more than a prop. It was a leading story line that was going to spell the demise of someone but I’d hoped you’d spare Matthew and find another exit, since we all knew Dan Stevens had demanded to be let out of his contract.

Now we can look forward to Mary Crawley growing bitterer day by day and eating poor sister Edith alive at the breakfast table. Edith, who will be living a life in sin with her editor, with no regrets, seeing what happens to people in the household who marry in proper fashion.

It’s all too predictable. I’d like to perhaps let those loveable characters live on in my literal mind as I last saw them: the family having their aristocratic summering in The Highlands with their servants deservedly frolicking at the fair. It may have been their last chance...as Carson ages, he’ll get crustier and downstairs will end up on lockdown.

Bates and Anna seem content; let’s allow them some happiness. O’Brien’s mischief is getting old (I roll my eyes and brace myself each time I see her lighting up in the yard); if you were going to kill anyone, it should have been her. Branson must remain in England, and overlording sheep will get quickly boring. The chance of an affair with one of the maids has been ruled out. There isn’t even any tension left in the homosexual advances of Thomas towards darling Jimmy.

Could it be that Violet is simply having a dream; will she wake up in the 21st Century with a remote slipping from her hand, admitting that, indeed, Downton Abbey is a watchable show?

Or will the writers who’ve replaced you while you’re seek lasting fame in Hollywood bring back the badly burned Patrick? He can fall in love with Mary… or maybe Tom? Now there’s a twist. We know he’s lurking in the wings somewhere. His departure was not final; he seemed to go away much too quietly. As I said, Bates and Anna seem content...who knows what other things are hidden in the evil past?

As much as I moan, you know I’ll be back for Season 4. I’d be a liar to pretend I wouldn't.

I wish you luck in Hollywood and don't let them lead you down any one-lane paths...


Discordantly yours,

Lady Dills

The Crow

The prompt today is to write a poem in the style of Marianne Moore, with the suggestion of writing about an animal.





In a pink and yellow dawn,
          comes through the opening
                 in my silver lit window the koww koww,
metered and numbered echoes of the crow,
          who my wise father referred to as
                 Old Indians and taught his children to dutifully respect.

                             Crows hear frequencies lower than humans, which complicates study of their vocalizations and given man’s propensity to know and communicate with other species, at least to                    
understand them, frustration is the baffling consequence.

Crows keep secrets only crows can know.

Cherished by some for demolishing grasshopper eggs; worshiped for sparing crops, the flip side of this adulation is being called tricksters , thieves…they are humiliated, lied about, destroyed.

               Why then is it said crows are kind birds that feed their old and weakened parents?        Amusing that this           
old bird might be so blessed and fortunate.

Jackdaw,
raven,
corvid,
call him what you will.

To me he is liege.

.

.

Openings and Closings

Tonight there will be no poem. I spent the evening with old friends in The White Horse Pub in Post Alley and laughed so hard I thought I might crack a rib. That's living. I was to write a poem about opening day. I missed opening day but we were quite good at closing night. And so I will meet you all tomorrow, and rise to a new challenge. Thanks, Tammy and Michelle, for an evening to remind me what I'm really doing here. Kiss. Hug. Happy poeting.

Azula's Blues

Today’s prompt is to write the blues. The traditional blues song is the 12-bar blues. Perhaps this will lead to an illustrious songwriting career. Ya think?
My blues is written from Zuzu’s POV. (She, once a jungle cat, now lives indoors. In an apartment. With a seven year old girlchild.)

Once I was a jungle cat, I lived life on the edge;
Say, once I was a jungle cat, living on the edge.
Now I chase dust balls from under the bed.

You know, I owned a neighborhood under the palms;
My neighborhood, yes, it was under the palms.
I was taken from my habitat like a melody from the song.

Siestas I was famous for, my dreaming it was deep;
I dreamed while I siesta’ed; my dreams, yes they were deep.
Now in this lackluster life, all I do is sleep.

I roamed around with lizards, scorpions and snakes;
Still the queen of the jungle, I’m not afraid of snakes.
You know, people, I’m a jungle kitty; I’ve got what it takes.

~~~growl~~~

So if you come to see me in apartment two-fifteen;
I invite you to visit me in number two-fifteen.
Hide your children and your money, beware of the jungle queen.

Other cats they know me, they could tell you of my legend;
Corridas sung about me, this cat is legendary.
I spit a mean hairball and I am quite contrary.

I’m Azula, singing my blues for you.
Yes, I am the mighty Zuzu, I sing the jungle blues;
My story is sad but true…ooh ooh ooh.

.

.

Epithalamium

This is the prompt for today: an epithalamium /ˌɛpɨθəˈleɪmiəm/ (Latin form of Greek ἐπιθαλάμιον epithalamion from ἐπί epi "upon," and θάλαμος thalamos nuptial chamber) is a poem written for the bride on the way to her marital chamber, a poem celebrating a wedding.

Having nothing more to say,
he scratches the shiny surface of parchment
with a pen that scarcely allows ink to flow,
his name stuck inside the barrel,
waiting
to leave a trail
that joins him
with her.

The member of the wedding
in an event he alone effected;
he, in his moment of fervor,
words rolling down his throat
to land on her surprised bosom,
she whispered I do, I do, I do.

Sweeping his hair past his blanketed eyes,
he turns and sees one bride,
as he has never seen her before.


.

.

Heart of Damone on the Day I was Born

Prompt:
Number One song on the day you were born
"You’re Breaking My Heart"
Vic Damone







The slow dying ember
Continues to smolder
The skin will remember
The hand on the shoulder
The night tore ahead
Of a moon on the rise
I denied what you said
Didn’t open my eyes
My fear filled the dawn
The lark gave no warning
And you… you were gone
In the vacant white morning

.

.

Comes April

Winter gives way to spring
In the most begrudging way

Bare trees that trembled
Under weight of
Snowfall
Anticipate transformation

Earth bursts
Infants shove their way
Arms stretch
Reach to the sound of

Songbirds
Returning home
Open throated
Extol the opportunity of the season

I know how the flowers felt

“The rain to the wind said,
You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.”
― Robert Frost

I've had times in my life that this poem suited me so well that the words would ring in my head, day after day.
Towards the end of this day, as I picked my grandson up at preschool and we raced through the garden to the parking lot above, I stopped to look at these daffodils and take a photo. We've always joked, they are the family flower...the Daffy-Dills. What I have learned to realize is the flowers are not dead. They manage to rise again to another day and recognize that this too shall pass.

Marie Colvin 12 January 1956 - 22 February 2012

Marie Colvin was the kind of woman I wanted to be. Married three times, twice to the same man and once to a dashing Latino who was said to write like an angel in his native language, Marie Colvin was an Ivy League girl who jumped right into life shortly after she tossed her mortar board in the air at Yale. I loved her. She was tough, she was brave and she was immensely talented. Her writing, speeches and reporting were inspiring to the point of humility.

[She was not interested in the politics, strategy or weaponry; only the effects on the people she regarded as innocents.] Roy Greenslade guardian.co.uk Marie Colvin obituary

When I read Helen Adams in the Lotus Eaters, it was easily Colvin who I imagined, without the eye patch. But Helen was fiction and Marie was not. Helen walked down a long road into the future. Marie is gone and remembered today.

I heard the news this morning while I was driving to work and it hit me like a piercing. The grief I experienced over journalism’s loss of Marie Colvin wasn’t something I could share; I kept it closed in my chest somewhere and felt it like a ball of heavy smoke all day.

In Memory of Dad 17 January 1905 - February 11, 1985

Twenty-Seven years ago today
Dad slipped away
In a manner not to his custom…
Quietly, with little fanfare. We’d fluttered
in and out of the room
saying goodbyes and laying our cheeks
next to his
unwilling to let him go yet granting him
his leave
because it was the noble
thing to do.
When he was gone my brother
keened and I
gathered sheets
and made mom tea.


.

.

River Stone

stones in the river

gone for the ocean…

like words I search

to remember time,

place

seeking

one stark obsession

.

.

Calling Stone

Call me out across the field
With abandon you will
Arrive upon my crumbling step
At last
We’ll close the door
Behind us
Just for the day