Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Showing posts with label postcard poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label postcard poems. Show all posts

Sunday, September 3, 2023

Cascadia Postcard Festival - PoPo 2023

It's time again for August Postcard madness! I love the PoPo to close out the summer months and thanks to Paul Nelson for introducing me to this poem-a-day event, so many years ago. I now have a bulging shoebox of postcards from all over the world, postmarked with endless Augusts.

Poetry is an opportunity for me to not just express myself in free verse or poetic forms, it helps with my prose writing, to keep the juices flowing and spark the imagination. I also have the chance to share postcards collected from estate sales, galleries, museums, bookstores. There are those I have a hard time parting with, but keeping them in my blog, I can always see them and know where to find them! Apparently, according to my count, a couple went missing and I have no record of them, so it you received a card from me that isn't here, please let me know.

Some of these poems are inspired by the postcard that delivers them; others are the result of spontaneous inspirations. I made a couple of my postcards this year and plan to do more next year. There is a slight amount of editing, but these postcard poems are mostly in their original form.

Thanks for reading.


                                                      HIS MAMA'S EYELINER


It was his mama's eyeliner
Then he learnt to buy his own
Tender twelve-year-old fingers plucking at a cheap tinny guitar
A magic sound matched with an angel's voice
Singing praise to God, rolling holy
'Til the music shook him to his soul
And he shared it with the world
Guns and other stuff came later

(About this postcard. This is an Andy Warhol painting that currently hangs at Seattle Art Museum. To learn more about Elvis and Andy, Christie's has a great commentary on the 22 Warhol Elvis pieces.)

 ~~~

DAUGHTER OF DAUGHTERS


   You, daughter of daughters:
I have stood on your sacred earth.
Held your holy dirt in my hand
while it slid from my palm
like history passing.
I breathed into my body your ocean smell, 
like the heaven you hold in your hair.

~~~

A WORLD FULL OF BEGGERS


We lost everything
Thanks to your clever 
Genius Financing
and a 
poison that invaded your Blood, Spine, Brain, Lungs,
Every
Thing.
And left us emptyhanded
in a world
full of beggars.

~~~

THE WAY YOU ATE YOUR EGGS


I never made fun of the way you ate your eggs.
You drunk-cried more than anyone I ever knew.
I told them to not mock you.
I wondered why 
all the sorrow?
We shared mornings, 
phone call check-ins, stupid jokes, 
and the train card game.
You left me gaping. 

~~~

X MARKS THE SPOT


X marks the spot
You are here
Close your eyes and
acknowledge
Invasion
unholy insidious enduring indefinite
Be Brave
Allow your tears to fall

~~~

FLOWERS WAITING TO BLOOM


Do you know the songs unsung?
Are they circling round your skull like 
a wreath of flower buds, waiting to 
bloom, waiting to
blow away gloom, heralding a day
we can embrace with fragrant glowing strains? 

~~~

WHEN WE COULD REALLY DRINK


We had the Pink Door, in a smokey alley, with the scent of salty air misting on the autumn night. So many nights, drinking when we could really drink. Music that never crowded the language, and asking when will late friends ever arrive. Before closing, taking the Tarot card reader seriously, wanting every word to be the gospel.

~~~

21


He was half his life old in the photo. 
21.
Who knew that 19 years later, 
his life would be over?
I miss him 
though he never knew me. 
And now I am almost twice 
the age he was 
and he was gone. 

(On seeing a photo of John Lennon in Paris at the age of 21. 
Stardom was just a dream around the corner.)

~~~

AGING


Such a disarray of clothes, 
on chairs, 
the foot of the big bed, 
draped over the hamper, like old men, 
vying to escape. 

Framed photos on any horizontal space;
then there are those
 in my own original customized 
stacks and piles. 

Poems left open on pages 
of forgotten books. 

Dishes in the sink. 

Who will remind me 
to feed myself?

~~~

GIRL ON HER WAY TO NEW YORK


There is no map to guide you in your journey of innocence, 
destination known, 
unknown. There is no treasure, 
no ring, no fortune within sight.
Be your own advisor, 
navigator, 
captain of your ship.
I'll be waiting on this shore, holding 
my pride flag, the fabric of faith. 

~~~

LET'S GO FOR A RIDE


let's go for a ride
you be the groom
i'll be the bride

we'll stop in a bar
shoot some pool 
and
drink beer from a jar

we'll pause in a field
and stare at the stars
knowing our fate is sealed

if we have a kid
we'll teach them about 
l o v e
tell them the truth
about everything we did

~~~

FURY


Just before midnight, my adult daughter came to my room and took me by the hand 
to the big windows out front where the rain hammered and the wind tore 
causing rivulets of angry foam that bubbled down the street, as the sky BOOMED with thunder, metallic lightning streaks and our gaping wide faces peering into the raging night, which was over as quickly as it had begun and I said to her "fury, honey, that's fury."

~~~

THE MOON


Tonight, the moon followed me.
She's waning, as am I.
I left her hanging there,
In the plum-colored sky.

~~~

ALOHA


Oceans of tears
Skies full of firefall
Lonely souls sift through tides
Settle on millions of grains of sand
Moaning in the night
Weeping in the morning light
The loss of 
foresight
history
wonder

(Aloha is a Hawaiian word with many meanings, ranging from love, peace, and compassion to pity and grief. It's commonly used, especially by visitors to Hawaii, to mean hello and goodbye.)

~~~

CRYING LADY ROCK


Oceans of tears
Skies full of firefall
Lonely souls sift through tides
Settle on millions of grains of sand
Moaning in the night
Weeping in the morning light
The loss of 
foresight
history
wonder
Your ashes find their way to my garden
Your smoke covers my eyes.

(This poem just wasn't finished but had already been sent on its way. This is version #2.)

~~~

9/11


A deep hole
Goes so far down
We don't know where it ends
Buried there are
laughter, songs, photos 
in worn wallets,
wedding rings, 
favorite socks and ties,
Manolos and Hush Puppies
Lost goodbyes

~~~

MARIA


Now three years and more gone
I still see you there in my mind
Old messages and pics pop up on social media
and meet me with a stab
How can I go back to Garbo
and sit next to someone
who isn't you?

~~~

MAYBE NEXT YEAR


Time ate away the summer
And I didn't get a chance
to pick the blackberries
and make you a 
Birthday Pie
and aim for reparations.
You
sent photos of sunsets
(what does that even mean?)
but no shared burden of a weary load.
Time waits for no one
but
Maybe next year.

~~~

AFTER THE CASINO CLOSED


After the casino closed
Lights spelled out a partial name, 
some blinking yet...
on
off
on
off
Hanging onto pipe dreams
Testing a faulty resilience,
Hollow hope and sticky coins
Beg gamblers for a homecoming.

~~~

HISTORY IN THE MAKING



"A criminal enterprise 
of breathtaking scope."
For those of us who managed 
to survive a pandemic 
somewhat intact,
the firehose 
of daily revelations
causes reservation 
to even contemplate, 
let alone 
ask 
"what's new?"

~~~

SEQUOIAS


Sequoias, like strong women
grouped together,
weeping willows 
firs and pines,
shoulder to shoulder.
Ancient-speak
holding hands
with firm ground,
embattled daughters 
conquer galaxies.

~~~

MY TATTOO


"And so it goes," 
she has permanently marked 
upon her arm. 
Perfect details. 
Bees 
we share,
as if there wasn't anywhere else
to declare
devotion and trust
than a forearm.

~~~

SHE WASN'T A FRIEND OF MINE


She wasn't a friend of mine,
She was someone I'd run into
When out at the bars,
We always had a rapport.
Her laughter
had a following. 
I wish I'd known her better.

~~~

NEW YEAR'S 2016 P-TOWN


It was icy cold.
We overdrank and underslept.
The best part was watching 
the Uber prices rise by the minute,
as time
got closer to midnight.

We bundled up and walked the mile, 
arguing about Ole Miss
Surely you remember.
You handily beat me at very game 
with a smirk and another lesson in satire.

~~~

I'VE HAD HOUSES


I had a villa on a cliff in Mexico that overlooked the ocean, backlit by a jungle where cicadas pierced the dusky light, reminding me of the choir of amphibious creatures who lullabied my childhood in a house so secure and safe, that sleep was rarely interrupted, while I dreamt of my Queen Anne home of the future with white fences and unlocked doors.

~~~

GOODBYE


It doesn't mean 
what I want it to say
Have a good bye
By the by
By the time you get there
You will only be concerned with Hellos.

~~~

NOT MY JOB


To lend a hand 
to be of assistance, 
cause those entitled 
to exhibit silent resistance, 
heavy loads are borne 
by the remaining few 
who toil 
for mere existence. 

~~~

WHEN MY THIGHS WERE BEAUTIFUL


I walked on beaches 
with a towel around my waist, 
Never projecting into the future 
what old legs might looks like, 
how healthy I was then, 
how strong. 
It took decades to love my thighs 
and myself.

~~~

PRICE TAGS


The thing that costs the most 
is not always the best 
The biggest is not always the brightest.

Why leave a price tag on
to prove a hollow point?

~~~

I SPOKE TO YOU


I spoke to you
I whispered in your ear
(I said I love you...")
You forgot who I am
I called you 
on the phone, 
texted, 
emailed. 
I never gave up. 
love 
you.

~~~

THE ACTORS' HOUSE


This house was surely haunted
when I lived there in the late 60's 
Now it is my thoughts 
that are haunted 
when I find it driving by, 
searching for the past.
I sit across the street and stare,
Hearing my own haunted howls 
of anguish. 
Nothing spared. 
Never shared. 

~~~

END OF THE DAY


Sometimes I make my bed 
At the end of the day
Then I undo it all 
and climb under the covers, 
sorting limbs, 
like a dog, walking in circles, 
looking for the perfect spot. 
Smoothing pillows 
and ending the day 
on a perfect note. 
Resting, 
dreaming, 
hoping.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Wednesday, August 25, 2021

POPO 2021

Can you believe it's been a year since I blogged here? I told someone the other day "2020 is just a big bird dropping splotch on our calendars. Nothing happened, or so it seems." Now we've rolled around to another Postcard Poetry and I shamelessly will promise to get better again about blogging and hope to have some good news before this year in over.


In the meantime, here is PoPo 2021:

                                    The Great Wall of China in Six Parts


Can you see me up there at the top of the hill? 
All you need to do is enter, step...step by step. 
Up, up, follow what path has been given you, 
a map, unnecessary when it's all laid out for you. 



A window, 
essential to seeing in, 
and seeing out. 
Vast, 
with so much promise, 
all that is required is to 
open 
eyes 
wide 
shut.



The Chinese wall,
intended as protection,
was a path for 
travelers...and so one could move, 
stand still, 
balk, 
reach, 
reject, 
run to or from, 
fear, 
admire, 
care for, 
or seek to destroy.



And I stand and wait, 
watching moons and suns ascend, descend, 
stars come out and diminish, 
comets vanish, 
planets born, die, change names, 
and a plan for your return 
in the distance, 
where I can make out 
the thin form of your resistance. 




Where it begins, ends, 
falls in disrepair, 
seems invisible 
from the blind eye, 
rolls, 
like the blood in your veins, 
connected, 
never completed severed, 
always pulsing, 
always present, 
always struggling. 





Spring arrives each year with hope, 
a new possibility with 
a non-holiday holiday. Cruises
into summer, on the edge, 
the opportunity to reject once again, 
just like autumn does; and winter disappoints, 
over and 
over again. 


Family Legends


The stuff for family legends isn't always worth repeating even though details may be clear and unforgotten. When my son was lost at sea and there were helicopters searching dark waters, his father trying to figure out how he would explain to me he'd lost our boy, who was sound asleep in a deep bunk midship. Rescue teams cheered while we fumbled with untrusted emotions. 


However I'm Dressed

I know you think this is an invitation. 
It's not. 
It's me, 
being me. 
On the beach, 
the pool, 
walking down the street, 
over the bridge, 
in school, 
at work, 
in the grocery line, 
at the theater, 
wherever you see me, 
however I'm dressed, 
no matter how much skin 
I choose to show, 
or hide... 
this 
is 
not 
an 
invitation.



                                      LOSING YOU

                                   


Losing you was losing a part of my history. 
There were things that only you and I 
could remember and now 
I must remember them on my own. 
With no one to validate the memories. 
And the sadness is not so much 
that you are gone, 
 it's that we are gone.



aLmOSt NoRmaL

We almost started
being a little normal.
Trader Joe's even took down                               
their plastic shields. 
Masks were optional 
for the vaxxed.                                                        
Too soon.                                                                            
Wildfires make the skies hazy.
Again.
This.
This is our new normal.
Masks fulfill multiple purposes. 
We are all frogs 
in a warming pot.
The canary has sung.


Chinooks



Lavish Saturday morning 
breakfasts at Chinooks. 
Laughing family laughs, eating 
honeyed butter, and the tingly taste 
of orange zest. Seagulls 
piercing the calm of the drizzle 
hanging under the sky, scolding 
us for living too well, telling us to 
go home, 
pack for the future. 

Forgiving Myself


Flipping through old notebooks, photos, clippings, poems, quotes, flattened matchbooks. Hours pass as the sun floats across the southern sky on a warm summer afternoon and I, caught indoors, forget the garden, the dust and dishes and all other duties, forgiving myself for places I meant to see, words left unspoken, dried up tears, ships that have sailed. 





Life Redirected

Once I had submitted to the life 
that had been redirected for me, 
I dove in headlong. Limbs
no longer were a matter for
prom gowns and 
summers at the lake, 
ski slopes or wooden stages. 
I became a leg to cling to, 
a vessel of milk, rich and blue,
arms never empty, 
a backbone 
stronger than my mother 
ever predicted. 
New shoes, 
a different hat. 



The Summer of '66

The summer of '66, 
I thought I had 
everything figure out. But 
I missed some things. 
How to protect myself. 
How to fight back. 
How to say "no." 
My outlook 
was always cheery and 
I was confident. There were 
leading roles in my future, 
straight A's, 
the Dean's list. There were 
other lists, too, which 
I could not have foreseen. 
I have no regrets but 
I have some good advice.




Makah 1993 Neah Bay 

Our heads were filled with magic 
and a new ancient language. 
We walked on whaling beaches 
where history has been forgotten 
by those who choose to change it. 
The songs, 
the food, 
the stories, 
the mystical words, 
clicking and soothing, 
the craggy beautiful faces, 
the clamshell yearning 
for a different time and place



Master Thief 

I'll teach you how to steal he said. 
First you take the little things
They go unnoticed. The big things
are harder; you're always being watched.
But it's not impossible. You must be
brave and put on a face, as if
you don't care at all. Pretend
it belongs to you. The 
difficult part is when 
they steal from you. Some 
have nothing of 
value. He taught me how to steal. 
He was a Master Thief.


New York September 2019 

East Village
was a perfect time 
in the city garden 
with Marta, who had
the key to let us in to the
fairy lights and 
marjoram, parsley, 
Simon and Garfunkel warbling
over speakers meant for
dayworkers. It was a 
sister kind of night,
young and brash,
old and wrinkled,
in between,
imparting stories, opinions, guidance,
raucous laughter, tittering giggles,
bold invitations, glasses never
half empty, pushing the morrow
out of our minds.




CATS

My son wrote a little
personal essay once about our cats; past,
present, and future. He was 9 at the time 
and it was 
one of the sweetest things 
I've ever read by anyone. He
laboriously typed it out on my "Selectric" 
and I still believe I will find that yellowed
piece of parchment paper in a box
someday. I miss all those cats.





Brave

Looking back, I can see 
the crack forming when Brave 
died. A strong beautiful hen, 
so named because 
Brave 
was who she was. One of the
original brood, she 
carried so much weight 
on her tiny feathered wings;
so many expectations,
future dreams,
silent songs,
little secrets,
prospects for a formidable foundation.
Hope.



Peanut Butter Memories

My bro and I shared a love 
of certain edible things. 
Popcorn, 
tacos... and peanut butter 
on warm toast with butter melted 
and dripping! You bite into it 
and it oozes between 
your teeth, gets stuck 
to your cheek hollows and 
you wash it down with a cup of 
good strong coffee. All 
those things 
make me remember him; 
olfactory memories.




Kornfeld

He was just a guy 
who lived in my building. I 
collected his rent 
every month. He smoked 
so I saw him outside 
usually. I 
talked with him 
and his son about 
football, croquet, 
dogs, the weather. He 
died alone in a hospital 
room while others 
were attended to. No 
one was saved. I 
was the only person 
he said goodbye to. 



    Childish Summer

    Mornings were soft and fresh... 
    smell of dust from 
    the alley, green wet 
    grass. Trees, with gnarly 
    roots, to create spaces under, 
    outdoor sanctuaries with 
    rock-lined borders, little imaginary 
    shops where fairies visited 
    after dusk, when children 
    were meant to be 
    indoors. 
    Dolls dragged out of 
    bedrooms, then found 
    in the morning dew, forgotten, 
    then retrieved and 
    loved again. Kool-aid 
    with so much sugar
    it hurt your teeth, soda 
    crackers, peanut 
    butter, fresh picked 
    berries, slightly 
    dusty. Barefoot 
    for weeks on end; 
    toes splayed in September. 
  

Battle Lines

Battle lines
were drawn.
One of us fought hard, 
the other with a short stick, 
keeping monsters 
at bay. It ended 
in an emotional rout and 
open wounds closed 
eventually but 
the salt remained. 
Ships sailed. 
Horizons fell dark 
but never stayed that way. 
New shores harkened. 
Castles were built 
on sand.


California

Songs have been written about California, 
the beaches, the palm trees, the sunset pigs, the hotels. 
It pulled me until I got fed up with partial truths, earthquakes, 
and broken promises. 
I won't forget the swarm of baby hummingbirds, 
Olvera Street, mean geese in Sacramento, canyon bike rides, 
being taken for rock stars, Paul Bunyan, the pier, 
candles in wine bottles, and your hair.




Fall 1968

I loved the market, 
even the odors of raw fish, mixed 
with the pungent smells of mums 
and marigolds. It wasn't a tourist 
attraction yet, just a place to buy 
from vendors, the deli, and a newsstand 
with hundreds of selections; 
I could've hung out there all day. I 
bought pudding from 
the sweet Asian lady, 
a peach, 
and a tomato, 
which I ate whole, 
sprinkled with salt. 
You told me I was pregnant. 



We Saw the World

From the time I was 6 or 7, my bicycle was total freedom. No one really cared much where I was in our safe, small town. I was GONE, down the street, around the corner and into the wild. When he was 2 and I was 11, my baby brother joined me, perched in the basket on my handlebars. We saw the world. Our world. We had no borders and wide horizons. 

Another Country

 I loved you in another country
There were maps leading us down roads, over seas,
into mountains and jungle, that we imagined
or simply conjured. So we could
go our own way, like birds
in a murmuration, whirling,
changing with a whim, impossible 
to follow.
Off the charts.




CHURCH

Anklets, bare legs all the way up to the Sunday panties, Mary Janes
that pulled socks down over the heel, like a tiny determined conveyor belt, 
repeatedly. Impossible to find two socks that matched, per order of Mom.
Late. Snow splattered on the landscape like crispy sugar. Holding a heavy green
hymnal with crackling pages, wishing to be home
having hotcakes with Dad.



The Eye

I miss you, Dad. You always had an eye on us, 
even when we were far far away.
You were all seeing and you knew
everything.
At least we thought you did and
that was good enough for us.




OUR HOUSE

Our house was a very very very fine house, 
on the best street, 
on the best hill,
in the best city,
in the best state,
in the best country, 
on the best planet. 
We used to sing this song 
when we thought nothing could change, 
fooled 
by our image of reality. 
We were so wrong. 

 

Distant Smoke

In the distant smoke of the future, I will not acknowledge
pain or sorrow. I will see my beauties as full-grown
human sculptures, perfect in every way,
better even,
having gained wisdom 
through ears and eyes. May they 
always think of me,
who loved them completely,
as one who cradles them through 
distant smoke.

And now another year of PoPo has been completed. I ask the post office to hand-cancel my little poems as they are sent abroad and near, in hopes words will be left clear and legible, but there is always some overzealous postal worker, who needs to run these tiny pictures through mean machines. One hopes they arrive somewhat intact and if not, here are all the words, and the images, too. Cards are collected at estate sales mostly and these poems are rough drafts, written as prompts, using the postcard for inspiration. Many will be reworked and polished. Look for them and others in my poetry chapbook, available at the end of the year.

Thanks for reading...

I can be seen/heard reading three of these postcard poems from a session that drew our Poetry Postcard Fest to an end of September 2, 2021. There are many beautiful poems to observe from an abundance of talent, but mine are found from 7:45 - 10:30. https://ppf.cascadiapoeticslab.org/2021/09/05/post-fest-open-mic-video/