Raised by My Dad

Inspired by "Raised by Women" by Kelly Norman Ellis

I was raised by

hand holding, 

goodnight-kiss-on-the-forehead giving

Warm belly you wanna lay on while watching tv

“Come here, let me see what’s wrong” 

Kind of Dad.

Piggy back riding 

Sweater vest wearing

“Guess which hand”

Candy toting

Kind of Dad.

Some leather briefcase holding

High collar, pale brown

Suit coat wearing

Take it black

Hot coffee drinking

Waiting for the train

“I’m going to get there on time”

Type of Dad.

Some eye-brow raising

Pocket book calculating

Arms folded across his chest

Permission granting

After hours of deliberating

“Better be home on time”

Type of Dad.

Some do-si-do

promenading

Turn your partner to the left

Dancing under your feet

Kind of Dad.

Some chauffeur driving

Bag carrying

Oil changing

Door opening

Tears wielding

Standing ovation, my daughter is graduating

Kind of Dad.

I was raised by my dad.

Willow Earth

Willow Earth

Do you see me?  

My statue

It is in the corner of our yard that we call home

It is in the window a quick glimpse on the side of the road

It is in this poem

My wooden fabric embed into the earth

The grooves of my skin decrescendo around my body

My feathery wisps

reach out to hold your hand

reach  out to caress your face

reach out to swaddle your body into mine

You call me Grandma Willow

You swing from my branches

You admire my solid form

You admire my will to reach towards life

How will you know me when I’m gone?

Look for me

The Words Around Me

The Words Around Me

Poem adaptation from The Book Thief/ Standover Man

All my life I’ve been self-conscious...of the words around me

My first words came from my teacher..”Pray child pray” “I’m glad to see Michael is no longer the lowest reader in class.”

There were tears and frustration and the color red.

I tried hard. I memorized poetry, but I still saw red and I was slow to catch on.

My second set of words came from my mother “I brought you this book, you will write a great story in it one day.”

For some reason, my  mom chose to fight for me.  She got me a tutor and I spent the summer reading...

The book remained empty, but the words of other books surrounded me.  

Sleepover Friends, Babysitters club, Sweet Valley High, became my best friends. I spent hours upon hours reading with my new friends.

My third set of words came to me while I was in the 4th grade, it was a grey day in December, my grandfather’s battle with cancer was over.  

The words came.  They flooded around me. My pen cried blue in a journal made of flowers

Many years later, I needed a friend.  My fourth set of words came to me in the form of a slight stubborn Polish girl.  Her name was Tina.  She used her words to befriend me. My pen cheered pink.  

We built our friendship on in-class notes and words over the phone.  

She read my poetry in blue. She told everyone what a great writer I was.

My cheeks glowed red.  She taught me that words matter.  

The book, still empty, but my words everywhere

To my daughter:

My mom gave me this book to write a great story

My best friend gave me the courage to do it

Now I am giving this book to you.  Write your story...

My Breath Revised

My Breath Revised

My Breath

Pulsing a thin blue thread, my breath

contracting

expelling to waves

There is beating my heart and hers

Voices swell to an indigo sky

A sunrise hinting in the horizon

subtle pink hues

beckoning and rising

The frail thread

Blushing and gaining momentum

The sun grabbing hold

rippling light and strength

through my core

                         grow

                      I

Swallowing

My breath nurturing a white chord.

My Breath

My Breath

“You are miscarrying…”

Pulled by a long white thread, my breath exhausts

My eyes fade to steel

There is throbbing but I don’t know where

Voices muffle to tires on rocky pavement

“It’s nothing you did.”

Burning out of me, life

The frail thread

Attached to fire

Singed and gone

I want to hang up

Rippling through my chest, sanguinary blasts

I swallow and crumple forward ever

so

slowly

Damaged

She’s on the bus

the damage is done

there are worms in her hair

there are worms in her hair

her dirty dishwater blond brown scraggly hair

The boys laugh and jeer

their white teeth

sharp knives cutting the air

I giggle but really my

knees knock

I am petrified

if not her then me

there are worms in  her hair

their white teeth

sharp knives cutting the air

I am invited over to play

Her mother draped on the couch

Her long curly brown hair free falling off the sides of her pillow

She is embarrassed and we run to her room

We play Barbies in her 4 story handcrafted dream house  with electric elevator

Her father a carpenter made it for her and checks on us and brings snacks

We play chase the dog and run around the house yelling

I fall onto a cushion of a small chair and feel something buried beneath

A bag of orange pills

I quickly replace the cushion

it’s time to go home

I don’t call Melinda that day

She is the enemy and I am the bully

because I can’t stand up for what is right

and I don’t understand what is wrong

I want to be in and the only way to be in is for Melinda to be out

She stands at the bus stop

Her dad just kissed her bye

Her mom comatose on the couch

The sun is shining

She doesn’t see it coming

Her smile never fades

There is a boy with a special present for her

His white teeth

sharp knives into the air

the damage is done

there are worms in her hair

there are worms in her hair

her dirty dishwater blond brown scraggly hair

Melinda moved later that year

Teachers Write Day 1/ 1 day later

I was given an invitation to wonder : Teachers Write/ Invitation to Wonder

When I read the prompt in the morning, I thought I wouldn’t get a chance to write until the evening so I would catalog all the things I naturally wondered about during the day.  There were three.

1. On my morning run, my friend pointed out the sun.  The sun was in full circle.  A bright orange with an iridescent glow on its face.  This happened last week too.  I remember when I saw it last week. I was in the car.  I was stunned by the sun’s perfection, and while I was driving, I kept taking peeks at it as If I was capable of stealing its view and keeping it to myself.   I wondered how the sun took its form that day?  What made it glow? Why was I able to see it in its full glory?  I had started creating a story in my head somehow attaching the sun’s beauty to the mystery of the universe and other worldly intervention.  I was lost in my daydream stealing peeks and saddened when my course had turned away from the sun.  Later that day, I hopped onto Facebook where people were discussing the sun, apparently I wasn’t the only one to see its majesty.  One reader surmised that the city pollution had created this awe-inspiring reflection.  I clicked out of Facebook.  Yesterday, when my friend pointed out the sun, I saw it poised between a break in the trees and absently said “its beautiful.”  At that brief moment, I did two things: I said “its beautiful” out of obligation, and I wished I had more time to view the sun in its original perfection before Facebook ruined it for me.  I turned my head away.  What made me do this?  The answer is imbedded in the Facebook users post.  My perfect sun was now jaded by pollution. I was disgusted with the user for ruining my perfect vision and a little disgusted with myself and how easily I take advantage of the earth.  

2. I must wonder a lot while I am driving.  As my husband and I were on our way to dropping the kids off at swim lessons, I  paid attention to the ash trees that litter the sides of our streets.  I say litter because they are not pretty  They have all been infected.  An article I read last year said there was something like 1500 Ash trees in my town that have been diseased due to the Emerald Ash Borer.  The town can’t afford to cut them all down at once so over the next couple years there is a firmly laid out plan for when they are coming to take down the trees. Our turn is summer 2016.  Until then, I will have to see these trees.  If you haven’t seen one close up, the Emerald Ash Borer lays eggs in the bark or under the bark, and then when the babies come out of their eggs they start eating under the belly of the bark serpentining across the bark in intricate little patterns.  When I see the patterns, it is like nails on chalkboard or dry tissue getting wet, I can’t stand it, and I get the heebie jeebies all over.   I have counted the trees that need to be taken care of on my street alone. There are 42.  One strange thing about these trees is after they are infected the leaves of the trees fall off and never grow back.  However small patches of little branches start sprouting just below the major branch lines and become lush around their bellies.  This makes me curious. Is the tree dead?  Should we really cut these trees down when they seem to be fighting hard to live?  If we wait, really wait, would the lush branches eventually find their way up to the top?  Note:  Sometimes I view the tree from my kids eyes, and I think how fun it would be to weave my way through the serpentine maze.

3. My third wonder of the day came while I was sitting with a friend waiting for our daughters to finish drama camp.  She and I are both teachers and have been teaching for roughly 15 years.  We were immersed in teacher talk sharing stories and ideas from our perspective schools.  At some point we both mentioned the need for more, something new to excite or rock our worlds.  I wondered what could that be?