Not a Poem

This is not a poem about my alarm clock.
I will not personify its beady red eyes
or its malignant glare.
I will not employ onomatopoeia
to capture its vicious screech
that metaphorically shatters
my sleep, deep as a glassy lake.
I will not resort to such cheap parlor tricks.

No, I will not.

Instead, I offer you the
moment before
the alarm clock rings:
darkness thick as bear’s fur,
a gentle cave of silence,
an avalanche of blanket,
and the possibility
that this dream might last forever.

In Praise of Failure

Let us sing now of human failure,
of the men who strapped wings
to their backs and thought they could fly,
of the women burned at the stake.
Let us sing of the crumpled rough drafts –
the religious tomes, the law books,
the epic poems and the sonnets.

Let us sing of trying to jump too high,
to reach too far, to woo where
wooing’s unwarranted.
Let us sing in praise of the round pegs
in square holes, of all mismatched shapes
and misbegotten sizes. Let us praise
those who have failed geometry as
gladly as those who invented it.

Let us sing now of those who tempt
the impossible, who let us take
from their mistakes, who,
by failing to fly, teach us to fly.

Oh Look! An Actual Post!

As you might have guessed, today was Opening Day for Powell Little League, and the very first day of Wrigley's baseball career. She's had quite a three week stretch of squealing with glee. First, it was "Oooooooh, I can't wait until EEEEEEEEaster!" Then, it was "Ooooooooh, I can't wait until Arizoooooooona!" Until today, it's been "Ooooooooooh, I can't wait until my first baseball gaaaaaaaame!" (Tonight at bedtime, she was counting down the days until "potato piiiiiiiiza!" Quite a comedown.)


Amazingly, none of these three squeal-worthy events were letdowns. She had a ball hunting for eggs. We had a fantastic time in Arizona. And she wore this big goofy grin all day - from the drizzly parade at the crack of dawn through her debut at second base (or first outfield - in t-ball, it's kind of hard to tell). She hit the ball all three times at bat, got the ball in the air once, remembered to run most of the time, fielded a sharply hit ground ball cleanly, and got her pants muddy. What more could a kid ask for? Cheetos? Oh, yeah - she scored some cheetos, too.

Opening Day

Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
and no matter how many colors of the rainbow
are captured by the t-ballers tee shirts,
they can’t chase away the drizzle.

Because Opening Day is always gray in Oregon,
the kids don’t know the difference.
They can’t imagine baseball under the sun,
cannot fathom the purpose of eye black.

So their sunbeam smiles blaze brightly
as the raindrops roll off their caps.
They shake off the gloom, dig in, play ball,
and root, root, root for the home team.

Because
the color of hope
is always gray
in Oregon.

Ouch!

Inspiration struck,
suddenly and with questionable intent,
leaving me with little more
than a bruise the color of ink
and this small poem.

6:58 am

It’s an indecent hour to be anywhere but bed,
but if I must be somewhere, might as well be
the intersection of 27^th and Hawthorne,
where the street crests and the southeast side
begins its slide into the river, where the
sunrise washes red brick with pink,
and every window winks with golden eyes.

The Curriculum Knights

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Elevating fiction to the state of literature,
Lifting up those who would be dumbed down,
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Chivalry!
Opening the doors of education (and classrooms),
Helping their classmates over puddles of muddy prose,
Defending ladies and lords alike from the
Singularly offensive use of the pronoun “their,”
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!
Wherever the Dragons breathe the Fires of Ignorance,
Torching tomes, toppling ivory towers, and
Boiling the Fountains of Knowledge into waterish vapor,
The Curriculum Knights will battle.

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Spelunking within the deep dark caves of despair,
Hacking and slashing at the thick hides of dimwitted dragons,
One wielding the Axe of Questions and the other
One wielding her lance a lot.
Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!

And when the battle is done,
The Beastly Beasts vanquished and shunned,
The Curriculum Knights will pillage the dragon’s hoard gladly,
Gladly dispersing the priceless treasures: ruby rich words,
shimmering similes, and golden coined phrases.
Sing ho for the Age of Victory!

Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

April 2, 2008

I Pity da Fools!

So. Now there's NaPoWriMo. As if Nanowrimo wasn't bad enough, "they" are challenging me to write a poem a day. Never mind the fact that I've already challenged myself to do the same thing. For the month of April ONLY, I will publish a poem a day. Maybe.

April’s Fools
April 1, 2008

Sometimes they are the lovers,
murmuring vows over
crystal stemmed goblets,
brimming with wine as
white as whispers,
white as lilies,
white as lies.

Sometimes they are politicians,
counting votes and
counting on voters,
kissing babies and
babying constituents,
promising changes we don’t believe
and believing they will change us.

Sometimes they are the fans,
bundled in the bleachers
as snow falls,
rooting for victories
that win nothing,
cheering for the cheaters
who cheat the heroes.

And sometimes we are the poets,
penning pantoums or
dabbling in doggerel,
scribbling sonnets
or imagining elegies,
weaving words into walls
which shield us from our folly.