Poem of the Week

Sick. Sick, sick, sick as a dog. All week. Yuck. Here's what I managed to cobble together before my head became a solid block of snot atop my shoulders.

That Week in February
February 18, 2008

It’s been that week,
when the mercury rises
and warms the soil,
wakens the bulbs and the buds,
the weeds and the wildflowers,
and quickens the earth towards Spring.

That week,
when the cloud cover rises
and reveals the mountain
in white winter attire,
reveals the sun in an unblinking sky,
and quickens the earth towards Spring.

That week,
when my cold spirit rises
and wipes away its winter slumber,
prunes away last fall’s disappointments,
basks in new hope like a lizard on a rock
and quickens my pulse towards Spring.

A Mouthwatering Work of Staggering Genius

After I read Wrig a bedtime story, we like to have a brief little chat as we drowse off to sleep. Wrig often makes grand plans which I pretend to listen to. Last week she mumbled something about roasting and I lovingly replied, "Uh-huh ... oh? ... uh huh ... that sounds ... snore."

Well, it turns out she was making her very own roasted marshmallow recipe and it was so simple the only way to describe it is pure genius: you see, what you do is you stick the marshmallow on the roasting fork and then you stuff the chocolate into the marshmallow and you roast it all together. That's right: into the marshmallow.

It's even more amazing than it sounds. It must be tasted to be believed.

And after you taste it, I'm sure you'll support me in my efforts to have Wrigley nominated for the Nobel Prize in roasting.

Poem of the Week

Decisions, decisions. I have three poems that I'd like to post this week - but there can be only one Poem of the Week. I like one of the poems so much that I'm sending it off to Ladybug Magazine, so that one's out. The other is a little dark and dreary. That leaves us with ...

… incomplete …
Begun February 7, 2008
Finished February 17, 2008

If I live a million years,
I’ll never be Tom Waits,
never carry gravel in my
voice box like tattered luggage,
pump smoke from battered
heart through whiskey thin veins,
wear bad luck in my fingerprints
like a signature. Not in a million years.

And if I could go back in time,
I still wouldn’t win the Heisman
Trophy. I wouldn’t win it over
and over, no matter how many
childhoods I’m given to squander.
These bones are too fragile for
stardom, this skin too thin for fame.
Even with a million tries.

And if I had the patience of the
universe, I could count the salt
in the sea before I could list the
things I’ll never be. But here, if you’ll
take my hand and wile away this
eternity with me, I’ll begin –
alphabetically, for your convenience:
alone, bereft, chastened, discontent,
empty, forsaken, glum, hapless …

After the snow

About three weeks ago we had a mean cold snap, four or five days of begging for precipitation, because surely after enduring so many cold days we deserved a good hard snow. It was the kind of dry that turns poor Wrigley's mouth a sore, chapped red. In that cold snap I took this picture of a cool looking mushroom growing out of a stump in the back yard. This little guy was totally unprotected, and I was amazed to see him there. It was so cold, and my hands were freezing, and I didn't pull that blurry blade of grass in the foreground. I thought about it, but my hands and my child were begging me to put the stupid camera away and go inside. I kicked my self later.

Five days later it did snow, but it had already warmed some, and the very wet snow came down slushy. We got only about 1/2 and inch. They didn't even close school. It wasn't anything like the fabulous day of sledding we got last year, but I did remember to find out what the snow did to the mushroom. This time I did pluck that blade of grass, and I like the result.



I sometimes share my photos in a couple of bloggy circles, and it seems that others like this photo as well. It was the Daily Click over at Shutter Sisters on Wednesday, and it is in some amazing company. You should take a look of some of those photos.

I am just glad there isn't a blurry green streak cutting across the bottom right corner taunting me with chants of not being able to hack the cold.

edited to add: Hmmm.... it seems that the blog's width is too small to show the photos properly, and I have to go to bed and then go camping tomorrow, so I can't fix it now. You can't even see my nemesis. Well if you click on the pictures you can see them in their unbutchered glory at Flickr.

Poem of the (last) Week

It's not like I haven't been writing, but Sunday night I was slaving away at a stack of papers and last night I feel asleep at about eight because Sunday night I was slaving away at a stack of papers. This morning, when I tried to post the poem of the week before school, I accidentally wrote todays poem. I don't know that I've ever written a poem at 6:30 am before. Ever.

I can't wait until Sunday. It's only two days into the week and I already have a pair of killer poems. I'll probably post both.

Anyhoo. Here's a little something to get you in the mood for Thursday:

Pity the Poor Girl
Began, February 7, 2008
Finished February 9, 2008

Pity the poor girl
whose lover won’t write poetry.
It proves a paucity of spirit,
a paltry appreciation of pulchritude,
and a potentially impotent spine.

Pity the poor girl
who’s never had her back rubbed,
her feet massaged, who’s never been
awoken in the middle of the night
by the heat of an adoring stare.
All women deserve such devotion.

And pity the poor girl
who settles for such thin gruel
and calls it a feast, who molds such
scraps together and calls it art, who
dresses this stick figure in rags and
calls him a man.

Pity the poor girl
who clings to such frail
emotion and calls it love.

That'll Lighten the Mood

So, I'm dressed and ready to go to the funeral of the father of one of my students, and I am greeted thusly by my charming and tactful daughter:

"You don't look like Daddy. What are you doing in that ridiculous costume?"

Thanks for the pick me up, kiddo. It's going to be a looooong day.

Pollyanna

Despite the fact that the sun shone today, it's been a gray, grey week. And though Christie and I try to keep the blog light, I woke up this morning determined to post a blog about everything that happened this week to bring me down.

Then.

So I decided that it might not be the best idea to post a downer post because, I have to admit it, I'm pretty damn lucky. So instead I'm going to post five things that make everything okay:

1) The bulbs are beginning to sprout. They're poking their deep green stems up, just a bit. It's like they're peeking out of the ground, making sure it's okay to come out and be beautiful.
2) The blueberries are beginning to bud. My mouth will be watering every time I walk past them from now until June.
3) Last weekend, I received an e-mail sent at 2:18 am from a student who was so excited about the paper she was writing that she just had to tell someone. If that doesn't fill your heart with hope for the future of America, I don't know what will.
4) I had doughnuts for breakfast today. Helen Bernhard, I will always have a soft spot in my heart (and around my waistline) for you.
5) Wrigley left a phone message on my work voice mail that she had seen bright yellow birds that we had never seen before and a starling at our birdfeeder. She called back moments later to report that the yellow bird was a golden crowned sparrow. I'm not sure if this captures the quality of her voice, but she sounded about as excited as an 18 year old sending an e-mail at 2:18 am.

And, since I've always been bad at counting:

6) I have friends that I love enough to be saddened by their sadness; they have friends that love them enough to be saddened by their sadness, and friends who will do anything we can to help, even if it's something as dumb and simple as posting an overly optimistic blog post.

What Will Happen to the Other Five?

Days in the Month of January: 31
Poems Written: 20
Poems Worth a Damn: 9
Poems Posted: 4

Coming up .... drum roll, please ... February! How exciting.

Thanks for the Memorknees
January 30, 2008

Allow me to introduce my right knee:
he’s been a good knee, sturdy and kind.
He’s served me well: kicked me through
lap after lap of breaststroke and crawl,
haplessly leapt at an ex-friend’s groin,
bent low for a sweet, clumsy proposal.

But he’s growing tired now, or waning
tired, I should say. He complains a bit
at night, creaks like a stubborn hinge,
balks at the beginning of a hike. What
am I to do with him? He’s not a symptom,
sign, or symbol – neither problem nor solution.

He’s just a knee, hard working and a bit
worn down. I’ll give him ice, give him heat,
take the stairs one step at a time instead of two.
I’ll write a poem in his honor, and hope to be
remembered so fondly when I give in.