Friday night poetry

Long conversations at midnight.
Oh-dark-thirty, he murmurs,
as we cover our yawns
and take turns being
Interested.


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Didn't we do this before?
Were we here once before,
In this place of madness and pain,
Or was it only a dream?

It's all so familiar.

Guest house

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!

~ Rumi

Where I'm From

I am from Saltines and piles of warm laundry and Red Ropes at the Skate Inn. I am from the house on the corner, from sea breezes and salty Army blankets, from air travel as an unaccompanied minor.

I am from the inconvenient and prickly evergreen shrubs outside my window, from the apricot tree on the estuary, from the moss and frogs in the Rucker summer fountain. I am from shouting and the ubiquitous after-work cocktail, from William and Mary, from steps and halves.

I am from control and making it special, from mind your manners and don't quit. I am from Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, from E.S.T. and Illusions and Herman Hesse.

I'm from Coventry Court and 47th Drive, from VW bugs and BART and a black-over-yellow Mercury Capri. I'm from Swedish meatballs and too-old-to-cut-the-mustard and salt-shaker figurines.

I'm from elopement, and abuse, and the ashes of Mt. St. Helens. I am from angel hair on the mantel and report cards on the refrigerator, from wind in the sails and poodles eating peanut butter.

I am from messy, glorious life.

(I've deviated from the template a bit, but you can find it here.)

MJ's sampler

The lovely page MJ left for me the other morning featured this quote from W.B. Yeats:

So great a sweetness flows into the breast

We must laugh and we must sing,

We are blest by everything,

Everything we look upon is blest.

I just looked up the whole poem, and the line that precedes that part is "When such as I cast out remorse." I like it in context, too. :-)

Step outside

Step outside and look
Green grass, brown fence
Look closer
Dandelions, clover (it's time to mow)
Closer still, a whole world
Opens up, details explode

The moss at the roots
Dry grass stems from her last mowing
And bursting-with-life stems gone to seed
Baby dandelion leaves with fuzzy fluted edges
(Who knew dandelions were so pretty?)

A tiny moth
Irritant yesterday, iridescent wonder today,
Tucked tight against whatever's handy
Persistent fly
His discovery: a fluff of dryer lint
Ripe with proteins no doubt

And everywhere
Gossamer traces of spiders past or passing,
Or there still but hidden from view,
Winding, twining, shimmering in the sun
Trap for unwary victims and stray seeds
But oh, so vulnerable to human feet

Step outside and look

Poetry in motion

Timely excerpts from Ulysses by Alfred Tennyson

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd...

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,--
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine...

Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

With apologies to Professor Moore

'Twas the days after Christmas,
When all through the house,
Not another creature was stirring,
Not kids nor the spouse.

Though the previous week
Had been full to the top,
A pre-dawn departure
Brought it all to a stop.

The lady of the house
(with loose use of the phrase),
Confounded by quiet,
Walked 'round in a daze.

Where were her children, her husband, her duties,
The conversations, the music, the messes and beauties?
"This can't be right," she protested aloud,
Then blinked at the lack of response from the crowd.

But the solitude, the silence,
The distinct lack of clamor,
Soon settled her down
To take note of the glamour.

"I'm alone," realized she,
With dawning delight,
And danced on her toes
In the glow from the lights.

"Merry Christmas to me,"
she giggled and gasped,
Then, worn out from the dancing,
She promptly collapsed.

A haiku from Chloe

Oh, sweet graham cracker!
How I love to munch on you!
You are delicious!

It rhymes (yes! it's a poem!)

A lovely Gold-en weekend was to close out my vacation,
But what we had instead was a minor tribulation.
The morning of the 4th started with a flood:
Turned out our water heater was a Big Fat Dud.

"It's flooding," cautioned Conor, with customary cool,
As I fixed my potluck salad, mindless of the pool.
Some brief investigation identified the source,
And stand-in manly men helped me stop it in due course.

With Our Hero and Our MJ mounting an attack,
Wading to their ankles and running the Shop-Vac,
And Chloe and her pals gathering things piratical,
I finished up the salad and avoided thoughts fanatical.

"I'm sorry," I kept saying, much to the Golds' dismay
('Though it gave them an idea for a new drinking game to play);
Then the pirates loaded up their ships and headed to The Club,
Trading water-heater battles for fireworks and grub.

A word game

A few years ago, some fellow unschoolers introduced us to Quiddler, a rummy-like game that uses letters instead of numbers. You gather letter cards to make words, and it's pretty fun.

This evening, Chloe and I used the Quiddler cards to play our own game. We used all the cards in the (large) deck to make a bunch of random words. Well, we used almost all the cards: we had one Q left over. Next, we tried to use all of the words in a bit of creative writing. I am not allowed to share Chloe's, but here's what I came up with. The required words are boldface.

A wiser Jack did dig that day
His one-quid tax resigned to pay,
"Hey, you there, Pearl!" he called with fear,
"Evil Nott has bid me quiz your lair!
"With thunder clap and roar of jet,
"His Key of Truth I must now get."

So while Heaven watched and Evil waited,
With Ruin, her gay air a-bated,
Jack the 'Niner, with ladle and drum,
Against the cliffs applied weary thumb,
Til in Zone of Six he found his cure—
The hope of hopes for one less pure—
And mounted his toboggan and left his woes
To pass beyond the status quo.