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Tag: poems

News of the Day

February 19, 2009 • • 7 Comments

a fugitive starlet
escapes her vise.

a moment’s graft;
we covet her vice.

an iron ecstasy,
we’re infected by virus

spread by paparazzi
who turn it to cancer.

—

This is for Read Write Poem. I used the read write word #10 prompt where you try to write a poem using the words provided in a list. It was an interesting exercise. Usually when I write I know what I want to write about. Well, sort of. Sometimes. Anyway, this time, I only knew what words I would use and this poem is what they wanted to do. The words I used were: fugitive, starlet, covet, graft, vise, ecstasy, iron, virus, paparazzi.

It is interesting that the words shaped themselves into something that deals with my continued surprise that with 2 wars and an economic meltdown we still seem to be more concerned with the doings and undoings of celebrities than anything else.

Deeper into Texas

February 12, 2009 • • 7 Comments

(formerly titled “It’s Like a Whole Other Country”)

On a high plains concrete ribbon
(there is nothing) north of Amarillo,
telephone poles stand like crucifixes
after the condemned have blown away.

It’s like a whole other country

On the plains of San Jacinto, a story is told
in blood, in oil, where Houston routed Santa Ana;
hundred years go by, blood is dry, and
oil gushes forth from Spindletop.

Recoiling back to sacred ground

A monumental obelisk marks the battle field,
but the great refineries offering smoke, fire,
filth to heaven hide it from I-10. These are
the real monuments here: the refineries,

The highways

Rolling on to San Antone and overpriced margaritas,
overdone river walk and Hard Rock Café, once
Mexico’s northern town, now we visit the birthplace
of our finest ghosts. Remember that old Alamo?

Legends larger than life

Shrine to Texas heroes, and the arrest
of Ozzy Osbourne.  The church still stands,
tomb of Crockett, Travis, Bowie, beseiged
now by hotels, offices, power lines.

Sparking into lucid dreams

They say there’s another Alamo near Del Rio,
built for a John Wayne movie set.  More real than
the real one, the screams of ghosts and musket fire
still echo, reverberating loudest at the fake Alamo.

Drowned out by open windows

Stopping in at Luckenbach, we drink a round of beers
No one really lives here, but they all come out on Sundays
singing songs by Willie, Waylon and the boys.
Throw back a couple beers with passing strangers.

Let the journey be a story

Under these stars, above old dinosaur bones and
Indian camps, traveling interstate lifelines like
blood through arteries, we find freedom on the
highways, concrete and legend, forever

Binding this place to myth

—

This is for Read Write Poem. This week’s prompt was to find poetry in relaxation or slogans. I spent some time thinking about slogans and finally decided to learn the tourism department’s slogan for Texas, which became the title of the poem.

Trickle Down Hope

February 5, 2009 • • 8 Comments

“Your choice today. Continue
with your GED lessons or
watch the inauguration.”

That GED can mean a new
start, early release, a second
chance, freedom, hope.

All eight turned their backs
on history, to earn a ticket
back out to The Free.

But a few snuck glances back
at the TV. Those looks lingered,
turned to stares and held.

When they said, “Please rise,”
four kids rose and stood at
attention. I joined them.

One young man said, “I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe it. I’ll tell my kids
I was locked up, but I still saw

Obama become president.
I can’t believe it.” After the ceremony,
they went back to their work,

compelled by new determination
to get all the answers right.

—

This is for Read Write Poem’s weekly prompt to write something about Obama’s Inauguration or about new beginnings.

It Wasn’t Just Allergies This Time

February 2, 2009 • • Leave a comment

Sun is out,
weather fair,
leaves catch light,
birds appear—

If I could harness
these wracking chills,
channel them to burn
like solar mirrors,
we’d end our talk
of drilling down—

Beautiful day out there;
hot as fever in here.

—

This was an attempt to write to a prompt at Read Write Poem using specific words. I didn’t use them all, but was surprised by the direction things went because of the words in the list.

Along a Neighborhood Trail on a Foggy Day

January 27, 2009 • • 2 Comments
From the footbridge on the trail
From the footbridge on the trail

Fog silences everything on the way down to the pond. The trees hold still, making way for the muted quacks from the ducks farther down.

I watch a flock of Blue Jays descend on a tree, screeching at something. I don’t see any owls or hawks, and eventually they leave, their work finished.

A Great Blue Heron watching the pond
A Great Blue Heron watching the pond

Above the trail, I notice a Great Blue Heron, solitary and watchful. My eyes drift from him to the shapes of the ducks drifting through the fog. One tree over, a Red-bellied Woodpecker squawks at the heron. I’ve never seen a Red-bellied Woodpecker in the neighborhood so I study him through the binoculars, his red nape leaping out of the surrounding gray.

I make a note in my bird book and watch him watch the heron, until, having had enough, the heron jumps off the tree and slowly flies up the creek back toward the bridge.

Tree and Cedar

The trail disappears in both directions, and I walk back toward home, stopping along the way to admire the texture of some broken trunks. What happened to shear off these branches and leave the gaps in the trees? Was it sudden like lightning or just the slow erosion of time?

I can hear birds chirping in the reeds, but they’re not to be seen. The fog diffuses the sound and their voices could be coming from anywhere.

Along the trail

A gentle fog and
brief graying of the familiar
renders the world new

Watching Ring-billed Gulls in Central Texas

January 15, 2009 • • 3 Comments

Ring-billed Gull 3
When you grow up with the Navy, you get used to certain things, particularly salty air and the cries of gulls. Things not easily come by during a typical day in central Texas. Thank goodness for the Ring-billed Gulls, then, that come to the lake near our house every winter.

My gull fix is only a short bike ride away, even if I drove the other day.

I ignored the other birds, ignored everything, focused on the mass of white specks floating on the sparkling water.

flash of white
against the blue
plunges into cold

Ring-billed Gull 1

I can watch gulls for hours. I love the way they fly, so graceful. Lazy one minute, and diving for a meal the next.

Watching gulls is watching wind come alive.

wind takes form
substance, shape
a gull streaks across
memory

Ring-billed Gull 2

Cold air riders come to spend another central Texas inland winter, they bob on the surface, cry and take flight.

The wind pushes them around a bit, but it’s all for show.

They are in control.

Ring-billed Gull 4

a cry, a soaring gull
comes up with lunch
i come back for more

Scissor-tails Return

April 7, 2008 • • Leave a comment

Soaring overhead,
scissor-tails returning
a long journey ends

I love the scissor-tailed flycatcher. So beautiful and elegant with tails forked wide or streaming long and thin behind like signs towed by toy airplanes. What would the sign say? Bugs beware, spring is here.

They’re the state bird of Oklahoma, and can be found on the Oklahoma statehood quarter, released earlier this year.

Fortunately, they can also be found all over central Texas this time of year, soaring over open fields, twisting and diving to come up with a delicious dragonfly. Watching their forked tailed displays is cause to stop the car and stare.

They migrate up from southern Mexico and central America, and then fan out across Texas and Oklahoma. Those journeys are especially amazing to me. What have those little black eyes seen? Seeing the first members of a returning migration is a sight to make one’s day. For a moment, at least, we can know that some things still work, still happen as they should. With their return, Nature’s clock chimes April.

They showed up on April 1st this year.

The return of the
scissor-tailed flycatcher
April has begun

Where I’m From

December 3, 2007 • • 8 Comments

I found this great little writing exercise on Danigirl’s blog. It seems to originate as a professional development project based on George Ella Lyon’s work. I thought it made for a cool post, but the next day one of my fellow teachers suddenly started talking about the heretofore unknown (to me) poet Lyon at an in-service meeting. Well, thought I, that’s some synchronicity for me.

Anyway, It seemed like a cool project to do with my kids, and being the good teacher that I am (and also the kind of person who enjoys these kinds of writing exercises) I figured I should test drive it first…

Where I’m From, an exercise in identity…

I am from maps, from National Geographic and surplus bombing charts of Vietnam used as tarps below our tents.

I am from green soccer fields, orange slices sucked through teeth at halftime and 2..4..6..8…who do we appreciate.

I am from the lonely buoy bell clanging in the bay on open-window summer nights. I am from old forests with forgotten headstones hidden in the undergrowth.

I am from the Smithsonian, concrete bunkers overgrown by jungle, that old monastery on the hill. From birdless gray Octobers and the golden light of northern summer, a fox curled up on the lawn.

I am from the scrub oak, juniper and palms, summer tomato plants and morning glory growing thick on a wire fence. I am from bluebonnets and prickly pear embedded in my palm.

I am from tacos and tamales on Christmas Eve. From Trivial Pursuit and gentleness, from Brushes, Griffins, Tomlinsons and Trouts. From the parrot we birdsat, who never learned to talk, but in our house, learned to laugh.

I am from meals with talk instead of TV, from books and magazines and a telescope pointed at Saturn’s rings.

From books are our friends and may the force be with you.

I am from the King James Bible, New England churches surrounded by three hundred year old graves. From Doubting Thomas and endless questions.

I’m from the cold Narragansett, “King” Arthur’s Illinois basketball court, both sides of the Revolution, and the Valley of the Sun, from home-baked cookies kept in the freezer, tortillas in the ‘fridge.

From Grace who said nothing of her past, from Dorothy who told everything, from Jim whose cursing made me laugh (my parents cringed) and Cecil whose tales I never got to hear.

I am from cluttered closet time capsules, vinyl photo albums, instamatic shots and slide shows of the sea, from treasure boxes and neat ordered files of school projects, drawings, homemade cards.

I am from the Colonial coast, the edge of jungle, the ring of fire, the ruins of Rome, the settled Comanche hills I now call home.

* * *

As a side project, I followed the links from Danigirl back along the trail of meme to see where it began, all the while enjoying the various takes along the way. It goes: Daysgoby to Spanglish to Lolabola to a staff development website.

Here’s the page that explains how to put it together. Give it a whirl.

New Picture, Old Poem

October 24, 2007 • • Leave a comment

The sky, today, burns October clear, blue as flame beyond words
The wind, today, blows through cottonwood leaves, whispers of words
The birds, today, abandon my feeder, save a grackle, lost from his flock
I am lost for words today
Today, I am that grackle, those leaves, this sky, these words, lost in a flock of
Cottonwood leaves